You Were Not There...

(Not-so-little something I had written on Feb 15, 2010. All junk to be kept here!)

__________

Yesterday it was the 14th of February, Valentine's Day. A day to celebrate love.

Love was certainly in the air, blossoming and spreading its fragrance around. The world must have appeared to be a beautiful place to the ones in love. Promises were made with hope and a silent wish alongside, to be kept till eternity.

But it was all meaningless for me because the thing that meant the most wasn't there!

When there were roses and dates,

When people had talks of their fates,

When cute cards were being given

When past follies were being forgiven

All this while what I missed the most

Were neither the hills, nor the coast.

I asked my heart for a little clue,

It skipped a beat and said it was YOU.

You had been so synonymous with this day that I had never, even in my worst nightmare, imagined this day without you. You had given Valentine's Day an altogether new meaning. However, this time you were not there.

I closed my eyes and tried bringing the past years' celebrations before me. Your innovation and spontaneity always caught me off guard! Whenever I thought this would be the limit, you always pushed the bars to higher levels, making me laugh my heart out. But no matter what, this year you were not there.

I was determined to look out for you. My heart said you must be out there somewhere… in the crowd, in the shadows, in seclusion, anywhere. On my way, I found couples cuddling, expressing their love, making the day special for their loved ones.

I went to the Sea face, where the waves were crashing down any sense of contact of lovers with the outside world.

I looked around the Beach, where with fingers intertwined, on the soft moist sand, there were promises being made of seeing each sunset together for the rest of their lives.

I reached Marine Drive where the lights playing in dark were ensuring a bright future ahead irrespective of the hardships.

I came across restaurants, where the gleaming candles at dinners were witnessing several proposals amidst the romantic tunes set by their hearts.

Seeing all this made me miss you even more. As always I expected you to come out of nowhere. You should have obviously been there, but you were not.

I missed all those whiles when I used to wait for this day to arrive, when you made it special for me, when despite your busy routine you managed getting time, when a surprise used to always be in store ahead, no matter what. Those were the days, which I wanted to re-live. I longed to see you, to hear your passion towards the day, to laugh on your antics. But no matter how much my heart craved for it, this didn't change the bottom-line for me, you were still not there.

Did you not realize your importance in my life, or is it that now there are better things for you to look out for?

Did you not think even once of the implications it would have?

Did you never realize my endless wait for you?

I guess not.

Yes, I knew the answers to all my questions, but inspite of it I crazily pressed the buttons on my TV remote in a hope of getting your glimpse somewhere, out of the blue.

My soul stirred for you to appear before me.

I kept changing channels, you ought to be somewhere! Somewhere on a news debate over Valentine's Day, somewhere teaching the Indian culture to the Generation X, somewhere helping India hit the international news with continuous words of protests, somewhere telling how India is aping the West. Somewhere, somewhere! But all efforts in vain.

I am well aware O' my Moral Police that you have Herculean tasks set upon your shoulders now.

You have paper articles to review, so as to ensure a maximum news sale.

You have fatal accusations to make upon the Government at the time of national crisis.

You have Adult Education to be imparted by forcing taxi drivers join Marathi learning schools.

You have regions and religions to be scrutinized.

You have celebrities to be shown that they aren't any more than a commoner.

You have people to be bullied.

You have so many movies to be seen and seen again to spot the sinful Bombay word.

Yes, I do understand all of it.

But I would still like to remind you of your dedication towards love which you have inherited from your worthy ancestors, and which you have been so efficiently portraying since time immemorial. It was this unconditional commitment that gave you all that you deserved; the name, the fame and the reputation.

The noble cause of shattering the gift galleries so as to make sure people don't turn materialistic and thus graciously keeping their emotions alive.

The grave responsibility of getting lovers' faces blackened to protect their identities.

The hard work involved in making them run for their lives, just so that their love was not caught in the brutal media frames.

The preparations required in making couples even marry each other so that their parents don't come and play villains!

Ah, such is the nobility of the sacred devoted soul!

The list is certainly endless.

Like so many years, yesterday, I was apprehensive about what lies next in your kitty of aforementioned innovation, but my hopes were shattered when I saw you busy in appealing to the youth of this nation to not watch some movie which deals with a silly global issue. In spreading this magnanimous message across the country, you forgot that it's THE day. People have been waiting for you since exactly one year, and that they expect a lot out of you.

I know it very well that your responsibilities towards the country are too enormous for me to even count and mention, but I would like to confess this from the depths of my heart, that no matter how much of love I see around in the city...my Valentine's Day would never be the same without you, your demonstrations, your words and your such concern towards humanity and Indian traditions!

With utmost love, sincerity and a positive hope of having a compensated blast the next V-Day!

Saimah.

Book Review: Fury (Salman Rushdie)

Another Salman Rushdie creation, Fury, explores the inner demons - demons of an individual, demons of the society, demons in the city and the demons of humanity. The manifestations of ‘furies’ building within might be as simple as anger and addiction, to as complex as molestations and murders. Rushdie claims that these furies are the driving force which may torment some people and inspire others; but whichever be the form, their presence is undeniable, unarguable and universal.

“Life is fury, he'd thought. Fury — sexual, Oedipal, political, magical, brutal — drives us to our finest heights and coarsest depths. Out of furia comes creation, inspiration, originality, passion, but also violence, pain, pure unafraid destruction, the giving and receiving of blows from which we never recover. The Furies pursue us; Shiva dances his furious dance to create and also to destroy. But never mind about gods! ... This is what we are, what we civilize ourselves to disguise — the terrifying human animal in us, the exalted, transcendent, self-destructive, untrammeled lord of creation.”

Enveloped in this diverse range of furies, the most prominent being existential fury, is the novel’s protagonist Professor Malik Solanka. A man in his mid fifties, an academician of Indian descent living with his wife and a four year old son in London, eventually becomes the creator of ‘Little Brain’- a very popular mechanical doll that can philosophize. However, the pressures of fame become too hot to handle and he ends up moving to New York City, leaving behind his wife and four year old son without giving them any explanation.

Noone knew, but him, that one night he had found himself standing near his sleeping wife and son with a knife in his hands. He was unable to comprehend the rage and fire developing within and had then decided that it’s best for his loved ones to be as far from him as possible. He plans on fighting his inner demons someplace where atleast he can’t harm his family. Once he moves to New York, he gets entangled in the fury of the city and of the people there, clashing with his own turbulence.

Meanwhile, New York is under the grip of a Disney-obsessed serial killer whose victims comprise of rich, young and beautiful girls of the city; raped and scalped brutally. An alcoholic, disoriented Solanka wonders and fears if these murders are a result of the same rage that made him stand that night with a knife. To deal with this blame and wreckage, Solanka befriends a computer pro, entrepreneur and an incest victim, Mila, who claims to renovate people (mostly through blowjobs, though!).

Once with Solanka, Mila creates a new version of the Little Brain doll, which becomes a huge success. However Mila is soon dropped for a smart, politically aware, Indian beauty, Neela Mahendra who is a traffic stopper (literally), head turner, responsible for people walking into trees, dogs forgetting to pee and so on. Neela falls in love with Solanka and after much twists and turns eventually saves his life, risking her own. In the end, Solanka is seen watching his son play, wondering if his inner demons have been exorcised and if he can be reunited with his family.

As much as I tried, I could not ignore the autobiographical similarities in the narration and description of characters. Solanka giving up his post in Cambridge due to the ‘narrowness’ of academia is pretty similar to Rushdie’s reasons for leaving London. Solanka’s creation ‘Little Brain’ that could quote philosophy is on the lines of Rushdie’s creation - his books. The one ‘blasphemous’ work of Little Brain - which he then calls satanic doll - puts Solanka in great trouble, thus coinciding with Rushdie’s much controversial The Satanic Verses. Even the beautiful Neela falling in love with Solanka, a man twice her age, reminds the readers of Rushdie’s love interest Padma Lakshmi.

What I found missing in the book was that the description remains monotonously one-dimensional throughout and mostly devoid of emotion that couldn’t allow the readers to form a connection with the characters even till the end. I’m not too sure whether it is intentional or not, but until I have the likeability (or dislikeability) factor going, I wouldn’t care what the characters end up doing.

To me, I realized, Salman Rushdie has become so synonymous with magic realism that now when he narrates a contemporary tale, I find it tad annoying. What I loved about Rushdie’s previous works was the simple fact that the portrayals of events and people in his books are ordinary, yet creating an extraordinary satirical impact. It is done in such a way that the boundaries between reality and fantasy, tragedy and comedy, causes and consequences, become absolutely blurred. However, in Fury I could find none of this. Being master at manipulating words, many passages in the book were brilliant but that final zing, I felt, was just not there!

Book Review: The Moor's Last Sigh

If I had even the slightest doubt about Salman Rushdie's writing prowess (not that I had), I knew it will disappear as soon as I found myself flipping the pages to see the da Gama-Zogoiby family hierarchy of The Moor's Last Sigh.

By the time I reached the end of this book it struck me again, that Salman Rushdie is definitely a magician. Once in his hands, the words flow like a stream. Smooth, yet turbulent. Clear, yet enchanting. Simple, yet complex. Easy, yet profound.

Magic Realism at its best!

The Moor's Last Sigh is a multi-faceted epic, a family saga packed with high-intensity drama, rich descriptions, vivid recollections and razor-sharp satire. The Portugese-Indian Christian-Jewish family of traders, businessmen (and women), artists and (eventually) gangsters, moves from Cochin to Bombay to Spain, spanning over four generations. Throughout the generations, the only thing the family could strongly boast of were powerful, proud and imperfect women who raised the family's grace and profits by leaps and bounds. As daughters, as wives, as mothers, their manifestations of love varied from being absolutely protective to utterly destructive. In this family lineage is born an unfortunate, helpless, flawed man, Moraes 'Moor' Zogoiby.

Moor traces his family roots to when they arrived in Cochin as spice merchants, when the family disputes turned ugly, when rebellion and murders became the way of living, when his Jewish father and Catholic mother married amidst spices, when after three sisters he was born as the last heir to the da Gama-Zogoiby family, when he fell in love with Bombay and when he realized he wasn't like others. He explains his situation as- "If a birth is the fall-out from the explosion caused by the union of two unstable elements, then perhaps a half-life is all we can expect.", and a half-life is all that he gets. Being in his mother's womb for just four and a half months, aging twice as fast, wrinkled at the age of thirty, with a hammer-palm, he pens down the entire journey taking us through all the generations, their successes and failures, their love and hatred, their strengths and weaknesses, their strategies and lunacies, their morality and its decay.

All the characters have been sketched beautifully and the power associated with each of them is a marvel. Abraham, Mainduck, Uma and even the characters that popped up from Rushdie's previous works, Zenny and Adam, all leave their mark. A special mention, however, for Moor's mother and the artist, Aurora da Gama. She is perhaps the strongest 'Rushdie' character I've read till date. Her spirit, her sharp tongue, her charm, her struggle, her peppery romance with the then Prime Minister of India, her art, all added to make her as phenomenal as she was, making it absolutely believable that people around her would definitely consider her the centre of their universe and would readily dance to her tunes without questioning her motive even once.

Written during the time when Rushdie was in hiding on account of the 'Fatwah', The Moor's Last Sigh depicts the rise, fall and decline of a powerful family; as if subtly indicating the apprehensions Rushdie had towards his own predicament, saying towards the end (via Moor) "Here I stand; couldn't have done it differently."

Inspite of the situation he was in, the controversial tidbits have not been ignored at all. A stuffed dog named Jawaharlal, Raman Fielding (read Bal Thackeray) playing petty politics on Marathas and non Marathas, digging down the Gandhi-Nehru association, bringing forth the then prime minister's love life and the possibility of a by-blow, and ofcourse the list goes on!

Rushdie's word play, the rhyming jargon and the linguistic jokes add another appeal to the story. There are several parenthetical descriptions throughout which got me chuckling; one of them as he describes the origin of the name 'Sorryno' for a Bombay Iranian restaurant -

"(so called because of the huge blackboard at the entrance reading Sorry, No Liquor, No Answer Given Regarding Addresses in Locality, No Combing of Hair, No Beef, No Haggle, No Water Unless Food Taken, No News or Movie Magazine, No Sharing of Liquid Sustenances, No Taking Smoke, No Match, No Feletone Calls, No Incoming With Own Comestible, No Speaking of Horses, No Sigret, No Taking of Long Time on Premises, No Raising of Voice, No Change, and a crucial last pair, No Turning Down of Volume - It Is How We Like, and No Musical Request - All Melodies Selected Are to Taste of Prop)"

Just for the sake of complaining I would have liked it if the climax of the book was as delightful as the 400 odd pages before it. It seemed a bit too rushed in as if wrapping up a widely spread yarn just to get the covers on. Other than that, it's incredibly alluring. It wouldn't be the first time that I say, Rushdie's writing and narration is absolutely astonishing. The way he puts profound and philosophical thoughts so effortlessly is a sight to behold. As it happens with all of his books, one can never know if it's history giving way to his story or if it's his story paving way for history to occur.

Dazzling and heroic. Plain art.

"I sigh, therefore I am. A sigh isn't just a sigh. We inhale the world and breathe out meaning."

Book Review: Gifted (Nikita Lalwani)

Written by the UK based Indian author Nikita Lalwani, Gifted explores several themes; the intensified importance of education for Indians - all the more for Indian immigrants, the pressures of adolescence, the confusions creeping in the second generation immigrants where they fight to strike a balance between their social life and their roots. 

The book describes the story of Rumika Vasi, a second generation Indian immigrant living in UK with her parents and a younger brother. At the age of 5, Rumi was discovered by her teacher as a Mathematics prodigy. As soon as this achievement is brought forth, her father, Mahesh, takes up the responsibility of nurturing this talent in Rumi, making it the sole aim of his life to ensure that his daughter attains something extraordinary in this foreign land.

Being a Mathematics professor himself, Mahesh plans a rigorous study schedule for Rumi, one which allows absolutely no childhood frivolities. It includes sitting in the library long after school, doing Maths problems and a strict warning not to even touch any of the foolish, good-for-nothing story-books there. Talking to her friends, going out for their birthday parties, watching a movie sometime, indulging in hobbies, reading anything not relevant to Mathematics, childhood crushes or maintaining a social life are already marked off as unimaginable in Mahesh’s rule-book.

Apart from this educational abuse (that’s what I’d prefer calling it), Rumi’s mother, Shreene, keeps adding to the traditional expectations from her daughter- thrashing off the idea of falling in love, trying to raise her daughter like she was raised back in India; all the while adding more pressure on the struggling 10 year old.

Even though Rumi, at the age of 10 years, 2 months, 13 days, 2 hours, 42 minutes and 6 seconds, can solve the Rubik’s cube in 34.63 seconds, finds the number 512 a glowing, friendly number, produced by a simple process of doubling, explains love in terms of mathematical numerical series; she wants a ‘normal’ life. The kind of life she sees her friends enjoying, the kind of life she sees her cousins having back in India. Striving for this normalcy, she yearns for freedom, becomes a rebel, gets addicted to cumin and starts hating her father to the core. As Rumi approaches puberty, her levels of frustration increase exponentially, her clashes with Shreene become more and more frequent and her attempts at rebelling reach disastrous levels. 

Due to her flair for solving equations and algorithms, she finally finds her way to Oxford at a young age of 15 years, 3 months and 8 days. While in Oxford, she starts living the way she always wanted to and when she goes back home, she returns to the set of rules prescribed for her. Inspite of experiencing great difficulty in adapting to this dual life, Rumi feels she has no other option left. ‘It seemed impossible to experience so much, to soak in this world and all its possibilities .... and then to go back to the past like an interloper, wash hands and eat dinner with them as though it was all the same.’

As soon as Rumi smells freedom from the autocracy, she breaks all the rules set upon her, gets as far from her family as possible, the resentment and bitterness towards home knowing no bounds. Wanting to provide Rumi with everything they ever aimed for, her parents end up abusing her, knowingly or unknowingly, ruining her life.

Throughout the book, the flow of writing was absolutely smooth and natural. I would have liked to read more of Rumi’s excellence in Mathematics on a public platform instead of the few figures wandering in her head aimlessly; it would have perhaps made a better impact of the Maths whiz. Additionally, the novel being based in the 80s, Lalwani could have even dealt with the gender based bias quite prevalent in the society at that time, for I am certain that the struggle of living in a foreign land would have been more pronounced on a girl child who would have had to abide by the Indian society’s rules and regulations. The end was perhaps written keeping in context the reality factor of the book; however it left a lot of questions unanswered. Rumi’s attempts at clinging to a normal life and her resultant intense encounters with Shreene were very well written highlighting Shreene's fear and Rumi's desperation.

What makes this story likeable is its proximity to reality. As Mahesh says it often, “Academic achievement is necessary to success. It is the only quantifiable measure of a life of the mind.” , it strikes a chord with the reader almost instantaneously for it would be quite impossible to come across even a single (Indian) child who wouldn't have been on the receiving end of a lecture on the necessity of education for a decent job, a comfortable salary, a social status; in short, A Successful Life. For the immigrants, it becomes even more important to establish themselves in an unknown place, their only tool in possession being education. The dreams and aspirations of these first generation immigrants are thwarted upon the coming generation, giving rise to struggling rebellious minds. With more and more Asians hitting the news everyday for their extraordinary intelligence exhibit in the West on several platforms, one can just wonder about the effects these gifts have on the child’s social, mental and emotional stability.

‘Gifted’ much? Think not.

Book Review: The 6pm Slot

Nowadays, with the number of shows on television increasing and the channels being out on a fierce TRP war, the viewers are left wondering about the existing competition and the extent of truth (or the lack of it) in these shows. First-time author Naomi Datta, in her book ‘The 6pm Slot’, reveals as to what lies behind the wise camera lens, away from the flashy sets and inside the creative minds. She puts forth the reality of television in such an intriguing way that you can just not keep the book down. 

‘Welcome to the world of television, where nothing is ever what it appears.’

What appears to be a love show being launched by YTV, is the brainchild of the PPT obsessed whimsical boss, Rahul, to pep up the channel's 6pm slot TRP by using the good old ‘sex sells’ formula. His ideas are yes-yes’d and fucking awesome’d by the spineless Harish whose only aim is to be in Rahul's best books. 

The responsibility of implementing these ideas is given to our protagonist Tania, who until now was doing a celebrity pet show. As per the boss' instructions a scantily clad female host with ‘thunder thighs’, a terrible accent and a terrifying IQ is approached (where the former quality overpowers the latter two), spicy love problems are added (both real and not-so-real) and the talk show is ready to be served. Although the show initially doesn't garner the expected attention, a single phone call from a distressed dying girl changes everything.

The way things unfold, gives the face of Indian News Television, Rajneesh Tiwari, the story of his life. From candle marches to searching Jassi in Chandigarh, he leaves no stone unturned to make sure that the TRP of his show increases by leaps and bounds. He sensationalizes the story by tampering emotions and questioning humanity, yet again proving that viewers are nothing but idiots!

Amidst this workplace chaos, is a romantic triangle. One of its vertices, Aditya, is responsible for helping Tania maintain her sanity through the commotion. I absolutely loved his dark and dry wit, his matter-of-fact take on things, and his little pieces of advice to Tania throughout. Now, who wouldn't want a colleague like that?! His presence in the plot was refreshing. I would have loved to have him more (everywhere!) in the story. 

Even the other characters are portrayed pretty well; the successful silent lover Bose, the overtly enthusiastic intern Mohawk, the typically agent-like Nair, the sensible journalist Geeta and so on. The scenario, politics and characters described in the book are true not just for the television industry but fit in for any workplace and this is what strikes a chord with the reader almost instantaneously.

The language used is natural with no shade of pretence. As the narration and backdrop goes, even the expletives don't appear to be too out of proportion. The best part about the book is that the situations and emotions have not been unnecessarily exaggerated which, thankfully, keeps the story close to reality and totally believable. Contrary to popular belief (and the book cover), it's not even close to be a usual chick-lit. Having the right amount of humour, sarcasm and twists, it is infact quite an interesting and quick read where I found myself chuckling throughout. Add to it, Naomi has not forgotten the surprise element at all, leading to a superb climax. 

As she concludes, ‘Nothing to do with television ever has a logical end. It just keeps coming back in circles.’

In a similar fashion, I hope Naomi circles back to yet another delightful book.

Book Review: My Name Is Red

Written originally in Turkish, by the Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk, ‘My Name is Red’ is a journey to Istanbul; its culture, its traditions and its society. In this culturally rich set-up lies a mysterious murder, which further reveals the customs and beliefs of the sixteenth century Instanbul. Blossoming along is a love story of lovers parted by time and circumstances.

Although there is a mystery, it’s not as thrilling. Although there is romance, it’s not as swooning.

The book is more than being just a murder mystery or a love story. Rather, it is a curious blend of mystery, romance, sex, art, literature, rivalry, violence, religion and politics.

The book starts with a renowned  illustrator being found murdered. The story then passes through several realms, all the while keeping the reader intrigued as to who the murderer is, among the other rival artists and miniaturists. References in the story suggest that there is a very confidential (blasphemous) project to be unveiled before the masses by the Sultan which has created a major drift between two schools of thought, leading to the said murder. Amidst this acceptance and denial, is woven a story of lost love, regrets and relationships.

Reading a bit about the culture of Turkey, I found out that it was during this period that the western influence on art and literature was becoming prominent on the youth. The entire story depicts the battle of Islamic ideologies and western influence on the society of Turkey. One side wanting to stick stubbornly to its traditions and roots, refusing being a slave to others’ ways and forms, and considering a change in art to be against their religion; while the other side rebelling in every possible way and being ready to embrace this change with much eagerness.

The hatred born from differing views, then, knew no bounds or limits.

The contradictions seen in Pamuk’s narrative well describe the confusion and fear prevailing in the minds of the illuminators of the sixteenth century Istanbul. Throughout, although the longing for West is evident, the fear of losing East is also not hidden. Development and modernity have to be accepted, but the stakes for the same are very high. He fears losing all his stories, losing the fables he grew up with, losing the customs he always followed, losing the brush strokes that painted his canvas, losing his vision for a mere sight. The terrifying realization in the illuminators that a simple acceptance can wipe out their entire existence can be well understood.

What is different in this book is that each chapter is reflected from the eyes of a different character, each chapter has a new voice. The voices ranging from being that of the most probable person to the most improbable one, without keeping either devoid of their credibility, or for that matter, non credibility. I know it’s making no sense, but trust me, the integrity in each of the character arises from its fictitious existence-

The man murdered just a few seconds ago narrating, "I am nothing but a corpse now, a body at the bottom of the well’ and the same corpse then seeing his own funeral, ‘My funeral was splendid, exactly as I'd wanted." 

The picture of a dog replying to its surprised reader "...You believe a story in which corpses speak and characters use words they couldn't possibly know."

Death pointing out, "Though you know very well that I'm not real, you're still seized by horror."

Tree, gold coin, voice of a woman who is actually a man, the colour red, the characters of a painting, each stroke of it; all of them are the narrators.

It felt a little odd initially and took a little while to get used to the flipping narrations, but this is what sets the book apart, making it creative and metaphoric to a great extent.

What I didn't like about the book was that the descriptions were so slow, detailed and intricate that you straightaway wanted to jump to the last page and get done with the book. Clearly, it is not an effortless read, at all! It took me almost a month to finish it (inspite of being in a having-nothing-else-to-do-vacation-mode).  As much as I tried, I could not like the story and resisted the urge to keep it down at several points.

Apart from being a very slow and tedious read, it requires all your attention and critical thinking (include re-reading sections, too). Deep, dense literature! The style, the flair, the structure definitely added to the beauty of thought-provoking description and was quite new for me. More than the plot, the beauty and rich heritage of Istanbul, as described by Pamuk, interested me more. Although a difficult read, I would recommend it for its uniqueness.

Book Review: Blasphemy

Blasphemy is a heart-wrenching novel by a Pakistani author, Tehmina Durrani. It is a tragic and an utterly shocking story which unveils the ugly faces of people in power. The book is set in South Pakistan and depicts male domination of the highest order, tyranny in its crudest form and religious fundamentalism at its extreme. It brings forth the easy distortion of Islam by the hypocrite and predatory so-called religious leaders. The descriptions are awfully repulsive and the very thought that several thousands of women, even today, are subjected to this sort of life, is enough to give you shivers.

The protagonist, Heer, is like any other teenager having her own dreams and aspirations. Just like she read in books and saw in movies, she is waiting for true love to knock at her door and sweep her off her feet. However, Heer’s widow mother gets her married at the age of fifteen to Peer Sain, a man of great honour and prestige, considered to be divine by his followers and thought of as the link between God and ignorant people. Despite the fact that Peer Sain is several years older than Heer, the marriage is fixed as her mother wants to redeem her own status in the society and Peer Sain helps her in doing so in every possible way.

Heer enters her new house with rosy expectations, but what follows this marriage is a series of torture, both physical and emotional. She is beaten, humiliated, abused, raped, trapped and made to live in the world her husband made for her.

A world where no flaw is permitted, no mistake is forgiven, no logic is applied and no explanations are given.

A world where she is not allowed to cross the threshold without her husband's permission.

A world where she is beaten brutally for coming in front of a six-year old ‘man’.

A world where asking about her mother and siblings brings her more misery.

A world where she has noone to share her pains with, noone to talk her heart out to.

A world where she has to protect her daughters from the evil clutches of men, including their own father.

In this world there were no ways of living and no rules followed. The only word heard was of Peer Sain, as and when he wanted.

Throughout his life, Peer Sain exploited the weak and ignorant people in the name of Allah and Islam. Anyone who dared to raise his voice against the system was crushed in a way that served as an example for other people to never question the authority of the Peer's ancestral Shrine in future. Kali, Guppi, Toti, Tara, Chote Sain, Sakhi Baba, Yathimri, Cheel, all were the victims to this system. Only those who meekly surrendered to the wishes of Peer were said to be loyal Muslims. Ignorance was the foundation of their system and was hence enforced at any cost.

Under his angelic façade, Peer Sain committed crimes which were not only against the religion, but against humanity. Taking advantage of burqa to present his wife to his friends as a whore, making his wife abort her child to make sure he is not devoid of pleasure in any way, molesting little girls, killing his own son as he makes the Peer's position in the society vulnerable, satiating his sexual hunger with any girl in vicinity, not sparing even his own daughter. The acts were gross, the crimes were gory and the emotions too disturbing to be imagined being even close to reality.

In Heer’s words,

‘To me, my husband was my son’s murderer. He was also my daughter’s molester. A parasite nibbling on the Holy Book, he was Lucifer, holding me by the throat and driving me to sin each and every night. He was the rapist of orphans and the fiend that fed the weak. But over and above all this, he was known to be the man closest to Allah, the one who could reach Him and save us.’

It was impossible to imagine someone living this kind of life even though, for me, it got over in around 200 pages, while Heer lived and suffered it for 24 long years. Life was so difficult for her that at many instances she had no other choice than to join hands with this Satan. Her only motive in life was Survival. Heer realized that to fight in this world of evil she had to be more evil. There was no way out but to keep spinning this endless poisonous loop until either the tormenter or the tormented gives up his hope on survival. And one of them does give up. One might call it a happy ending but after going through so much, for Heer, it would be far from being so.

For me, the most horrifying and disturbing of all the lines in the book was, ‘The novel is inspired by a true story.’

Book Review: The Mystic Masseur

Set up in colonial Trinidad, ‘The Mystic Masseur’ is the Nobel laureate, V.S. Naipaul’s debut novel. It is hard to imagine how can a writer, in his very first attempt, paint such crisp and lively characters. With no extreme profundity, the book is a fun and witty take on the immigrants' society, its people, their philosophies, their superstitions and their endless beliefs.

The story traces the journey of Ganesh Ramsumair, the son of an Indian immigrant. After completing his education Ganesh is trying his best to become a great school teacher. He is sure that he is meant to do great things, write great words, preach great knowledge; and while doing all of this, becoming nothing else but great. His over the top awe of books, his belief in his ability to write and his extreme reluctance to work, contribute a great deal in his journey from a failed teacher to a struggling masseur, then a revered mystic, eventually a writer and then a political leader who, during the campaign, transforms from being a leftish politician to a right one. (heh!)

From Ganesh Ramsumair he ends up becoming Mr. G. Ramsay Muir, OBE.

Neither are the decisions made by Ganesh the sanest of all, nor are the justifications given the most logical. His philosophies and theories make no sense, but the only thing that he is sure of, is that he has to achieve greatness.

In due course, all these attributes make Ganesh the most well-known Indian in Trinidad, earning him respect, love, power and fear. In short, he achieves the greatness he knew he would. Inspite of all his successes and failures, Ganesh’s innocence and his willingness to believe in his fortune and destiny, keep adding a comic delight to the story.

The other characters in the story are also as endearing; be it the greedy and sly Ramlogan, who leaves no stone unturned to convince Ganesh to marry his punctuation obsessed daughter, Leela, and thenafter using Ganesh's success to expand his business; the skeptical Leela having endless woes about the domestic chores and her husband’s failures; the cartoonish Great Belcher, a kind of relative we all have whose prime objective is to indulge in matchmaking and then dissecting relationships; the friendly Suruj Poopa and Suruj Mooma (as they are called in the book) always ready with their advice, suggestions and help; or even those who appear for a page or two but leave an impact. They all have aptly contributed to the dry and dark wit of the book.

As one of the characters mention,

“I know the sort of doctors they have in Trinidad. They think nothing of killing two, three people before breakfast.”

The first half of the book has its own share of chuckles which, I felt, fades down a bit as the end approaches. The narrative there gets slightly incoherent, losing its charm and wit.

The entire book is in Trinidadian English- absence of proper verbs, every second sentence ending with girl or man, use of incorrect grammar (And no, I'm not being any Grammar Nazi!)

Something on the lines of,

“I does only read”

“We starting nowself, girl”

“Does he know to think himself, man?”

Now imagine reading some 200 pages like that!

Agreed that this makes it a quirky read, adds a lot to the cultural effect of the set-up on readers, however towards the end the weird dialect starts getting on your nerves so much that you crave for something on the lines of a Jane Austen. Inspite of the slight weakness, owing to the hilarious characterization and the narrator's sardonic observations, I’d highly recommend the read.

One of my favourites, as said by the great teacher-turned-masseur-turned-mystic-turned-writer-turned-what-not,

“I don't drink. I don't smoke. Reading is my only vice.”

Kafka on the Shore: Everything is a metaphor

'Kafka on the Shore' is my first Murakami novel. As a matter of fact, this is my first read in Japanese literature and I must say, I’m not at all disappointed! In a way this book is bizarre, eccentric and even obscure. Many of the readers might toss it away after reading the first few pages, thinking it to be making absolutely no sense. But but, trust me when I say this,

This Bizarreness is Addictive.
This Eccentricity is Hypnotic.
This Obscurity is Spellbinding.

The book has two apparently unrelated stories running parallel to each other.
One of the stories is about Kafka Tamura who aims to be the toughest 15 year old boy. He is a runaway from home and after a series of adventure, finds refuge in a private library at Takamatsu. Kafka is not only running away from his house and his father, but also from his past, where his mother and sister abandoned him when he was just four; and from his father’s prophecy, a curse which has been haunting Kafka ever since he understood it. His head is full of conflicting thoughts, several theories, unanswered questions, and blurred memories. He falls hopelessly in love with the spirit of a memory, with a hope of reliving it again and again, until forever.

The other story is about Mister Nakata, a victim to some strange unknown event which resulted in a loss of his memories and his ability to read and write. Instead he can talk to cats, all shapes and kinds! Inspite of all his disabilities, Nakata is the one chosen by fate to set few things straight. Inspite of his warm and child-like simplicity, his ability to have a comfortable conversation with cats, make fishes and leeches rain from the sky, let the path choose him rather than he choosing the path, knowledge of the secret behind the Entrance Stone, adds up and provides a subtle mystery to his character.

Even the other characters have been sketched spectacularly.
Oshima, an extremely well-read gay trapped in a woman’s body, understands Kafka’s journey and is always ready to help and guide him in every possible way. His likeability increases with each turning page.
"Whatever it is you’re seeking won’t come in the form you’re expecting."
"It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story."

Miss Saeki, the library manager, has a past which somehow intertwines with Kafka’s. She is almost dead inside and is now just waiting mechanically for things to take their course.
"Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart."

Hoshino, the truck-driver who helps Mister Nakata a lot through his journey, is as ignorant about Nakata’s mission as the readers. He is more like a reader representative in the story. He asks Nakata the questions that you would want to ask. He hangs by Nakata’s each and every word and never once loses his trust in the weird, old man.
"My grandpa always said asking a question is embarrassing for a moment, but not asking is embarrassing for a lifetime."

Little words of wisdom and philosophical learnings are powdered throughout the book, making it all the more delicious.

"With each new dawn it’s not the same world as the day before. And you’re not the same person you were, either."

"There are all sorts of cats – just as there’re all sorts of people."

"In dreams begin responsibility."

Kafka and Nakata have the paths of their lives converging on a metaphysical level, creating an aura of endless metaphors, kept open for all kinds of interpretations. Just as the book begins, it kisses farewell to the so-called reality; and the surrealism that then follows, makes the story as alluring as possible. Even Mister Nakata starting a casual conversation with some stray cat and talking about the local weather seems to be the most usual of all things, such is the effect of the spell.
The symbolism- sandstorms, labyrinth, cats, crow and the choice of contrast between the ‘concepts’ of the evil Johnny Walker (yes, the scotch guy) and the good Colonel Sanders (KFC!), was absolutely magical.

The book is not about giving up to your fate, but is about courage. Courage to face. Courage to cherish memories, both, wanted and unwanted. Courage to know yourself. Courage to accept yourself.
What I have understood of ‘Kafka on the Shore’, in the first read, might be just a small fraction of the treasure this book holds. The Japanese traditions mentioned, the scholars quoted, the philosophical remarks, the artists mentioned, the historical relevance, will definitely offer more once they have been well researched. The book has so many riddles to be solved, so many metaphors to be deciphered. Re-reading this book in light of research will perhaps be the only key to unearth this treasure chest completely!

Concluding it in the words of Mr. Murakami, himself -

"Every one of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads – at least that’s where I imagine it – there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live for ever in your own private library."

Shantaram - A Masterpiece

All thanks to my state of absolute joblessness, I have been reading a lot lately. No college, no exams, no labs, so it's a kind of guilt-free read. Few days back I was reminded that my blog still exists which is waiting to be updated since long. Erm...yeah, I'm way too lazy. Now the only way to keep this place rolling is to keep adding what I'm doing the most these days, that being reading. Cutting all the crap... *drumrolls* Book Review, it is! :D

Starting with one of the awesomest books I have read lately, which I have seen/heard on almost every bookshelf waiting either to be started or to be finished, blame it all on those 944 odd pages.

Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts.

Even I had started the read with great reluctance, but as I went through the first few pages of the book I knew I'm not keeping this one down, no matter what! If one is looking for some quick filmy entertainment or a couple of hours kinda loose read, Shantaram is definitely a no-no. However if one wants to experience living through a book, plunging into love, life, philosophy, reality and encounter all the endless emotions of love, hatred, respect, camaraderie, envy, right in one's face, then Shantaram is an excellent choice.

Shantaram is the story of an escaped convict who manages to flee from a high security prison in Australia and through fraud and forgery ends up in Bombay, the city he eventually falls in love with. He arrives in Bombay as Mr. Lindsay, becomes Lin for all his friends and foes, modifies to Linbaba owing to his Marathi-speaking-firangi-doctor status among the slum dwellers and transforms into Shantaram in the small Maharashtrian village where people urge him to have a name similar to theirs. Wandering in the streets of Bombay, he comes across crooks, cops, prostitutes, mafias, beggars, actors, junkies, exiles from several other countries; each encounter giving Lin something to remember, something to learn, as he moves on escaping the law and his past.

Bombay through Lin’s eyes is as beautiful as it can be. As one turns the pages, the feeling of being there in the description increases even more. Roaming around the streets of Bombay at night, having endless conversations at Leopold Café, sitting on the beach retrospecting, seeing the waves crash on the walls of Haji Ali, living in the slum with a fear of demolition and rain everyday, unfolding the links of underworld, fighting each day for your survival; and all this while discovering your soul. The effect is just mesmerizing, making the readers see Bombay from a new dimension!

Our protagonist, Lin, is no hero; he is just a normal human who is suffering from Life.
He is involved in drug peddling, passport forgery, black marketing, smuggling and several other crimes. He yearns to be loved. He succumbs to the pressures of life. He makes true friends. He makes enemies. He talks. He listens. He ponders. He battles against his own luck. He succeeds. He thinks. He falls in love. He sees deception. He faces rejection. He finds a father’s guidance and pride. He finds a mother’s unconditional love. He finds a brother ready to die for his safety. He goes for a war. He loses. He fails. He cries. He laughs. He learns. He fights. He lives.
He savors each tide of life in his own stride.

Apart from Lin, all the other characters of the book also bring forth Life, as never seen; and its trivialities, as never thought.

Karla’s observations on life and love are witty and absolutely captivating. The more you read of her, the more you crave for. Few of my favorites of Karla-isms being,

"People always hurt us with their trust. The surest way to hurt someone you like, is to put all your trust in him."

"I don’t know what frightens me more, the power that crushes us or our endless ability to endure it."

"The truth is a bully we all pretend to like."

“Luck is what happens to you when fate gets tired of waiting”

Didier’s remarks make you laugh, think, wonder or even ignore. Inspite of being in a drunk state, he proves to be a true friend and almost a philosopher.

"The worst thing about corruption as a system of governance is that it works so well."

"I think wisdom is over-rated. Wisdom is just cleverness with all the guts kicked out of it. I’d rather be clever than wise, any day."

Abdul Khader who becomes a father-like figure for Lin, his friend, guide and philosopher, known for his wisdom and courage also has some great insights to offer on the purpose of life, each of which is worth a thought,

"Every virtuous act has some dark secret in its heart and every risk that we take contains a mystery that can’t be solved."

"The sane man is simply a better liar than the insane man."

Prabaker, Lin's guide and first friend in Bombay strikes a chord with the reader almost instantly. His innocence and devotion is too beautiful to be true.
Abdullah, Nazeer, Kishan, Anand, Johnny Cigar, Qasim, Ghani, they all have so much food to offer for one's thought. Their search for love, freedom, contentment and peace, and how life unfolds, is all worth a read.

Few of my other favourites from the narration of the book :

'Sometimes the lion must roar, just to remind the horse of his fear.'

'Civilization, after all, is defined by what we forbid, more than what we permit.'

'A politician is someone who promises you a bridge, even when there’s no river.'

Okay, guess I should quit, coz I can keep adding to this list endlessly, like, really! Loved the book. Would recommend this piece of art to everyone! There is so much to imbibe.

The last 100 pages less and it might have just become the most perfect of all books for me. An absolutely gripping story, nonetheless. One might not like it in the same way as I did, for what I feel Shantaram would have different levels of effect on people with different perspectives and under different circumstances. But what I can assure you is that the book won't disappoint you, at all!

Lab Gas Tragedy.

These days I’m busy working at a Toxicology Research Lab. Being a part of the assigned college curriculum, I am compulsorily supposed to be here until I get done with something worth a project.

No, it’s not one of a this-is-what-I-do kinda post, more to it.

Well working at a lab isn’t too lively a thing. This one particularly, because of the simple fact that we do our studies on rodents. (Okay, don’t sue me all you animal lovers! It could be you, instead.)
Though it’s been quite an experience working on them: picking them up by their tails, holding them by their ears, taking their weights and feeding them with drugs given in honey. Don’t pity, because those (b)rats love it most of the time, except for when the drug surpasses the sweetness of honey. In the latter case, they scream and even try biting you off. Inspite of it all, you still ought to feed them with food on time, make sure they have enough of water throughout the day and so on. Parents would understand it better I guess.

No, it’s not even a this-is-how-rats-behave kinda post, more to it.

(By the way, due to dealing with rats since the last so many days, my Mom now calls me when she sees a dead rat after the Mortein Rat-Kill effects. Life’s certainly turned hell with this research!)

So coming back to it, last week we had a terrible accident in our lab. (Yes, I did a Facebook status update and now a blog post to it! xD)
To start with the day, we reached the ‘Animal House’ the first thing in the morning, as always, to check up with the water level and food content in the cages. No sooner did we step in, the stench made it enough for us to almost retrace our steps but responsibility took its toll. We rushed in and as soon as we checked those cages, we got the source of the wonderful odour.
Dead Rats!
We went to report it to the seniors and got the expected "Oh My God!", "What?", "How?" and "All your fault!" out there. That was one of the total chaotic moments in the lab. They rushed in and out trying to chalk out the reason for the sudden deaths. Drug overdose, maybe?

One more thing to add to the Rat behavioral chart, they exhibit cannibalism, which means eating their own kind. Okay I know I’ve done dissections in my Zoology lab, but the yucky part there was nowhere compared to seeing half body parts lying about in the cage. Gross!

Fine, I’ll spare you the gory details.

However, standing there with the bile trying its best to gush out, I tried distracting my mind and gave a casual remark, "It’s damn hot! Whatever happened to the air conditioners out here? I thought they’re supposed to be always switched on."

My remark was met with absolute shocking stares from almost ten to-be-called-doctors.

I don’t particularly enjoy being the centre of attention, for heaven’s sake!
"Umm…What? You guys cold?"

"It’s the air conditioner! That’s why they died!", came the completely out-of-sync chorus.

Well no surprises there... considering the heat, I was close to death myself.

After the commotion died and people returned to their senses, the guy who looks after the cleaning of that room, Shankar, was summoned at once. He came with a cup of chai in his hand. When asked about it, he said in a very relaxed tone, "Yeah, there was a problem with the AC few days back. The servicing was due since the last 15 days but I thought kuch din aur chal jaaega."

The researchers there were baffled. They had their experiments going on since 6-7 months. All of it gone down the drain, or rather, all of it wrapped up in paper bags and kept right there in one corner with their limbs and/or heads hanging out.
Ugh! The bile again!

After a bit of more expression of utter disbelief, they arrived to the conclusion that the tragedy had occurred over the night and there wasn’t much that could be done then. They all agreed that the best way to get off this mayhem was by giving the families of the deceased a good compensation. (Even if those families ate their dead relatives' heads off, they were indeed a family!)

The compensatory amount included trainees (count me there) transferring them to a clean cage having some fresh husk, nice food, clean bottles, fresh water, air conditioners switched to a good temperature and no drug for the next few days. Life was no less than heaven for the living ones. Had it been possible for those seniors, they would have even made us rock those rodents to sleep with the aid of a lullaby!

Anyway, the next day Shankar was put in the trial room, where he repeated his previous day statement with utmost ease. As soon as I heard him, I expected a good scene there and got pretty sure that hell is waiting for him. But surprisingly enough, noone dared to object his action, perhaps because of the fact that he was the one who took up all the responsibility of those animals over the entire weekend.

As he came out of the room, victorious, I asked him if his last name was Anderson.

He asked me the reason for it, to which I replied, "It was a gas tragedy, accompanied by a massacre and then such an easy escape for you. Trust me, you’ve got all the traits of being an Anderson!"

As it’s usual with my words, he got nothing of it. He simply stared and blinked a couple of times.

I sighed and heading towards the animal house, started wearing my gloves to give those sleepy creatures their share of compensation, Day 2.
After all, this is all they get!

The 'Saurus' Quotient

‘Saurus’ is a Greek word for Lizard, and it has been most commonly used in the names of reptile-like creatures that once thrived on Planet Earth, Dinosaurs. The common names being Megalosaurus, Spinosaurus, Tyrannosaurus and so on; notice the saurus part in all these names. However here I’m not at all interested in discussing evolution before or after the Jurassic period. (Can’t help not using the geeky part!)
What I’d want to mention here is something equally terrible, equally dreadful and as huge as these Dinosaurs.

The name of my post says it all, The ‘saurus’quotient, or simply, Thesaurus quotient!

Yes, the same li’l (?) book that contains all those similar meaning words placed together, which has no better a use than to be looked upon while playing Scrabble or solving Crosswords. It has some irritating magical powers to convert the simplest of all monosyllabic words into such polysyllabic alternatives which can scare even the bravest of the lot to death. This saurus is even worse than the Tyrannosaurus for the simple reason that it’s not extinct, yet!

To be honest I appreciate people who love words and put them into use. Kudos guys! But what I flounder comprehending is the ulterior motive which reclines in instigating the dispensable adhibition of such words as a part of a perfunctory conversation. Err…in better words, why the heck should you use such words while having a casual talk? Use them to flatter your English professors!

Infact what I dislike (and the reason behind this post) is the fact that almost all the aspiring poets these days write poems which can never be deciphered until you fall in love with a thesaurus. I had been going through few poems lately and c’mon guys, why so serious? I mean even the most famous and memorable of all poems have been as simple as reading your own thoughts. Frost, Keats, Milton or even Shakespeare, all used simple words and transformed them into pieces that struck a chord with the readers immediately; that’s where the beauty of a poem lies. Have a look at some of the famous works:

But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Or

The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.

See, who says plain casual words can’t bring about the impact? Here, as I go about these lines I can draw out the meaning and interpret it beautifully, rather than looking up for the words in thesaurus and in the end flipping the poem away!

Today, the way these budding poets are using the esteemed word list, the poems might change completely.
Take a part of the famous poem ‘The Road Not Taken’,

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

This would be rewritten by modern day poets as,

I shall be concurring this with a suspire
Somewhere aeons and aeons subsequently:
Two boulevards swerved in a wood, and I--
I acquired the one meagerly perambulated by,
And that has begotten all the distinctness.

A great display of your rich vocabulary, I’d say, but *poof* disappeared the simplicity of the poem, that it is most remembered for. ‘Unsaid words speak the best’ might be an exaggeration, but simple words touching your heart certainly do convey the best.

More than for these poets I actually feel bad for the kids, for when these thesaurus obsessed people become teachers, guides and parents they might even modify the utterly simple ‘Jack and Jill’ nursery rhyme into something on the lines of:

Jack and Jill trekked up the hummock,
To fetch a repository of water,
Jack plummeted down and wrecked his crown,
And Jill came hurtling after.

Yeah, though it might be interesting to listen to the tiny-tots singing or rather pronouncing this down!

However in the evolution of English as a language, I just hope the Jurassic period of the reign of the-saurus ends as soon as possible and that era arrives where simple, sensible, syntactically sound sentences flourish. Err…just the grammatically correct ones I meant! ;)

Welcome Me! ;)

So, I’m finally starting my own blog. Yay! :D
Yes, be surprised, be shocked.

I know starting a blog is pretty much last decad’ish, but blame my extraordinary talent at procrastination for the extreme delay. Even my previous attempts at it got buried under the dust of time, or wait, was it just the dust? Yeah, actually the latter I guess. But 'dust of time' somehow seems more apt for something as important as a blog, rather than saying plain ol’ dusty dust. Yeah, what a mess. So dust of time, it is.

However, finally my laptop has given up, declaring ‘No Free Space Available’, clearly indicating that I have to get myself a new place to whine, rant, and scribble, and later on laugh upon them all.
Now before one of you technically sound people start giving me advice on how to deal with the space issue, I better mention the other reason for being here. The most important one that is, being ‘forced-and-convinced-by-friends’.
Though I wouldn’t mind flattering myself thinking they were keen on reading what I manage to write in here, but perhaps it had more to do with keeping me busy in one way or the other! I hope they succeed and instead of keeping this off my priority list yet again, I do keep on updating this space every now and then. :)

Well well…and it’s now that I realize, it would have been great had I made a grand entry with some flashy post, but *sigh* guess it would have to wait until I get a hang of this place! ;)