Positive Thinking

I used to watch a show long time ago on American television. It was called Spin City, and it had one of my favourite guys star in it - Michael J Fox. Although not a big fan of the Back to the future series (have watched them and enjoyed them, but not obsessively), I really like Michael J. His social work, his spirit, and of course the fact that he is small-built and never looks his age are the main reasons. I figured that the show was called so because his job, as assistant to the Mayor or something like that, was to turn every situation around so that its favourable. Give a spin, so to speak.

I can do that myself most times. It has crept slowly into my life and forms somewhat of a core of how I lead my life. 'Everything happens for the best' I used to say earlier, trying to console a disappointment or rationalise an action. Now my aim is to constantly find that positive side to everything, actively, not passively. Which is not to say I don't waste time in self-pity and general mild depressions (of course yes, its a waste of time!), lets just say its an ongoing effort.

Again a long time ago I saw the movie 'Rudaali' - you remember that? Dimple Kapadia, Rakhi (no, not the Sawant, that moon-faced person from Kabhi Kabhi), and so on. Beautiful melodies. I had even bought a cassette of its songs since I liked them so much. I had thought that the movie was quite depressing. I might not have seen it through to the end. I bet I cried copiously as I watched.

Then again, yesterday, I read the original story. Mahashweta Devi. In this book:


I thoroughly liked the story. Not in the least depressing, despite the deaths and the poverty that are depicted. She talks about these in a practical, no-nonsense voice, which did not tug at the heart strings of this thirty-five year old. I mean, yes, its all sad that people are hungry, and so exploited. But then its also a very hard everyday fact, staring you in the face all the time. I see that the only way to cope with it is by being practical, not whimsical, by action and not tears. The way this story ends is just wonderful. The parts that are said, and those that are unsaid. I have always liked Mahashweta Devi's writing - mum and I have collected a few of her books between us, but Rudaali, her short story that found its way to us through this collection, gets a big thumbs up from me, specifically because it ends on what I think is a particularly positive note.

What to read?

I always dreamed of a being sick episode where I spend the day lying in bed, reading and occasionally sipping something, electral maybe. Well it hardly happened. The head was fit to burst I could barely focus on words in size 1000, forget normal books, and the final annoyance was that electral made my feet swell up because it has too much salt it. The ultimate ignominy I swear. Not as if I was pregnant.

Now that I am officially recuperating, and people in the office take one look at me and ask me to go home (which I am doing gladly, having always been able to work rather more efficiently from home), I have this time on me. My eyes can focus. I can read. My mum is not allowing me to do much work around the house. I pottered around, went to the office for meetings in the morning, came back early and prepared desultorily for my class and read this and that.

I went over to my bookshelf, newly neatly arranged with some form of order, and wondered. I finished Alice in Wonderland which I bought for the child. I tried Through the looking glass again. I have always been ashamed that I could not complete reading it when I was a child (we had the complete works; a fat green unwieldy monster of a book but a gem nevertheless if you like to read Hunting of the snark etc. ). I am ashamed no more. Through the looking glass is just bad, okay, honest opinion. I had read a Douglas Adams last week, moment of weakness. It added to my hallucinations and I decided to stay the hell away from him till my mind cleared. I read Chatura Rao (Meanwhile, Upriver) recommended by wordjunkie. I thought it was over-long but a good effort and definitely better than the other women from the subcontinent who have been getting awards and considerable media focus. I read Murakami. Now there is something there.

I sometimes like clever books. Whats a clever book? No, not Rushdie. Although he is quite clever in Grimus for example with his anagrams and so on. Shashi Deshpande is not clever somehow although she goes deep into relationships and so forth and is a very believable writer. Ghosh I think is very clever. So much research goes in, and I really like his books, most of all Hungry Tide.

So anyway the Murakami I read was not like that. Of course his running book is autobiographical for the most part and it is about running so that one is an instant hit with me. This one that I read this week called "After Dark" was in essence his first real book (not counting the running one) that I read. It was expensive and I was not sure I would like it. You never know with famous writers, some of them are so difficult to read that its just not worth the effort. I bought it anyway last month and took this opportunity to read it, and may I say, I really liked it. Simple language. Some clever things with mirrors and so on but nothing too clever. Thankfully nothing too gory in terms of sex. That is a problem with male authors, when they start getting deep into descriptions of sexual acts, yawn, boring. And no, not like I am a prude, its fine, does not generally bother me too much, but it felt quite refreshing when it was absent. I am going to read more of his books. Though they will set me back a tidy packet.

I also read Charlie and the chocolate factory and we followed it up (very rare occurrence in our household!) with the movie which the monster & I watched on my computer (not from the internet, I bought the DVD, I only ever watch movies like that, strong proponent of not downloading stuff from shady semi-legal ftp sites). Johnny Depp in a vaguely gay act was cute, as always. The story and the book were really enjoyable too (I have read it before, had forgotten some of it). I expected I would like the chocolates themselves more than I finally did. But then my current taste in chocolate is pure, unadulterated with nuts, sort-of-dark stuff. Yeah, and Five Stars which I have loved despite the tendency to stick to teeth, all my life. Charlie Bucket, the monster thinks, is a very funny name indeed. The moral of being good and sharing and good things ensuing forth has been pretty much ignored. I read many other Raold Dahl kiddie books though it was all before the typhoid I had much fun with them.

Right now the question is back again. What on earth do I read now? Adiga, Deshpande, Feynmann, Wodehouse, Marquez, all stare back accusingly at me...

Use Them.. Lose Them..

We generally read and re-read books like there is no tomorrow in our house. By we I mean my mum, sis, daughter, and yours truly. Like Lord of the Rings. Or Wodehouse. Or Ruskin Bond (have recently given these up in light of the fact that they all feel the same. and Rusty is an anachronism. The Blue Umbrella rocks though). Bridget Jones. Growing up, our book collection was not particularly impressive. It was a bunch of hand-me-downs from here and there. Some Yoga books belonging to my uncle. A bunch of old science things that my dad thought should be read by all creatures. Some engineering books belonging to another uncle. A stack of Reader's Digest and National Geographics that were jealously guarded. Complete works of Lewis Carroll (gosh I have forgotten the spelling.. you know, the Alice in Wonderland guy also famous for those word puzzles - Get PIG in the STY in seven steps by changing one letter ONLY at each step). A vaguely Russian sounding book about a boy. Fairy Tales. A Wodehouse I had stolen from someone (forgive me please). In comparison, I have a very good collection now. We bought a nice antique book shelf (and then another one) from Jogeshwari from Iqbal Uncle (who calls me Bhabhi and found a tiny wooden chair for monster child last month). Speaking of the monster, she has a tiny version of my book shelf for her books. I arrange them for her but it still overflows. The fat ones are on the bottom shelf (an obvious household tip I was not told about my mater when I got married; but figured it out when I kept my kanjeevarams bag on a middle shelf in the guest cupboard and the blasted shelf caved in under the weight). The sundry Noddys, Fairy Tales, Pepper, Bubbles, Bruno, Pooh (single story), Panchatantra, Berenstein Bears, Dora, Diego etc. are strewn around the place. The compilations (such as Bubbles 6-in-1; Noddy 10-in-1) are of course fat, and therefore in the bottom. The middle shelf has all the picture books which should soon be on their way out to younger monsters.

In the middle shelf it is therefore that this particular picture book inherited from my niece and nephew lives. It is one of those American books with thick pages with big colourful pictures of kids and toys. It says I love my toys because I can.. Play Them, Bath them (sic), Shake Them, Choose Them, and Lose Them. For each ides there is a different healthy looking child and a different colourful toy. Like a Rattle is Shake Them. A Big Box with a child looking inside is Lose Them. We have read this book umpteen times in the days of yore.

But sometimes the kiddie book stuff stay in your head. With some interpretations. Which brings me, finally to the point of the post. With friends, I often think in my head (based loosely on picture book described above) that if you Use Them, You Lose Them.

As veteran parents of a high maintenance 4.5 year old though, the fact that we have a friend as the house guest has been such a boon. We are totally using him. When I go off for a run early morning on days the husband suddenly finds himself in Chennai. Monster, you are not alone at home. To go to the store to get milk (because the blasted delivery boy came late again and we had closed up the house and left) and the monster wants to pop into crossword. Here, you guys go look at books AND DONT BUY ANY I will go get the milk and come to you. To banish the eat-dinner-alone blues on days the husband works late. Gosh its so wonderful to have an adult to eat dinner with at the table. To banish the drink-beer-alone blues of a Friday night. Its undescribable the pleasure of sharing the brand new Carlsberg beer (nice bottle, not-so-nice beer, though) with an old friend.

Yeah well, really if its a good friend and you both love each other they won't feel they are being used. In which case you won't lose them. Hell yeah.

And, I succumbed and bought her a book anyway so that did not really work either. Unlike my mum who once threw away our moth-eaten Reader's Digest collection and I hve not yet forgiven her for it ten years later, I am less of a Domestic Goddess and more of an idiot who loves the sight, smell, sound, feel, and the permanance of books. And Old friends.

Precious Ramotswe

To cut the blues, we all do different things. We
* watch MTV and admire John Abraham's butt
* paint our nails
* play a video game
* phone-a-friend
* talk to mum
* drink a coffee and flirt with the red-hatted waiter at Cafe Coffee Day
* go to the gym
* run
* read blogs
* read
read read read thats my number one thing to do. Of course, when my responsibilities were fewer and the weather conducive, I would run. But now that has to be scheduled. Typically in the morning. I hate TV. Also John Abraham's smirk gives me the creeps. And there is no promise of continuous amounts of Joey Chandler Cyrus Broacha, which is a problem with TV. Blogs that I read are occasionally funny but many a time a slice of reality things that can make me plunge deeper.

But one has to choose with care and caution the book to read. I have very nearly reached the end of my tether with South Asian Semi-Desi Diaspora Angst authors. Despite Amitav Ghosh, who is consistently good to me. And I do like Rushdie. Initially I was encouraged by the upstarts of recent times. Their names, their backgrounds, their settings, similar to mine. So, hey, what do you know, that thing in the back of my mind about a making a book, might happen some day, I used to think. But now, engrossed in work (so that making a book means one with equations, at best, not an exploration of Indian something or the other), and so on, I have pushed that one further for internal reasons. And external reasons such as published books saying 'Quite' when they mean Quiet and, invariably Loose when they mean Lose. Heck! this is not a blog people, find a good editor, I want to tell them. But then, whats the point, since the story sucks at any rate. They will just think I am covering my own back and finding excuses to be sloppy in my blog-writing. I, who once said soar when I meant sore. And god knows what else.

In any case, the one that always works for me is Wodehouse. I have a decent collection. I have mentioned before that my local library does a decent complementary collection to mine. So, generally, I am in good shape. Except that in the past one year, despite purchasing that entire new boxed set from Crossword and covering all the books from the library in sequence, I sort of know by heart the story, the phrases I like, and sometimes even the page number where the most funny things are said.

So last night, after this thing set in in my mind around 9 pm, this, what I call the blues, for lack of a better term, and the two books I was trying to read (desi authors, won't take names) sucked royally, I was at a loose end (ha ha). I stared at the book shelf. Ruskin Bond. There is a degree of sameness in all the ten books. Mark Tully is nice but I was not in the mood. Mrs. Dalloway, right. The Hours by Michael Cunningham and that one, I had read some three times front to back to back to front to middle to everywhere, so, while it is all very clever and really nice and all, the time was not right.

Finally, overlooking all the umpteen desi & related authors, skipping over all the clever Americans with their theory on the modern world and coffee, the eye fell upon McCall Smith. He is probably not winning a Nobel Prize in a hurry (too prolific?). My frame of reference for his Africa is really, non-existent, though I marginally do better with his Edinburgh, having spent a most enjoyable few days there at a conference. But what the heck! I picked it up. The first one in the series. The No.1 Ladies Detective Agency. I own, and have read, all of the books in the series, a few years back. Have some fond memories of it. But I cannot quote page numbers, so it seemed a decent choice.

I read the first few pages, and tears welled up. Yeah, I am silly like that. Precious Ramotswe is so damn cute, I could not help it. And the book speaks of such a nice time/place. Everything so simple. Even if Mma (Okay I admit I am unclear on how you pronounce this abbrev.) is fat, and there are snide references to it occasionally (which highlights the fact that a MAN is writing this after all), and she does hit a tree with her little white van once (again, MAN. Let me not get started on men and women drivers today). So, thats it folks. Since I did not get more than twenty pages read last night, today I have something to look forward to after work, or perhaps during my drive to that mucky place I need to go to today. And here is crossing my fingers and hoping that it will simplify my life too, you know, since most of the convolutions are in my mind.

I get by with a little connection to a large lady detective. The pain in my neck (the literal one, the figurative ones are still asleep) seems bearable now.

Della Street

Mum hates dust. Dusty things are up there in favourite dislikes. Our library stands on a main, crowded, jostling, nasty road. Even the leaves look brown and nasty. Few as they are. Its called the L'Amour Circulating Library (approximately). To me, it sounds poetic and romantic and brings childhood memories of Cavitha Circulating Library from a long ago growing-up age. To mum, her nose screwed up, it brings visions of buckets and cleaning cloths and covering her nose with her handkerchief, tucking her sari in at the waist, and getting down to some good old cleaning. I think.

At any rate, I drag the two generations of women, one above and one below me, to this alcove. My eyes big as saucers, I scan the racks. I know I can always fall back on the PGWodehouse on the left. He has a good collection, better than mine. He assures me he is not selling it in a hurry. I tell him to think of me if ever he wants to sell it off. I have several of them already but that will not prevent me from buying up the entire three racks. He knows it. He nods sagely. Says, you must be South Indian. You South Indians are crazy about books; and not necessarily romance novels. I nod to the South Indian and smile at the over-generalisation. I let it go.

The monster invades the Berenstein Bears (finished the series last week) and Clifford (which she pronounces as Cliffort for some reason). Mum and I desultorily discuss that maybe we should read the romance things. There are like a billion of them there. Far in excess of all other genres, including Westerns (despite the name). They are less dusty. More colourful. But I cannot do it. They look too silly and uniform. We try the desi-ish versions, some Nisha somebody some chapati something. Try as in, pick it up. But the eyes flit away to the Rushdie, the Ghosh, even Kushwant Singh.

Mum picks up a Ludlum. I don't read that stuff either. I pick up a random book about Flight Attendants on vacation (it turned out to be quite random after all). We ask about any 'new books' Nothing. Mum chances upon Agatha Christies. I say no, have read all of them. Cannot stand thinking of Poirot's moustaches. I find him faintly repulsive now. No, not that, I say. Okay then, lets take this she says. I am tired. The monster is a little jittery. Fat aunties are crowding the place up and eyeing us, with our strangely green cloth vegetable bag and that look in our eyes we get when we see books, with curiosity. Okay ma I say. We leave, having coughed up a three digit sum of money and being admonished for salivating over Suddenly Sam for two whole weeks (it was a pleasure; even if I paid a late fine for it).

I discover, upon returning home, that its a blast from the past. A Perry Mason! Sights, sounds and smells of my aunt's flat in Bangalore where we used to spend an occasional couple of days in the summer, assault me. She had some of them. I used to try desperately to read them, far before I was old enough to understand or appreciate them. Of course in later years I did read a fair collection of them from various places. But it was still a refreshing memory, taking me back to the time when my love of cream and basundi and chocolate was the stuff of family legend, along with my tendency to get 'good marks' in school and to be, err, very short and thin.

Della Street, calling the man chief. Paul Drake and his detective agency. A murder. Lt. Tragg. Members of the jury. A judge. Beautiful women. They were all there, integrally in the story. I really quite enjoyed it. I would have thought that the Los Angeles and the Las Vegas of the story would be more real now than all those years ago in that Bangalore flat. You know, 'cause of having been there so many times now. But nope. Same thing. Same disconnect with everything. Same feeling of suspended reality. Assured that everything would fall in place. It was good, however, I won't deny it. Fun. All very expected denouement and what not, but still enjoyable.

Psmith in the City

Well, this is the last of them. I cannot find any more Psmith books.. :-( :-( It was with something approaching sadness that I thumbed through the very yellow pages in the book from the library. BUT HEY WAIT! There is PSmith, Journalist. WHOPPIE!! BTW the library is called 'L'Amour Library' How cool is that?

So the plot is simple, Psmith and Mike find themselves working in a bank because of various reasons. Psmith is still drawing his allowance from father so he hires Mike as his Secretary & Adviser, with the idea that Mike should listen to his expositions on Life and what not. Mike is glad of this because he gets to live in a flat which he could ill afford, although a little worried about the imposition and stuff.

This is the book in which the most hilarious episode in Clapham Common occurs. The first thing to ascertain, says Psmith, that such a place actually exists... You will meet here Psmith's abilities at brawls (and punches). Those that would like to hate the man will be happy to note the way he sneers at Mike's suggestion of riding in a tram. I tell you, this episode is a must-read. Also, Manchester United fans are ably rewarded with copious amounts of commentary here. The only cricket you will find is towards the end of the book, but it is good cricket. There is also a scene involving their boss at the bank, Mr. Bickersdyke, an aspiring politician, in Turkish Baths, & one more where the dude is giving a speech. Both are really hilarious, and extremely illustrative of Psmith-ness.

There is this mirror outside my office window that is glaring the sunlight into my eyes, making me see blue spots even as I type this. For a second there I was sure Psmith, monocle fixed in eye, was standing there, reflecting light. Reality brings to me no such luck, so I make off now, with the warning that Psmith is too addictive, so the weak-hearted may kindly refrain.

More Psmith

A chance remark by ludwig led me to this one. Psmith in Blandings, what more does one need? Of course, I have read it several times before, but that hardly matters.

So here we see a romantic side of Psmith. The old devilry and the loquaciousness are still there, as is a certain tendency of nattiness in dress. But this time around, I went ahead and fell completely in love with this new Psmith. The cry goes around the battlements 'Psmith is smitten.' There is quite an evolution from the Psmith of college days (Mike and Psmith). For one, he seems to have gained some more height. For a person who is five feet tall on a warm day (i mean myself - ha ha), this is really amazing. How did it happen? The monocle is still around and used to as much, if not more, advantage, rendering species of opposite gender (again, meaning myself) weak-kneed and what not. He has been left fortune-less by circumstances related to his father's demise (earlier to the book), and jobless because, well, he quits the nasty fishy job his uncle foists on him. Of course. Imagine Psmith sorting fish. HMPH. What an unfeeling fellow that uncle must be. And yeah, that weak-kneed thing again because he bears it all with such good humour.

The main gist of the book appealed immensely. The plan is for all the forces of nature to conspire to help good old Comrade Jackson (yes! the same Mike of Mike and Psmith fame). Troops rally around like anything. Oh, how I wish, when parents bung mud at close friend's (and corresponding life partner's) happiness, I would do half of what Psmith does. Meaning, steal diamond necklaces as the only available means to bring happiness to friend and spouse of friend. Perverse parents opposed to the union of two people in love, nothing gets me more riled up than that. See this is why I read and get lost in books. My friends mean the world to me. Their happiness is of immense worth, I hurt real bad when they are hurt. But what do I do about it? Nothing. Psmith, on the other hand, what does he do? He throws himself into the lion's mouth, attacks the problem with vigour, takes matters into his own capable hands, and, at the end, during fade-away, he makes everyone happy all around. Of course, as payment, he falls in love and finds it reciprocated, but still..oh, and of course, Eve Halliday. She is also generally pretty awesome. She does the same for Mrs. Jackson, who is Phyllis, and best friend of Eve. If I mention Eve only at the very end you will accept it, after all, life is really all about Psmith.

By the way, that Rupert thing, to be found three times in Mike and Psmith, is generally ditched in this one. Never once is this name used here (aah I mean, alongside Psmith; of course the other Rupert (Baxter) is in full force here, throwing flower-pots and all). And, yes, in passing, check this book out, merely to revel in that line of all lines 'Across the pale parabola of joy..'

Next up - Psmith in the City. This happens just before the one I am talking about above (which, incidentally, is Leave it to Psmith). Psmith & Mike work in a bank in the city.

Tricked...

So when you, as a bloke on the street, hear me say, 'Rupert', what do you picture?

The dude with the big glasses. Geek. Secretary (and bane of existence) of poor old Lord Emsworth. Crony of Lady Constance in being the said bane of said Lord. Owner of fluorescent pajamas. Thrower of flower pots. Rider of motor-cycles across the English countryside. Efficient target of air-gun. In short, everything designed to make you despise him. Rupert Baxter.

It was around midnight on Saturday. My eyes were closing of their own accord. I was persisting nevertheless, with Mike and Psmith (read the Preface), in whose pages lies a mention of a Rupert. Its a horrible prank to play, Mr. Wodehouse (Sir). Our very own, exquisite, immaculate, verbose, Smith (I mean Psmith), with the first name Rupert? Is this true or a mere trick played by my senses at that late hour? Shudder....

Kids, Dolphins, Psmith & so on

That was my Sunday. In the morning, we hung out with our friendly neighbourhood reality check, discovered that children (aged 6) are: (a) capable of untold cruelty & (b) great as companions because they are learning to read and will do so patiently. I resisted the urge to involve the girls in 'activities' although I had a chocolate box, some sparkly things, fevicol, and tons of coloured craft paper, all raring to go. We told stories, read books, and ate a sandwich.

In between I was plowing into Mike & PSmith. After my discussions, I ran to the library in a frenzy and was embarassed when the guy grabbed away a book insisting its for sale, and please madam look in this rack to borrow. Then I embarassed myself more by transposing digits in my membership number. Anyhow, home now with said book safely borrowed (alongside, Clifford the Big Red Dog; Berenstein Bears, and Donald Duck - the first two make interesting reading).

Mike & Psmith
An early novel. They are still at school. They have just been moved out of respective respectable institutions to a small public school called Sedleigh. There is a fair bit of cricket - I discovered a one-day game could be played as a test, meaning with each team batting twice. Wow! Psmith just totally rocks. I was just thinking hey, he sounds more dandy-ish than usual when he neatly redeemed himself (I love sports you know) with cricket later in the book. I guess if you read this before the newer books you may not be as impressed. But in context, a fan of Psmith will lap this one up. There is a dog called Sammy who I recommend watching out for. There is a proclaimed 'keen' ness about the Sedleigh that leads to many hilarious situations. Psmith (who is still referring to all as 'Comrade so and so') is ... Oh enough of my raptures, I am sure enterprising people can find the e-book; I might myself just buy the book I have just borrowed (such things are allowed in my special library).

Dolphins
The IMAX dome is one of my favourite places to go to. Not that I am trying hard to make an educational experience for child or anything. Not so noble. Its just that the type of shows they have there are so damn inspiring. A bunch of people doing what they love, following their passion, climbing the Everest a week after they get married; swimming with dolphins in the Caribbean; prowling through Sub-Saharan Africa, the sort of things I imagine as my calling in life, as opposed to currently what it is. All at Rs. 99/- So we trooped down, it was amazing, the blue waters, the thirty odd species of dolphins, their speech (clicks, whistles, chirps), their feeding (in a definite pattern, taking turns), their dance (what grace for a creature so big). The movie did well in skimming soon over the Orlando type dolphin situations directly to the wild ones in Argentina and so on. Sting was singing the songs. Pierce Brosnan was narrating. Awesome!!

And in the afternoon, with her safely asleep, I caught about an hour of Partner. Govinda is too funny, despite being so damn fat.

Friday Night - Party!!

Kalimpong - lets list that one as a place I would love to visit someday. I should really maintain a list, alphabetised and categorised based on country, region, climatic conditions. Next time the husband says 'shall we go somewhere?' i should whip the list out and pick a place and hand it to him. He is bound to agree if I paint a good enough picture of the place. Quiet. That is enough of a description of a place for him to jump to it. So yeah, I hope for it.


The party was as follows - we were supposed to be just the two of us - meaning child and myself. Mid-afternoon the husband decided to postpone his trip to Jaipur (7 pm Fri Night Flight) to Saturday. He assured us he would be home for dinner. Oh yeah! with Friday night traffic, said I. Watch me, said he. So my plan was simple. Dinner. A couple of phone calls. Bed by 10 pm for an hour or two of undiluted reading. Since we would surely be just the two of us on Sat morning, no gym for me. Also, no pressure to do my studying etc. So had the luxury of sleeping late. Should be easy to finish off the book, I had already decided in the afternoon.


Surprisingly, he did show up, around 9:30. We hung around and talked and the child was super super excited cause I had not told her he is coming back, to maintain that surprise thing. It was jumping around wearing a pink tee looking for all the world like a bunny rabbit. Heart-warming and all. To think that a few short years ago, you would have found me behaving like that. Its a relief to be all grown up now, for sure. Less jumping.


So by the time I got things settled, sent him off to eat his dinner, forcibly got the child to sleep, kept one eye open in a dark room to resist the urge to fall asleep (I really HAD to finish that book), it was 11 pm. Too bad, I am surely not going to wake up till 7 so lets go for it Kenny, I said to myself.


The Inheritance of Loss

Kiran Desai - Last known at Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard. Indian, American (German?). Young girl. The Man Booker Prize 2006. Daughter of Anita Desai.

The second you win a prize, of course, there is a class of people that start making disparaging comments. Taking stuff away from the prize. If you compete in a gender-unseparated category and HORRORS! are a woman, fully expect this and more. She was all cute when she won. But even I was like 'hmm, should I read this one? will I be sorely disappointed with her, her mom, the Booker, and in general this whole diaspora thing? Will it be clever or just borderline smut with lots of American scenery?' Of course I HAD to read it, and postponed it up to now. Loaned it to all the family members who expressed an interest. Finally picked it up last week, and said, OK lets get this over with.


As a disclaimer, a book is never a book for me. Its an experience. I am in the pages, sort of. Sometimes I am the writer, sometimes, the girl, sometimes even the furniture that is sitting around. But I am there. Not as an objective observer but as a slightly crazy participant. Which means, that unless it is completely totally impossible for me to relate to anything absolutely at all in a book, I can afford, in my mind, to be not overly critical of it, cause you know, I was there. Flipping that coin, I can read it in a frenzy, find myself in every page, and then totally diss it because, you know, I was there and it sucked big time. In short, readers expecting an unbiased, clinical, objective review are in the wrong place.

The people I loaned it to returned it to me saying 'so-so. 'A' for effort though' and so on, but, I will say this. I liked it. When I shut the book a bit past midnight, I said, Hey this was real nice. Would be good to read it again even. I thought it would be a laborious thing, in the initial few pages. There was this teenage romance thing going on, if it headed in predictable directions of usual heart-break, I would have been troubled. There was all this stuff about rain. It was raining here too, the end of the monsoons, the time you really hate the rain cause your umbrella is broken, the raincoats smell weird and you really want to feel the sun. I was thinking, hey, enough of this rain already. The characters were small in number, not a solved equation. There was this judge dude who was prominent and really a tough one to like. The girl was fine, but I was worried would turn out cute-sy. The American immigrant was going through too much hardship for me to look at with enthusiasm. But she did a great job with all of it and all of them. In the end, there was still the rain. There was a farce of sorts with a dog. The characters retained their character totally. There was no particular surprises. There was a distinct touch of reality to the whole thing. But I closed it with a satisfaction, a simply written, honest book. She is a star in her own right.

Of Books Devoured

This past weekend (starting Friday night) has been dedicated to reading. Nothing spectacularly clever, but really fast, and despite all the various distractions from the domestic end of things (gosh! How I envy all those unattached young people who don’t have to force themselves to iron the child’s clothes or to pay attention to dwindling kitchen supplies….)...

First, I launched into Mansfield Park. Jane Austen, at her usual tricks, I suppose. I read it in a sort of craze, have never read it before. I expected it would be Pride & Prejudice all over again. I used to think not much of that one till I went to college with a die-hard P&P fan who would stop every few weeks to extol a new virtue of the said book to me. I had scary images of Aishwarya Rai in that modernized movie version of that book to arrest me (not that I have seen the movie, thank god!). Nevertheless, when I picked up Mansfield Park (at a steal of a sale for Rs. 60; or I better say it like a book-lover ought, at three books for Rs. 180), I was real eager to get into that world of balls and ball-gowns and gentlemen with proper manners, and a fair bit of sarcasm as is wont to be. I was not particularly looking for a romantic thingammy, classifying Austen more under Classics, and less under Historical Romances.

Anyway there was a nice love-story in the middle of it all. I expected it to end not so much in the Bollywood mold, but let us say I would not have been disappointed if it were to happen. I was in one of those moods. Of course, the whole Some Chicks Rock, but truly the main enemies of our gender are The Chicks That Don’t Rock type things resonated pretty well with me. Things are not that much different despite the fact that we are not shopping for Muslin & Lace for our ball gowns or any such. It was quite a lot of fun to obsess truly and totally over a book, most of all.

Then, having gotten into that sort of thing, I went ahead and bought a Georgette Heyer. The argument, rationalisation, justification, is that it is a gift for my sister, who is sick and sort of confided to her home. She loves romance novels, and while I could never get myself to pay actual cash to buy the regular Mills & Boons, this I could somehow justify. Of course, I had to read it myself before sending it off to her, and really, how long could a Georgette Heyer take to read through?

It did not take long, and it did not disappoint. I got a great kick and morale boost out of it. I managed to pass a happy Sunday afternoon with it. I avoided sleeping, I could look upon the sleeping form of the husband and child with tolerance and love. Which is more than I can say about the whole Harry Potter thing (which was the sum and substance of my weekend two weeks ago). There, I just got irritated thinking it a poor caricature of Tolkien and other masters, and I really took especial offence to Ron’s way of speaking. Of course that did not encourage me to stop reading the damn tome through to the end! Nothing grated like that in Heyer, even the scene where there are two guys who are drunk out of their wits (which was really quite funny, come to think of it. Personal experience tells me it is quite remarkable for a person to be asleep from being too drunk for one second and up and about and making polite conversation the next, but then, maybe he had youth on his side).

With that stuff out of the way, I am now reading Bookless in Baghdad (Shashi Tharoor), alongside A Village by the Sea (Anita Desai) and Banker to the Poor (Mohammed Yunus). The last is what I have made most progress with, and while I don’t say much about the writing as is, the idea is quite catching, and makes me feel real excited about the possibility of people managing to cause widespread change in their life time. Inspiring, in short.

There was a big sale at the local Crossword, in the trips through the week child & I exercised caution and spent, well, not much, and that too only on things we were sure to read and enjoy immediately. Of course in our trip last night (our third there for the sake of the sale), we threw caution to the winds and ended up with way more than can possibly fit in the household unless I throw out some furniture, some clothes, and put up a bookshelf in the kitchen. I blame it all on the strange mood of my husband, who picked up books at random and threatened me with ‘you better read this’ which is as good a reason as any other to completely avoid it and let it gather dust, possibly in the kitchen.

Its not so much something against my husband’s recommendations of books, but the fact that the Crossword sale revolved a lot around Russian authors of the Classic variety, and although no one, especially my husband, believes me when I say it, I took an oath about six years ago that nothing would induce me to read that breed of authors (except for Nikolai Gogol; and even him, after that book and subsequent movie starring Tabu I might hereby avoid although I am supposed to look on it as Lahiri’s tribute to the great guy, whatever), let the whole world sing their praises to the skies. I suppose its sort of like saying I don’t like Shakespeare all that much, scandalous you may say, but true. I am more than willing to see desi adaptations of his comedies (and have had the most fun watching an open-air adaptation in Boulder, Colorado many years ago), but otherwise, genius though he may be and god knows what an overpowering influence & what not on our psyche, I avoid him. Cool dude and all, but still...

PS: While the world is out matching wines to dinners, my discovery is that an Ouzo, with tons of ice in it, is as good an accompaniment to light reading, as, say, coffee. And no, a beer will not do, too soon it clouds the brain with its influence and makes the fine print obscure.