The River Inside Her

“Peace I ask of thee, o River

Peace, peace, peace

When I learn to live serenely

Cares will cease.

From the hills I gather courage

Visions of the days to be

Strength to lead and faith to follow

All are given unto me

Peace I ask of thee, o River

Peace, peace, peace.”

(Camp song – Poet unknown)

Everywhere she looked, vast expanses of rolling green countryside met her eyes, dotted at times with flocks of sheep or a clump of trees, but mostly a velvety green carpet that made her itch to reach out and run her hand on it. Occasionally she spotted a house or two nestled in the hills with their bright red-brick roofs, making her wonder about the people who stayed there, so far away from any conveniences and how they survived in the wilderness. It reminded her of the Arcadian stories of shepherds leading idyllic lives in the mountains, content with driving their flock of sheep every morning out into the mountains and back into their pens at sundown. But could someone really be content with living on cheese, bread and wine for a lifetime? What about the other necessities of life? Surely there was more to life than chasing some wooly creatures around the mountains? Or was there? Was her life more meaningful? Wasn’t she too, chasing something across the countryside?

She broke away from her reverie as the train started approaching flat lands. Within minutes the speeding ICE had entered a city – a quick consultation of the halts mentioned in her map of the train’s route across the country confirmed her suspicion that they were about to enter Frankfurt. Briefly she wondered if she should get down at Frankfurt for a quick visit of the city, then dismissed the thought as she spotted a row of factory-chimneys spewing out black smoke.

No, she wasn’t in the mood for that kind of a city today. Perhaps some other day. For now, her destination was decided. Besides, she had to get there by this evening or she’d lose the job. Ignorant of the admiring glances she was getting from the young man sitting across her, she smiled to herself and thought of how lucky she was to get this wonderful opportunity. This would be the best opportunity she’d gotten ever since she’d started working as an au-pair to finance her voyages across Europe. She’d worked and stayed with families in France, Spain, Italy and Germany in the last three years. She stayed with each family for six months, traveling around the neighbouring towns and villages during weekends, which she insisted were hers and hers alone. During the week, she spent her free time exploring the meandering lanes of the town she was living in, taking pleasure in discovering the quaint nooks and crannies of the city that were known only to the locals, picking up cultural nuances and the local dialects. She’d always been adept at picking up languages and had a fairly good grip over several European languages, so her time spent in these countries had merely polished her mastery of these languages.

“Nächste halte Mannheim.” She looked up startled and started putting away her Discman, book and remnants of the salad she’d picked up at the station in Braunschweig. She had lost track of time, so lost was she in her ruminations of her experiences in these last few years. Pulling down her navy-blue backpack from the overhead compartment, she shrugged it on, shaking her head in a polite but firm refusal when the young man offered to help her with it. Checking that she had taken all her belongings she made her way to the other end of the compartment where her steel-gray valise was stowed away, pulled it out, swinging her long braid back over her shoulder, and joined the queue of people who were waiting to get off at Mannheim. She had three minutes to make her way from platform 4, where this train would pull in, to platform 7, from where she was to catch her next change.

She made it just in time. The train was pulling in just as she stepped out of the elevator on platform 7. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of the train, a quaint old train run on a coal-engine. This was going to be interesting. As the train trundled its way noisily out of Mannheim, she settled back in her seat. Being the shortest leg of her journey, not to mention the last leg, she decided not to attempt drowning the cacophony of the train with her Discman.

Her senses prickled in excitement as her destination grew closer. The Dortmunds had said they would meet her outside the Heidelberg Bahnhof Eurail counter. She pulled out the photograph they’d sent – their three year old daughter stared back defiantly at the camera, her thumb stuck in her mouth stubbornly despite what looked like a rather valiant attempt her by elder brother to pull it out of her mouth! Mentally crossing her fingers, she hoped they wouldn’t be too difficult to handle. So far she’d had only one troublesome charge – Maria-Jose had been a royal pain in the neck with her constant demands and daily tantrums. It had taken all her patience to keep from giving the girl the beating she deserved. Though she didn’t normally condone corporal punishment for children, this was one time she’d agreed with the adage of spare the rod, spoil the child.

“Wilkommen Fraulein Up-Upadhaya!”

“Upadhyaya. Rema-ni-ka Upadh-ya-ya. It’s wonderful to be here in Heidelberg.”

“We’re glad to have you here at long last! Come let’s go home. You must be tired after such a long journey. Allow me, “said Mr. Dortmund, reaching to take hold of her valise.

The Dortmunds had a swanking-new silver BMW, she discovered as they walked out into the autumn sun and made their way into the parking lot. They didn’t talk much, giving her time to absorb her new surroundings as she looked around taking in the huge billboards that adorned the tall steel and glass sky-scrapers. To one side the road sloped down and disappeared while the other way it curved upwards and joined a fly-over that snaked its way through the maze of concrete structures into the city. They stowed her luggage away in the boot of the car and settled in. The strains of Mozart filled the car as Mrs. Dortmund started it up.
“Mozart isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, of course. We’d met in Salzburg during a recital of Mozart’s Orchestra,” answered Mrs. Dortmund. Mrs. Dortmund smiled at her in the rear-view mirror as she pulled out of the parking lot and turned towards the fly-over.

They were making their way through the city now. She knew already from their correspondence that they lived by the Neckar valley in a cottage nestled in the hills that overlooked the Altemarkt and the river. It was an elite locality, or so she gathered from her readings about the city and she was looking forward to staying there during her tenure with them. She looked out of the window, reading the road signs and the billboards as they sped past the commercial district of the city into the residential areas. The Dortmunds were nice so far, she thought to herself, mentally sighing in relief. Now for the kids – Gordon was six and had started school, but Anna was still in kindergarten.

Soon, they were crossing the river and going up a winding road. They pulled in to the driveway of a charming two-storeyed house with a bright red portico, sand-blasted brick walls and wooden lattice-work windows which had cheery curtains adorning them. She turned around to look at the valley below and stopped dead in her tracks, for the sight she beheld was breath-taking. The Neckar river that ran through the city wound its meandering way below her. It seemed busy on getting to its destination, gushing away below the bridge, ignoring the hustle-bustle around it. Across the river stretched out the old city, the Alte Markt and looming above all this was the Heidelberg Schloss that she’d heard so much about. With the sun beginning to set behind the castle, it was glowing softly in the dying rays of sunlight, looking down at the city in all its splendour.

“It’s beautiful”, she breathed in a hushed tone, afraid that if she spoke too loudly the magical web she found herself in would break.

“Yes it is. We never tire of the sight ourselves. Tomorrow you can go down to the market and walk up to the castle – it’s a breath-taking view from up there and the organized tour of the Schloss is an educating experience. But for now, let’s go in and get you settled in. Our children are waiting for you excitedly.” With that, Mr. Dortmund went around to the boot of the car and started pulling out her bags.

“Oh please allow me,” she said running over to help him. “It’s quite heavy. Besides I’m accustomed to carrying my luggage around!” She took hold of the backpack, allowing him to pull the valise up to the door and followed them in…

***************************************************

Four months later, she was walking by the river after dinner, as she was wont to. The last few months had been a very enriching experience. The Dortmund family had warmed up to her and she had soon developed a very close bond even with the children. She knew the streets of Heidelberg as well as the back of her hand, having spent hours exploring the city, had traveled extensively around the region and had even gone down to Bavaria during Christmas with the Dortmunds.

During the week, she spent her days helping Mrs. Dortmund with the children, teaching them when they returned from school and reading something from the vast family library. Evenings were usually free, for they ate early and then the children were put to bed. Mr. and Mrs. Dortmund usually had a drink in front of the fireplace, discussing the day’s events before retiring themselves. Sometimes she joined them, but usually, she went out. If she wasn’t at the Student’s Pub down in the city, she was walking by the river, like today, lost in her thoughts.

Lately, she’d been finding herself increasingly restless. Perhaps it was time to start looking out for a new position? Time to move on? She sighed, pulling her coat tighter around herself. It had become very cold in the last few months and today was particularly windy. Spotting an unoccupied bench she made her way towards it and sat down propping her face in her hands, staring gloomily into the depths of the inky river.

Her thoughts drifted back to December 1999. She had finished her studies and joined a prestigious school as an English teacher. With her flair for languages, the Head had soon asked her to take on French and German as well, having recently introduced the latter to the curriculum. It all seemed to be working out for her, but then she got a call from home. Her father was ill – Leukemia, the doctor informed her. He’d been suffering from it for over a year now and been on medication too. She felt betrayed. She’d visited her father in May, just before joining the school and he’d never mentioned a thing to her. Now he was on his death-bed, drifting in and out of delirium and had asked to see her. But she’d spoken to him just last week! He’d said he was down with viral fever, but he sounded fine! They told her that it had been rather sudden; he’d been admitted just two days back. The driver had brought him in early on Tuesday morning, after having discovered him unconscious in his bed. She’d applied for a leave and rushed back. Just in time, for her father slipped away barely two days after she reached Bombay. She had spent those two days by his bedside in an almost un-interrupted vigil, leaving only when she had to shower and change and timing that too, with the time the nurses came in to sponge him.

She’d moved away from home when she left for Delhi to pursue post-graduate studies in English at the Jawaharlal Nehru University. B.Ed had followed and then this job in a residential school in Shimla. She had gone back just thrice since she left, for short trips of a fortnight, to spend some time with her father. His death left her devastated. He was, after all, her only family. Her mother, she’d been told, had passed away when she was just two. There were photographs of course, but she’d never been able to identify with the fair brunette with sparkling mischievous eyes.

Her mother hadn’t been an Indian citizen; she was of German origins and had come down to India for her research on the Aryan race. She had met Anirudh Upadhyaya at an Indo-German conference and it had been love at first sight for the dynamic German anthropologist. They’d never married, for Ulrike Wehle hadn’t believed in the institution. A bohemian at heart, she was fiercely independent and this was the first time she was attempting to sink roots anywhere.

So she’d been born as Remanika Wehle. Her name was a fusion of two cultures, to represent the love of her parents. Or so her father had told her. After her mother’s death, her father, had officially adopted her and brought her up with so much love that she never felt the absence of a mother. When she’d moved away to Delhi, he came at least once a month, scheduling unnecessary business meetings so he could check up on his daughter. And now, in the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving her alone.

Tying up the few loose ends he’d left, took up nearly a month, during which she often wondered about her next step. One day, as she cleared away her father’s cupboard she came across a box of old photographs. It seemed they must have been her mother’s, for they weren’t photographs of Indians. She recognized the Brandenburg Gate in one of them and smiled as she remembered the time her father had taken her to meet her grandparents in Berlin. She’d been ten years old and that was the first time she was going to meet them. They were nice people, but they’d never understood their daughter and so they couldn’t relate to this man their daughter had chosen to live with, or this little girl with dark hair who stared back at them with her black eyes. She had exchanged postcards and Christmas greetings with them till they had passed away some years ago. And she’d never gone back.

In that instant, she knew what she wanted to do. She set about making inquiries and started surfing the Internet looking out for job opportunities. A week later she’d found what she was looking for – an agency in London offered to set-up arrangements for young women interested in working as au-pairs across Europe. She sent in her curriculum-vitae, knowing that with her qualifications and experience she stood a good chance. She wasn’t wrong. Barely two months later, she had resigned from her job, locked up the house, and left. Her first job had been in Germany, in Berlin. She’d spent six months there, tracing her origin. She visited the University where her mother had once studied and worked, traced and looked up old acquaintances, asked innumerable questions about her mother, traced the family genealogy and had gone to meet cousins. Her curiosity had been satiated, but she hadn’t really found what she was really looking for. At the end of six months, when the time came to renew her contract, she asked for a new placement. Somewhere far away from here, she requested. So they sent her to France, and then Spain and then Italy.

When her last contract was due for renewal she asked them if they’d send her to Germany again. Before she left for Heidelberg, she went back to visit the people she’d met and befriended in Berlin, some of them her cousins, with whom she’d stayed in touch these past few years. And then headed to this magical town about which she had heard so much from her father, who used to come here quite often for conferences or other work-related meetings. She’d been missing him more and more these past few days. Coming to Germany, had been a decision spurred on by her desire to know the mother she never knew. But when she didn’t find what she was looking for, she had fled, living a nomad’s life these past few years, moving every time she started sinking roots and forming close relationships. Feeling that odd sense of restlessness once again, she wondered where she would go next.

Sighing, she got up and started walking towards the bridge. It was quite late now, and there was hardly anyone out. Apart from a few cars she saw in the distance, she seemed to be the only person outside. Once on the bridge, her steps slowed down to almost a crawl. She always found herself lingering on the bridge. It had a magical feeling to it, often transporting her to a far-away land and time where she felt secure and protected. It was the same today. Leaning back on balustrade she looked up at the dark skies. It was cloudy night and she couldn’t spot any stars, so she indulged in her childhood game of guessing at the shapes the clouds formed. A few minutes later, she sighed in frustration, for it all just seemed like one big shapeless mass tonight. What was wrong with her today? Why couldn’t she escape this restlessness? Turning around she looked down into the river once again, wondering how people could possibly want to despoil the beauty of the river by jumping into it and ending their lives. How could they desecrate something of such deep and mysterious beauty, something that provided so much energy at time and calm at other times, with something as sacrilege as suicide? Surprised at this rather morbid turn of thoughts she shook herself and forced herself to turn around and start walking back towards home.

Home? She stopped dead in her tracks. Was that home? No. Not in this lifetime. Home could never be here. It could only be one place on this earth. But she’d fled from that place and never looked back even once in these past three years. But what was she fleeing from? From a lifetime of being loved? From her roots? She’d come here searching for her roots, for answers about her origins, but had she found any? Not really. She knew more about her mother and now had more friends and cousins to add to that postcard list, but nothing else. No real relationships. No feeling of belongingness. Just this aimless nomadic life. It was little wonder that she was feeling increasingly restless.

Perhaps it was time, after all to go home. Back where she belonged. Back to the house where she was brought up, the house with all the memories of growing up, of the tears over hurdles that once seemed insurmountable and the feelings of triumph at surmounting them. The house from where she’d left for many vacations with her father. The house into which she had always walked into knowing her father would be there. This time he wouldn’t. There would just be memories now. She had to learn to survive on those memories.

Yes, it was time to go home. Time to go back and sink those roots in. Time to start life again. To build new relationships and perhaps a family of her own. She turned and looked down in to the river one last time. As always it had helped her find answers and the peace that she was looking for. It was right then, that there is a river that flows inside everyone. A river never has any doubt -- it is sure to get where it is going, and it doesn't want to go anywhere else. That’s what it makes it so peaceful. She knew now, where she was headed next. Back home.

Feb '05

Of Silver Linings and Rainbows

She kicked into the castle, smiling bitterly as it collapsed. Its walls breached, the waves rushed into its courtyards, flooding it, destroying its foundations. She stood there watching it dissolve…

“Anahita, jeez woman what’s gotten into you today? You can’t just get up and walk out on me in the middle of the conversation – that too, at Mocha! You know how bloody slow they are to reacting and producing the bill, don’t you? I was just beginning to think my instincts were wrong and that you’ve probably headed home and was just about to turn on my heels, when my eyes caught those ghastly ear-rings of yours twinkling away…that’s about the only colour you have on you today anyway! And what is this – why in god’s name did you go and kick that castle? Some kids probably spent hours building and fortifying it…imagine how disappointed they will be when they return tomorrow morning to see that it met with an unknown enemy and gave way to the onslaught of the waves?”

Anahita turned around, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, “That’s what happens when you try building castles without sinking foundations first and stabilizing them. A lesson learnt early in life will go a long way.” She laughed bitterly and turned away, starting to walk down the beach once again.

“Hey come on, chill out. Where’s my babe – the one who approached everything with enough joie de vivre to fill a room? Where’s all this cynical talk coming out of?” He reached for her hand, only to have it moved out of his reach. “Anna? Jaan, kya ho gaya? I thought after that sumptuous dinner polished off with your favourite Kahlua mousse cake, we’d head down to your place for that talk you’ve been pestering me for. I guess I’ll just have to hear it down here, won’t I?”

Her raucous laughter fell like brittle crystals on his ears. “Yeah right, we’d talk at my place alright. I haven’t spent the last decade of my life with you, without knowing what going back to my place after being fed like a pig being fatted for slaughter means. Talk! Ha! Right! And the cow just jumped over the moon didn’t it?”

“Anna, for chrissake you make it sound like some sordid coupling! What’s gotten into you? All this evening you’ve been taunting me and calling yourself a loser. Look, either I failed you or you failed yourself – you can’t have it both ways. I’m getting fed-up of this whole routine now – can we just cut through the bull and get down to what’s eating you?”

She turned on him her look slicing through him, making him cringe even before she opened her mouth. There was bleakness in that look, disguised by the anger that made her voice tremble as she spoke.

“So you want to know what’s eating me huh? Let’s start with unfulfilled ambitions. Rejection from all the Universities I applied to, despite the excellent grades in college and in masters, not to mention a 1380 GRE score. Having to teach uninterested college students a language they think is ‘cool’ only because they can use it to make the vernies look LS in the canteen, or perhaps to patao their latest crush, so that I can pay off the loans I took to fund my application fees. Having my thesis rejected by our esteemed University, because it was considered too radical…radical my foot. And to think I allowed myself to be persuaded not to report him for sexual harassment, out of fear that he’d wreck my academic career later. Like it helped…I should have reported him and requested for my guide to be changed. At least my self-respect would have still been intact.”

“Anna, hey, I thought it was all water under the bridge now – jaan, you can’t let yourself be bogged down such vermins. It is a bad world out there, but it’s not all bad. Come on cheer up. I mean look, you’ve got an envious job with Penguin Publishing now, working your way up…I’m sure it’s not going to be long before you’ll be occupying the position of…”

“I’m not finished yet,” she cut him mid-sentence. “That job sucks, and you know it. I’m not doing anything useful there. It’s a job, it pays. Enough for me to pay my rent and get me through the month. Fullstop. Job satisfaction? Accomplishment of goals? Not a hint of it.”

“It got you the contacts you needed to get your manuscript noticed didn’t it? There’s always a silver lining to every cloud…what is it you used to say? Apres le beau temps la pluie?”

“It’s apres la pluie, le beau temps. And I don’t see the silver lining or the rainbows. They rejected my manuscript. I got their letter today. Too many clichés, they said. And the characters weren’t real. No one likes happy endings any more. Nor happy people. Inject some sadness into your tale, and we might reconsider. Fuck them.”

“Anna, I’m sorry,” he made to reach out for her hand. “Look you can approach some other publishers…Penguin isn’t the only one in the market. There are others willing to support new talent…”

“Please! I don’t want any fake sympathy. You’d said pretty much the same thing when you read it – too happy for me jaan, but give it a shot if you wish. You’ve got nothing to lose. Well I did, and I have. I’ve lost the willpower to go on.

28 years of breathing, eating, digesting, shitting. That’s all I’ve done. Not a single accomplishment to boast of. Rien! Nada! Damn I couldn’t even manage to convince the guy who’s the center of my life, that I’m the one for him. He still needs time. The least I could have done is to win his heart…” She laughed sending a chill down his spine.

This time he did manage to get hold of her wrist, forcing her to turn around. “Stop talking like that. You have accomplished a lot. There are people out there who admire you, admire the way you’ve kept yourself going even after the rug was pulled out from under you, at your parent’s sudden unexpected death in the train crash 6 years back. You didn’t let that defeat you...you picked up the pieces and built your life all over again. Single-handedly. Without an iota of help from your relatives or even from me. And what’s this about not winning my heart? I don’t dance at your isharas for nothing, jaan. I am yours. If I’ve been asking you to wait before we tie the knot, it’s only because I wanted to settle down in my own field, start climbing that corporate ladder, before I asked....”

“Let it be. I don’t want to hear the excuses anymore. There’s no point anymore...”

“What do you mean there’s no point? Anna, look at me damn it...what are you saying?” She shook her hand free and started to walk off. “Damn it, woman, I’m talking to you. Don’t you walk out on me again! You can’t let 10 years just go down the drain! Anna, damn it, stop!”

“Please, just leave me alone. I’ll find myself a rick and go home...don’t follow me. And don’t bother me. Please. Just do this one last thing for me...”

“Last thing...what the hell are you talking about? Look, go home right now, if you want. Sleep over it. You need to do that. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll come around with some croissants and we’ll have breakfast together, ok?”

She didn’t reply. He wondered if she’d even heard him and stared helplessly at her back as walked away from him into the inky blackness of the night.

***********************************************************
A year later, he walked down from the dais to a thundering applause. He’d just been telling an apt audience about his Anna, the love of his life, who had once filled life with the myriad colours of a rainbow and taught him to never give up. Of Silver Linings and Rainbows was a bestseller, winning critical acclaim all over the world. The publishers had milked the unfortunate early demise of the author for all it was worth and were smiling as the counters rang with each new purchase and fresh demands for the book poured in everyday.

An hour later, he stood at the shore, his right hand in his trouser pocket, staring out at the horizon, lost in his thoughts. His fingers wrapped around the hard, brittle object in his pocket, sending him back to that fateful night. The last time he’d seen his Anna. She’d walked out of his life that night. Never to return. The next morning when she didn’t answer to repeated calls and a continuous ringing of the doorbell, he’d had the door broken down. She wasn’t in the apartment. The bed hadn’t been slept in. His heart had frozen then and it hadn’t thawed since. He’d rushed to the police station to report her missing. “Kab se?” they asked. When he said he hadn’t seen her since last night, they laughed him away, telling him to come back after 24 hours. “Silly lovers tiff,” wasn’t that what they’d said? 24 hours later when he went back, they asked him to identify a body that had been washed ashore the previous morning. It was his Anna.

A month after her funeral Penguin India changed their mind about her manuscript. “It had a gripping tale. A story of unsung courage. A beacon of light in an otherwise bleak world. They would publish.” The author’s death in an unfortunate drowning accident, pushed the book to the fore. The readers’ curiosity was piqued. The first edition sold out within weeks. They hadn’t stopped printing since then. It had broken all records.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and turned the object over in his hand. A 24 carat diamond caught the dying rays of the sun, flashing its brilliance, blinding him for a moment. For his Anna. He’d promised himself that the day he went down on his knees and asked her for her hand, he’d present her with nothing less. She deserved no less. Tears, unheeded, slid down his face. He should have never let her go that night. He should have pursued her. He should have...

What was the point now? It was too late. Anna had gone, leaving his life plain, colourless. It had been a year since he’d seen a rainbow after a shower. He turned the ring over in his hand once more, raised it to his lips, kissed it. “For you Anna. I’m not going to let you walk out on me in the next lifetime. It’s a promise...” With one last longing look at the twinkling diamond, he threw the ring into the sea.

Dec '04

Untitled

"Hang your head Tom Dooley, Hang your head and cry,
You killed Poor Laura, Poor boy you’re bound to die."

The lines were stuck in her head like an unending refrain. Try as she might, she couldn’t get the words out of her mind. Hardly had it faded away, that it started all over again. Perhaps it was good that there was music in her head. It meant she still had the fighting spirit in her. She was still alive. And then, music had always been the essence of her being. It filled her heart with joy, spreading light in the dark corners of her soul, making her steps lighter, her eyes shine with suppressed glee, her mouth curve into the hint of a smile. Just as it did now.

"So he thought he had her beaten and subdued did he? Crushed her wings like he had crushed that fragile butterfly last week? He wished."

She’d spent her lifetime, dedicated to serving him. She met his every whim and fancy, toiled all day to keep his house clean so he could entertain his guests with pride and they could comment on his beautiful “home” and his good taste. Ironed his shirts, laundered his trousers, and ensured his tie was knotted perfectly for that important meeting with the German Chancellor. Gave him his vitamins every morning with the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, poached eggs, bacon and warm toast, just the way he liked it. . Cooked and served him gourmet meals night after night. And then she lay back, like a dutiful handmaid, praying it would end quickly tonight. Praying fervently throughout that she’d conceive and get the excuse to avoid this nightly torture for at least a few months. But it didn’t. It went on and on and on…

It had been fifteen years now. Fifteen years of negating her identity and preserving his. Fifteen years of servitude. Of broken dreams. Of dissatisfaction. Of unfulfilled yearnings. She’d accepted it as her fate, plodding on listlessly through life, doing what he told her to do, dressing as he told her to dress, seeing the world through his eyes, seeing herself through his eyes. What had he said before he left for work today?

"Look at you. You look like a whore with that disheveled hair. You could have combed it back into your usual chignon. And those crimson lips? Didn’t you wipe that blood off, before doing the eggs?"

He left a few minutes later, leaving his breakfast unfinished. He’d grab a Subway on his way to work. The eggs were cold. And the toast was not crisp enough.

"I thought you’d have learnt by now. Such ineptitude won’t do. You better not screw up tonight. These people are important. I can’t have them thinking I married a useless bimbo who can’t even look good, leave alone prepare a decent meal."

She’d listened quietly, her head bowed down. Cleared up the remnants of breakfast after he left, then gone to wash the blood her face, rub some ice on her lips to reduce the swelling and improve her appearance before the maid came. He’d never beaten her before this. But then, she’d never refused him before this either. But...how could she have agreed? What he had asked her to do…a cold chill ran down her spine as she remembered. Shaking her self, she shut her eyes and focused on emptying her mind of the pain. She was good at that.

She slid in her favourite CD into the Sony Music system and started wiping the Swarvoski crystals. After the maid left, she entered the kitchen, having planned the menu while she worked. Quickly removing the vegetables from the refrigerator, she started slicing the onions finely to prepare the gravy for the chicken. Chop, grind, mix, sauté…soon the aroma of spices filled the air. She reached over and switched on the exhaust, continuing to stir the Kheer with one hand, lifting the lid of the other saucepan to check if the gravy was ready.

As she chopped the coriander for the chutney to go with the Shaami Kebabs she planned to serve with the drinks, she remembered this song she’d heard a few years ago. It sang the tale of a woman, much like her, who worked without pay for thirty years, negating herself for him and his children, and then one day, she met him at the door with her bags. She had a job now. One, that paid more than the current job of being a wife. "He thinks he’ll keep her, wasn’t that the refrain? Perhaps she too, could…"

The acrid smell of spices burning wafted to her nose and she abandoned the coriander, running over to turn of the stove. The gravy had burnt a little while she was lost in her thoughts. She’d have to make it all over again. He wouldn’t leave her in peace if there was even a hint of the burnt smell in the gravy. She picked up the knife and began slicing the onions again…

"Hang your head Tom Dooley, Hang your head and cry,
You killed Poor Laura, Poor boy you’re bound to die. "

(Dec'04)

The Handmaid's Tale

Margaret Atwood, author of twenty-five books including fictions, poetry and essays, has written a classic that deserves to be placed next to Orwell’s 1984. Critics say it’s no less than Huxley’s Brave New World and Burgess' A Clockwork Orange, but since I’ve not read either of them, I can’t comment. (I tried reading the second since it was prescribed for the Novel Paper in MA-I, but I couldn’t get past the first 10 pages)

Coming to us in first-person, The Handmaid's Tale is an account of a handmaid’s life in the Republic of Gilead in the United States of America. Offred is handmaid to a Commander and her value is marked on the functioning of her ovaries. Handmaid’s according to this tale, were women who served the function of bearing children for the elite, those who’s wives could not conceive children themselves due to various reasons. They were, women who had not yet been married, or were second wives or mistresses, in the era before the Republic, now with no rights and no hope of any life. They go to a school, where they are trained to prepare for their lives as Handmaids, knowing that if they fail, they could face execution and hung at the “Wall” as a lesson to others, or shipped off to the Colonies, declared “Unwoman” where they would spend the remaining years of their lives, cleaning up junk, as the radiations from the nuclear waste slowly ate away at their system.

Offred lay down on their back once a month and prayed that the Commander would make her pregnant this time, so that she could give them what they wanted - a baby in this time of non-fertility and reproductive systems gone askew, when babies were dying in wombs before full-term or being born with numerous defects as a ramification of years of chemical pollution of the elements, nuclear warfare, and strain of mutable diseases that ran through the human system, a by-product of the “loose” sexual morals of the yester-years. Interpolated with flashbacks of her life before the Republic, when she lived with Luke and had a job of her own, an independent bank account and a lovely daughter whom she cherishes till this day, the novel is a horrifying and scathing account of a dystopia that could be.

Atwood, claims that “this is a book about what happens when certain casually held attitudes about women are taken to their logical conclusions. For example, I explore a number of conservative opinions held by many – such as a woman’s place is in the home. And also certain feminist pronouncements – women prefer the company of other women, for example. Take these beliefs to their logical ends and see what happens.”

Powerful and gripping, I could feel a chilling sense of fear and menace grip me as I turned the pages to reach the denouement of the novel. This wasn’t magic realism, this wasn’t science-fiction; it was a warning to the human race, a warning against our excesses, a warning against the increasing use of nuclear warfare and chemical products, a warning against totalitarianism.

It’s a MUST READ!! (Thanks Madusa!)

Encore Provence - A Book Review

“Encore Provence” – the third in series on Provence by Peter Mayle, is the most delightful read, if you love France, or even if you don’t. A Francophile (I’d prefer calling him an Anglais Francison) he couldn’t get Provence out his system even as he pursued international acclaim in America…so he returned to the south of France and fell in love all over again with la vie Provencal!

In this Vintage Departures publication, Mayle presents a most appealing picture of life in Provence – from the secrets of the truffle trade, to a parfumérie lesson on the delicacies of scent, from an exploration of the genetic effects of 2000 years of consumption of foie-gras (smacking my lips even now as my tongue tingles in memory of the flavour) to the recipe for a perfect village…it is a very insightful, witty and charming tribute to his beloved Provence. He also includes helpful tips on what to do on a summer afternoon (a most delightful chapter), where to find the best honey or the best melons, how to create the perfect garden, the benefits of lavender, or the wonders of the olive tree….
A wonderfully poetic, hilarious, sometimes tongue-in-cheek account of Provencal life, revealing his love for the region, it makes you want to catch the first flight out and settle down to the delights of that way of life…

“Mayle’s prose is, as ever, as pure and welcoming as a glass of the house wine at a Provencal café” – The Philadelphia Enquirer.

“Delightful, amusing, and appealing.” – The New York Times Book Review

Here are a few excerpts pique your curiosity:-

“For everyone coming to France directly from America, the first and most nerve-wracking shock to the system is traffic shock, and it hit us as soon as we left the airport. Instantly, we were sucked into high-velocity chaos, menaced on all sides, by a hurtle of small cars driven, it seemed, by bank robbers making a getaway. The French-man on wheels, as were quickly reminded, sees every car in front of him as a challenge, to be overtaken on either side, on blind bends, while lights are changing or road signs are advising prudence. The highway speed limit of eighty miles an hour is considered to be an insufferable restriction of personal liberty, or perhaps some quaint regulation for tourists, and is widely ignored.

It wouldn’t be so alarming if the equipment, both human and mechanical, were up to the demands placed on it. But you can’t help feeling, as yet another baby Renault screams past with its trees barely touching the road, that small cars were never designed to break the sound barrier. Nor are you filled with confidence if you should catch a glimpse of what’s going on behind the wheel. It is well-known that the Frenchman cannot put two sentences together without his hands joining in. Fingers must wag in emphasis. Arms must be thrown up in dismay. The orchestra of speech must be conducted. This performance may be entertaining when you watch a couple of men arguing in a bar, but its heart-stopping when you see it in action at ninety miles an hour.” ***

“…an even more essential ingredient, joie de vivre – the ability to take pleasure from the simple fact of being alive.

You can see and hear this expressed in a dozen small ways: the gusto of a game of cards in a café, the noisy, good-humoured exchanges in the market, the sound of laughter at a village fete, the hum of anticipation in a restaurant at the start of Sunday lunch. If there is such a thing as a fomula for a long and happy old age, perhaps it’s no more than that – to eat, to drink, and to be merry. Above all, to be merry.” ***

“I could never understand how anything could be extra virgin. This has always seemed to me like describing a woman as extra-pregnant. How can there be degrees of virginity? I’d assumed it to be one of those flights of Italian self-promotion – my virgin is better than your virgin – that served no purpose other than to look impressive on the label…” ***

There is so much more, that tickled my funny bone, appeased my curiosity, tempted my senses…that conjured images of sun-kissed valleys and vineyards, of lazy afternoons spent relaxing in a hammock after a sumptuous meal washed down by a bottle (or two) of rosé wine, of meandering strolls through the countryside, of colouful, noisy, chaotic Friday markets in village squares, of the groves of olive trees and the customs of picking olives in winter (or grapes in autumn, for that matter!), or inhaling the perfume of bushes of lavender as you walk past quaint cottages that dot the countryside….

I think I’m well on the way of being called an “Indienne Francison” ;-)

P.S “Francais Francison” (fr-awn-say fr-awn-si-zon) is a term used to describe a French man who talks perennially about the wonders of France…I’ve bastardised the term to suit my purposes.

*** Mayle Peter, Encore Provence - New Adventures in the South of France,
© 1999 by Escargot Productions Ltd.

The Canonisation

FOR God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love ;
Or chide my palsy, or my gout ;
My five gray hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout ;
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve ;
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honour, or his Grace ;
Or the king's real, or his stamp'd face Contemplate ;
what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.

Alas ! alas ! who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drown'd?
Who says my tears have overflow'd his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.

Call's what you will, we are made such by love ;
Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find th' eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit By us ; we two being one, are it ;
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tomb or hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse ;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms ;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for love ;

And thus invoke us, "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage ;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage ;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes ;
So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize—
Countries, towns, courts beg from above
A pattern of your love.

By John Donne

The Interview

34-24-36. 5’6”. Shiny black tresses caressed the curve of her neck, brushing lovingly against her shoulder, much like a lover would. The red waist-coat faithfully moulded her body, highlighting her assets beautifully. She wore a skirt that stopped just short of her knees – some silky material that shifted sensuously against her legs with each step she took forward…
Please have a seat...
Thank you, Sir. Those husky tones could do a lot for a man’s imagination, not to mention the libido. As she sat down, her skirt shifted higher drawing the gaze down to her thighs. She shifted, her spine stiffened as she straightened in the chair.
My Curriculum Vitae, Sir. As you can see I completed my Masters from…
Her voice droned on in the background as his gaze drifted idly upwards taking in the nip of her waist and higher up, the proud tilt of her chin to the kohl-lined deep brown eyes that were sparkling indignantly with fire. If looks could, he would have burnt at the spot. He leaned back in his chair and smiled.
She would do. Oh yes, she would do alright...

(Inspired by John Berger’s “Ways of Seeing” – an influential book, in which he talks about the male gaze. He argues (successfully) that “men act and women appear. Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at.” Women continue to be “depicted in a different way to men - because the "ideal" spectator is always assumed to be male and the image of the woman is designed to flatter him” Berger was speaking with art in mind, yet his arguments are highly applicable in a quotidian situation – aren’t we as women, constantly aware of the male gaze, perpetually modifying our appearance to please it?)

The Ice Man Under The Bridge

lives on moth soup
the string keeping up his green pants
strangled a barking dog outside the boarded up all night off-licence.
For twenty years he delivered ice to fishmongers
from the mouth of the Thames to Greenwich.
They lived on the best salmon cuts
lobster on her birthday Dover sole for his.
He never accepted the Doctor's prognosis
and when his beloved wife died
he packed her body in bed with ice
kissed her brow like always
left a note for the milkman
and gently as ever, closed the front door.

-By David Crystal

Bon Appetit

I wish bon appetit
to the frail old fisherwoman
(tiny,
she is no more than just
an armload of bones
grown weightless over the years
and caught
in a net of wrinkles)
who, on her way to the market,
has stopped
to have a quick breakfast
in a hole-in-the-wall teashop,
and is sitting hunched
over a plate of chickpeas
— her favourite dish —
on a shaky table,
tearing a piece of bread
with her sharp claws
to soak it in the thin gravy
flecked with red chilli peppers;
and whose mouth is watering
at this very moment, I bet,
for I can almost taste
her saliva
in my mouth.

And I wish bon appetit
to that scrawny little
motheaten kitten
(so famished it can barely stand;
stringy tail,
bald patch on grungey back,
white skin showing through sparse fur)
that, having emerged
from a small pile of rubbish nearby,
and slipped once
on a bit of onion skin,
has been making its way,
slowly but unerringly,
towards the shallow basket
full of shrimps
— left outside on the pavement by the fisherwoman —
has finally managed
to get there,
raised itself on its hindlegs,
put its dirty paws
on the edge of the basket,
and kissed
its first shrimp.

By Arun Kolatkar (1932-2004)

Arun Kolatkar won the Commonwealth Prize for Poetry in the late Seventies. Decidedly reclusive, he wrote in Marathi and English and lived, without benefit of a telephone, in Bombay. Read more, in his Obituary as written by Ranjit Hoskote.

The Lotus

Love came to Flora asking for a flower
That would of flowers be undisputed queen,
The lily and the rose, long long had been
Rivals for that high honour. Bards of power
Had sung their claims. "The rose can never tower
Like the pale lily with her Juno mien" -
"But is the lily lovelier?" Thus between
Flower fractions rang the strife in Psyche's bower.
"Give me a flower delicious as the rose
And stately as the lily in her pride"-
"But of what colour?"- "Rose red," Love first chose,
Then prayed, - "No, lily-white, - or both provide";
And Flora gave the lotus, "rose red" dyed
And "lily white," queenliest flower that blows

By Toru Dutt (1856-1877)

We did this poem in MA-I ....remembered it recently, though I don't quite know why...what I love about the poem then and now, is its sheer simplicity. You'd hardly believe there was a nationalistic strain lying beneath it - oft I wonder if we make too much of the poet's intention. Should we tear apart every literary work to discover the "subverted text" that lies hidden beneath layers? Or simply appreciate the work for what it seems to be...art for art's sake?

Nobel Laureatte - 2004

Elfriede Jelinek - that's a name you can't not know. Why? Because she just won the much coveted Nobel Prize for Literature for the year 2004. An Austrian author, she is known best for her novel "The Piano Teacher" (1988)...her debut novel "Lisas Schatten" (1967) was followed by several politically conscious novels, till her most recent novels which deal with the role of women in society.

Guess she will be seen gracing the shelves of bookstores soon enough - yet another addition to my "Must Read" list, that is growing much faster than I can read...hmmm....

Spring and Winter

i

WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

ii
WHEN icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doe blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

By William Shakespeare

On My Bookshelf These Days

I finally finished reading Hari Kunzru’s "Transmission" a few weeks back. I was quite excited about the book, having heard so much about this new diasporic author, who had won accolades for his debut novel - and I was just as disappointed. The book has absolutely nothing remarkable - I went through it without experiencing a single moment of delight or fascination at anything he said or how he said it. As I said the other day, it is just another novel churned out by the current spate of diasporic authors. Novels such as these make me question the attention being given to post-colonial authors, irrespective of the content and style of the works. If it isn’t bad enough that they give you an absolutely stereotyped representation of their country of origin, the country they have nothing in common with anymore, except for some ancestry and some relations they would probably have nothing to do with any more, they are claimed as one of “our own” by the country in question– in this case Hari Kunzru is being touted as in Indian – and I fail to understand why. His attitude towards Indians is almost completely condescending and it is glaringly obvious through the narrative that he is in his element (what little there is of it!) while talking about U.S.A or U.K and not the least bit comfortable when talking about India! I definitely wouldn’t ask you to pick up the book – read it if you must, to know who’s who on the Literary Scene these days, but don’t expect much out of it!

Having finished that book I started devoting all my attention to Kavita Watsa’s “Brahmins and Bungalows – Travels through South Indian History” (2004). Now this is a remarkable book, if I may so. I have still not finished reading it, but I can already recommend it – to everyone, not just people interested in history or those who are from or now live in South India. The book is divided into several chapters each dealing with a separate region/city :- Srirangapattana, Mysore, Bangalore, Padamanabhapuram, Devbagh, Goa, Madras, Pondicherry, Tranquebar, Hampi, Mamallapuram, Thanjavur and Kodiakanal.

Off late I have been increasingly and uncomfortably aware of my relative ignorance of Indian history. I have a copy of Romila Thapar’s "Early India" which I intend to read soon, but the book requires a lot of concentration. So when I found this book, I was completely charmed and won over. Coming to you in the guise of a travelogue the book takes you along the history of South Indian cities, weaving personal experiences (from childhood to adulthood), accounts from other travelogues or journals of the colonizers along with historical facts. Kavita Watsa has narrated the history with panache, without giving it the feel of a lecture - rendering it personal and making it seem like your own discovery of the city. Her comments on the growth of the cities and what she feels about their current state are incredibly insightful and sensitive. Though the historical facts are selective, and are from the Anglo-Indian perspective, it is still an enlightening read!

Brahmins and Bungalows was all the more interesting for me, since I have visited Srirangapattana, Mysore, Bangalore and Goa – reading the accounts brought back memories of my trips, threw light over places I visited without knowing the complete history behind them and made me want to go back once more, with this book with me as my guide!

Most of the other placess she talks about were on my list, but one that has been added is Devbagh. A few months back I had had stated that it would be a dream come true to spend my honeymoon at Devigadh – I think I’ll change that statement of mine. Devbagh definitely would be more romantic – a small island inhabited only by a small fishing community, one has the option of staying in rustic cottages or tents at a jungle camp on the island. What could be more idyllic than spending your days on a pristine beach, that is yet untouched by commercialization – soak in the sun during the day, walk along the beach, letting the surf wash off your feet, relax on a hammock tied between palm trees,lulled to sleep by the gentle sea breeze, make love lying under the stars at night and fall asleep to the sound of the waves breaking on the shore not too far away? If you are adventurous enough, you can even persuade one of the fishermen to take you to a nearby island that is completely uninhabited – Devbagh, as Kavita Watsa says is “Beyond the realm of prose!”

A MUST READ!!!

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kiss'd to sleep.

And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

By John Keats (1795-1821)

[Ballad, n, A narrative poem, often of folk origin and intended to be sung, consisting of simple stanzas and usually having a refrain.
Etymology: -
Middle English balade, poem or song in stanza form,
Old French ballade,
Old Provençal balada, song sung while dancing, balar, to dance,
Late Latin ballre, to dance ]

If I Could Tell You

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

-W.H.Auden

Carol Shields

Carol Shields is the author of eight novels and two collections of short stories. “The Stone Diaries” won the Pulitzer Prize and was short-listed for the Booker. “Larry’s Party” won the Orange Prize.

But I’ve not read either of them. My first Carol Shields’ novel was “Unless” (2002) – the novel dealt with 44 year old Reta. A novelist by profession, Reta’s life has been easy, ordered and what on might call contented. All this falls through one day when her daughter Nora, drops out of the system to sit on the roadside with a sign “GOODNESS” around her neck. Reta’s search for what drove her daughter to this, her attempt to understand this strong statement, leads to a quest for meaning, meaning of loss, of life and of hope.

On the back-cover of the novel is this comment by the Daily Telegraph:
“Shields is about the best we have, she does not just express what oft was thought; she snags the shadows of those thoughts, the thoughts we did not know we had. The effect – at once elating and visceral – feels like a conjurer pulling a handkerchief from your heart.”

I just wrote this on Geebaby – and am not surprised that this review echoes what I felt about her writing. What appeals to me in her novels.

"The Republic of Love" (1992) is an older publication, but I laid hands on it much after “Unless.” It deals with Fay McLeod, a folklorist, and Tom Avery, a radio-jockey. Passionate about mermaids, she is strongly connected to the past – but this interferes in her acceptance of the present. She runs away from love, till she meets Tom. Tom, is a die-hard optimistic (if I may use that adjective for him), who has been married thrice and hopes to get it right the fourth time!

It sounds like a typical love story, but beneath that strand, lie other strands of human relationships, the ways families work, an attempt to understand how love eludes so many of us despite our frantic hunt for it, how so many of us don't know when we've found it even though it's staring us straight in the face and I think also an attempt to understand life in this confused world we exist in. I loved reading the novel, with its marvelous insights, use of myth, ironic style and sentimentalism.

Sybil

"Sybil", written by Flora Rheta Schreiber, is a true story of woman possessed by sixteen personalities. Sybil suffered a traumatic childhood as a victim of the most horrifying abuse inflcited on a child. She suffers mysterious black-outs and goes onto to develop sixteen personalities (male and female) as a defense against the horrifying truths of her life that she did not want and could not face...the first case of multiple personality to be psychoanalysed, this book traces her journey back to being one whole person.

I first heard about this book in FYBA when our Psychology teacher recommended it for all those interested in multiple personalities or schizophrenia...after years of trying to find it in our college library and in bookshops, I finally found it on my trip to Ahmedabad in Oct 2002. Goes without saying that I pounced on it - devoured it within days. It left me very disturbed and sickened me with the accounts of the abuse inflicted on an infant Sybil by her own mother...but I couldn't put the book down till I reached the last page.

I maintain that it's one of the most brilliant books I've read till date! The book has also been made into an Emmy award winning film starring Oscar winner Sally Field, but I've not seen that...I'm sure it must be one hell of a powerful movie! Go for the book first, then hunt down the movie!

Indian Ink - Tom Stoppard

Written in the vein of Postmodernist writing, Tom Stoppard's "Indian Ink " - a quietly elegant and moving drama adapted by the British playwright from an earlier radio play and turned into a modest stage hit in London in 1995 - is yet another artistic attempt to make sense of India, where Stoppard spent many years.

Flora Crewe, an unconventional English poet visits India in 1930. Her sometimes scandalous life is the subject of a biographical inquiry more than 50 years later by one of Stoppard's favourite comic targets, a pedantic academic who has a scholarly talent for misreading Flora's life. The play moves in time and space between India in 1930 and Britain in the 1980s (where Flora's sister now lives), as Stoppard introduces the arduous task of deciphering the past and piecing together a life and an era long gone.

Against a backdrop of colonialists whose civil facade masks racial intolerance and fabled maharajas the play has some dramatically convenient juxtapositions. Stoppard sketches a love story between Flora, and Nirad Das, an Indian painter.
The 1980's scenes present Nirad's son Anish Das, who is a part of the Indian Diaspora in England and now considers England as "home" - he comes to visit Flora's sister and as they put together the missing pieces on Flora's life-story, her would-be biogrpaher is shown following a dead-end trail in India. The play cheekily pokes fun of the pedagogic world, while also show-casing one of the most often used themes of post-modernism : diaspora!

Definitely an interesting play to read - it doesn't offer any challenges to the mind, for sure, but it is the kind of a play that I would like to see staged.

Henrik Ibsen

Finished reading "A Doll's House" and decided I must blog about it..so here's some gyan first :

Ibsenism = The dramatic practice or purpose characteristic of the writings of Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906), Norwegian poet and dramatist, whose best-known plays deal with conventional hypocrisies, the story in each play thus developing a definite moral problem.

"A Doll's House"exploded like a bomb into contemporary life…"It pronounced a death sentence on accepted social ethics. For whatever one's opinion of A Doll's House as a play may be, there can be no question of it's startling unconventionality." ('Flashes from the Footlights' Licensed Victuallers' Mirror, June 1889 ). Henrik Ibsen's "A Doll's House" , was unconventional in its themes and in the way in which they were presented. Ibsen questioned contemporary Norwegian society's conventional male and female roles, the morals of marriage and challenged all human beings, particularly females, to strive to be one's self and to be responsible for themselves. The play was obviously far ahead of its times and though Ibsen was never appreciated in 1879 when the play was first staged, he is hailed as one of the Fathers of Moden Drama. The play is truly remarkable in its theme, portrayal of everyday characters, which make it all the more hard-hitting.

The Namesake

Written by Pulitzer Prize-winning Jhumpa Lahiri, the book is one of the most engrossing books I've read recently. I read the book from start to finish at a speed that I've not read at for quite a while now...I think the last novel that captured my attention in a similar fashion was Doris Lessing's "The Sweetest Dream."



In "The Namesake" Lahiri enriches the themes that made her collection of short stories "Interpreter of Maladies" an international bestseller: the immigrant experience, the clash of cultures, the conflicts of assimilation, and, most poignantly, the tangled ties between generations. I do find the depiction of the diasporic Indians a bit stereotypical but I guess when you are writing about that community you can't help but lean towards stereotypes!

"The Namesake" takes the Ganguli family from their tradition-bound life in Calcutta through their fraught transformation into Americans. On the heels of their arranged wedding, Ashoke and Ashima Ganguli settle together in Cambridge, Massachusetts. An engineer by training, Ashoke adapts far less warily than his wife, who resists all things American and pines for her family. When their son is born, the task of naming him betrays the vexed results of bringing old ways to the new world. Named for a Russian writer by his Indian parents in memory of a catastrophe years before, Gogol Ganguli knows only that he suffers the burden of his heritage as well as his odd, antic name. Lahiri brings great empathy to Gogol as he stumbles along the first-generation path, strewn with conflicting loyalties, comic detours, and wrenching love affairs. With penetrating insight, she reveals not only the defining power of the names and expectations bestowed upon us by our parents, but also the means by which we slowly, sometimes painfully, come to define ourselves.