LA DIVA

This Sporting Life

2011-12-29T02:44:00.000+05:30

In keeping with the spirit of the 'kitchen sink' tradition, 'This Sporting Life' is yet another film that I loved. I am generally wary of movies about sport, because the narrative tends to be very mundane and predictable. Lindsay Anderson's 'This Sporting Life' doesn't fit the mold of the average 'feel good' fable of triumph. Not with its unlikely cast and the interleaving of past and present events into the narrative.

Richard Harris (better known to kids and teenagers as the 'original Dumbledore') plays Frank, a young man with humble beginnings who becomes the star player of a rugby club in Wakefield, Yorkshire. The film opens to Frank passing out after getting bludgeoned on the rugby field. It's Christmas eve, his teeth are broken and he needs a dentist. He is told that his front teeth will have to be pulled out. As he settles into the anesthesia, his subconscious rewinds through a blurry retelling of past events; of his try-outs for the league, of his landlady and of his ambition to be the best .

Frank lives in a rented room which is a part of a larger family home. His landlady, Margaret; a young widow with two little children, is pert, reserved and is in perpetual mourning for her husband. She keeps her husband's old boots by the fireplace as a reminder of her widowhood and Frank loathes the sight of them. It is quite evident that he wants her and the gulf between them seems to widen with every advance he makes. He brings presents for the children, takes the family out for rides in his car, and still sees no hint of approval in her eyes. There is tension between Frank and Margaret; a dreadful mix of longing and denial. They swing between moments of great tenderness and empathy to those of violent resistance and bitterness. Frank turns down the advances of other women. The only woman he will have is the one who won't have him.

Richard Harris and Rachel Roberts turn out wonderful performances. Both had reputations for being intensely passionate people, on and off stage. For this film, some of that passion is repressed. It is repressed to the extent that it shows up unexpectedly after a rare moment of gentle acquiescence. Richard Harris has a bestial quality. One can see it in his eyes and in the twisted features of his face, famously described has being one 'of a thousand Irish navvies'. This quality leaps forth on occasion; the one thing that makes his performance so unpredictable and believable. Rachel Roberts personifies perfection with her performance. She is bitter, anxious, wild and vulnerable at the same time. She resists and yields, she loves and loathes, and a part of her yearns for all that Frank has to give.

The film ends with Frank yielding a deathly blow to a spider crawling up the wall. He is aptly described as 'nothing but an ape on the field'. It is a tag he must endure for as long as he is invincible.

Look Back in Anger

2011-12-25T10:44:00.003+05:30

Jimmy Porter, from 'Look Back in Anger', epitomizes the 'angry young man' of the early sixties. He sweats away at a job that helps to make ends meet. He is an anachronistic relic, languishing in a time that barely makes sense to him. He is angry, very angry and uncouth. His bitterness leaps from the pages of John Osborne's landmark play, and makes the present day idea of a 'quarter life crisis' seem like a trivial example of a 'first world problem'. In his dissent he takes no prisoners. He holds his wife,Alison, to ransom for all his grouses and bullies his good humored flatmate and business partner, Cliff.

The play was a part of the 'kitchen sink' movement of the 1960s, characterized by gritty, dark and unromantic depictions of daily life,particularly that of the working class, in English film, theatre and art. It caused quite a stir and the audience is said to have 'gasped' when they saw an ironing board on stage. A cinematic adaptation of it was released in 1959, starring Richard Burton as Jimmy Porter and Mary Ure (from the original stage production) as Alison.

I read the play before I watched the film. If I have one regret, it is that I never got to watch Peter O'toole on stage. Somehow, my perception of Jimmy Porter wasn't very different from O'toole's interpretation of Henry II in 'Beckett' (yes, I'm going through an 'O'toole appreciation phase' now). It is said that John Osborne himself considered O'toole's performance as Jimmy Porter, at the Old Vic, to be the best interpretation he ever saw. I was nevertheless thrilled to know that Burton had played Porter in the film adaptation and looked forward, with relish, to hearing the same sarcasm and dissent laced with Burton's divine baritone.

For starters, Burton didn't look the part. A 33 year old with a life of hard drinking and smoking is likely to have some difficulty passing off as a young man in his twenties. I was willing to brush aside the inaccuracy of Porter's appearance. After all angst knows no age, and a man as angry as Porter might as well look a decade older. Burton's performance seemed restrained. The baritone was intact, but there was something resigned and very complacent about his rage. It was as though he had been angry for ten years and had gotten fed up of his own bickering. At times it looked as though he struggled to deliver the lines that otherwise spring from the pages of the book and make you grit your teeth.

On the other hand, I loved Mary Ure as Alison. There was something very beautiful and disquieting about her mild mannered vulnerability. She was convincing as the exhausted young wife, who gave up life as she knew it to live with a man who put her on trial for her upper class upbringing and for every letter she wrote to her mother. A particularly poignant moment in the film is when Alison visits the doctor only to learn that she is pregnant. She asks him if it's 'too late to do anything' and the doctor says, 'Don't ever say that'. She is shifty and uncomfortable around Jimmy, her squirrel like eyes waver as she avoids eye contact with him. I also liked Gary Raymond as Cliff, but thought that he was too handsome for the part as described in the play.

Another grouse I had with the movie was the introduction of characters that weren't in the play. Here, the character in question is an Indian vendor called Kapoor who faces discrimination at the hands of the inspector. The other vendors, with the exception of Jimmy and Cliff, sabotage his business and force him to quit and move to another place. 'I'm an untouchable in my own country', he says when Jimmy asks him why he came to England. I found this addition to the script totally unnecessary and irrelevant to what goes on in the Porters' living room. Perhaps it was an attempt to rationalize Jimmy's dissent and to provide a tangible reason for his otherwise inexplicable rage. Besides, the original Jimmy Porter was meant to be an atrocious trumpet player, something to add to the consternation of the other characters and the reader. In the film, he plays like the next Louis Armstrong in the making.

At the end of the day, the film manages to stay within the basic framework of the play. It still is, in my opinion, a classic case of the play being better than the movie. There have been other remakes of 'Look Back in Anger' and I'm pretty sure that I won't be watching any of them. I'll make an exception if someone goes back in time, and brings back footage of the Old Vic production starring O'toole.

The Ruling Class

2011-12-25T04:29:00.003+05:30

When I think of 'The Ruling Class', the first word that comes to my mind is 'bizarre'. Critics and movie goers alike tend to remain divided over whether to call this film a work of genius or just plain monstrous insanity. The film didn't necessarily conform to the notions of cinematic brilliance at the time of its release. On one hand it was a commercial failure and on the other hand it garnered Peter O'toole his fourth Oscar nomination for 'Best Actor'. These days, 'The Ruling Class' is regarded as a cult hit; one of those films that was way ahead of its time and now deserves the distinction of belonging to 'The Criterion Collection'. Rumor has it that a severely edited version was released in the United States in the seventies. The 'Criterion' edition is supposed to contain all the original and uncut footage and is freely available on 'Hulu'.

'The Ruling Class' chronicles the trials and tribulations of the aristocratic Gurney family as it struggles to resume a 'normal upper class English existence' following the embarrassing death of the 13th Earl of Gurney. The dead Earl, in his will, has appointed his son, Jack (Peter O'toole), to be his successor. Fairly routine, one might assume, except that Jack is paranoid schizophrenic and believes himself to be the second coming of Jesus Christ and refers to himself as 'The God of Love'. As 'The God of Love', Jack preaches about 'truth and universal love'; he cavorts around, breaks into song and dance, spends most of his time propped up on a giant cross that he calls 'the Watusi walking stick', declares that pomp and riches are the root of all evil and even attempts to perform a miracle or two. The family, his uncle in particular, aren't too thrilled about a takeover by a potential Bolshevik. In order to save themselves any societal embarrassment, they decide that if Jack can be made to produce a male heir and can be declared 'insane' by a 'master of lunacy', then he can be locked away in a facility and lose all say in matters of the family estate. A hasty, and rather dubious, wedding is arranged between Jack and a gold digging young woman. As a last resort, Jack's psychiatrist performs some unconventional experiments on him in order to find a 'cure'. Following a particularly harrowing encounter with another paranoid schizophrenic, Jack is 'cured'. Except that he now thinks he is 'Jack the Ripper'.

The film takes a rather dramatic turn at this point, as does Peter O'toole's performance. It is as though there are two actors playing distinct characters in two completely different films. The new, 'improved' and misogynistic Jack is the model of perfection. He laments the decline of social mores and the abolition of capital punishment. He appeals for a return to the glorious days of the aristocratic reign of terror. The latter part of the film is as disturbing as the first half is amusing.

One thing that is quite evident, is that Peter Medak, the director, gave the actors complete artistic freedom to interpret their roles as they pleased. The acting tends to be rather theatrical. Proponents of the 'avant garde' and 'film noir' movements are likely to find this movie annoying and overly histrionic. It is said that the actors drank themselves to oblivion while filming, and it's amazing that they got any work done at all. One can appreciate and marvel at the sheer versatility of Peter O'toole's talent. From his impeccable comic timing to his decidedly dreadful mania,with all that singing and dancing in the bargain. Peter Barnes' script swings from being witty to being ridiculous. It takes a very blatant dig at the English ruling class and is not very subtle in depicting 'The House of Lords' as a room full of cadaverous old fogies who yearn for lost power. The supporting cast is simply marvelous. My personal favorites are Alistair Sim, who plays the blundering bishop, and Arthur Lowe, who plays the brazen and secretly anarchic butler.

Irrespective of whether one likes or loathes 'The Ruling Class', how such a film passed through the censors and the moral police is inconceivable. As someone once pointed out, present day actors would think twice before accepting a role that Peter O'toole played for free. I leave you with two clips from the film. The first one is of Peter O'toole playing 'The God of Love' and the second one is of him playing 'Jack the Ripper'.

An Open Ended Question

2011-03-07T01:37:00.001+05:30

The entry you're about to read is the outcome of weeks of sleep deprivation. To overcome my stupor, I have been listening to all kinds of music, ranging from Baroque to Hindustani classical. I am struck by the stark differences that exist in the styles of art and music that have emerged from two different parts of the world. This is a little doodle I came up with, as I was reading a paper on natural language processing.

On Differences in Subjective Expression across Cultures

In the days of cultural isolation, before people of diverse cultures became aware of the existence of alternatives and, before the stage where they got defensive about their own culture; what prompted people of one region to develop certain styles in art, architecture and music? In the cases of the sciences and mathematics, conclusions were based on the outcomes of experiments and thought. In the past, there wasn't too much disparity in scientific thought across disconnected regions and, ironically, there weren't stark differences in the way people approached dogmatism and narrow mindedness (even though these issues can be classified as subjective thought). Why did cultures differ in artistic expression, religious and spiritual belief or for that matter, anything that was subjective?

In our world today, there is a constant exchange of ideas, both subjective and objective. We are no longer isolated in the medieval sense. This intermingling is slowly moving us towards a culture of homogenized subjectivity. The positive side of such homogeneity is that there is less room for dogmatism and intolerance. On the other hand, will homogeneity be the death of cultural variety? Will we, as individuals, soon enter a cultural vacuum and be devoid of an identity?

Or am I just paranoid?

Disgrace

2010-12-18T22:34:00.001+05:30

John Coetzee is notoriously reticent.The testimony of this lies in the nature of his Nobel lecture,a reading from a chapter of one of his novels instead of a sweeping personal statement.It is said that he rarely smiles and almost never appears in public.This reticence is evident in his work, in the quiet shame of his protagonist David Lurie and in the woe begotten landscape of the novel 'Disgrace'.

'Disgrace' takes place in post-apartheid South Africa. The roles of slave and master have been reversed and the land groans from the weight of the unspoken racism that still persists.David Lurie,a rather ineffective professor of romantic literature, is twice divorced and has no future hopes of a stable relationship with a woman. He is content with a series of one night stands with an 'exotic' escort named Soraya.After Soraya disappears,he takes a keen interest in young student named Melanie. He invites her over to his apartment for dinner.One thing leads to another and, after what seems like a consensual affair, he finds himself mired in controversy. He is accused of sexual harassment and is given the option to either apologize in public or resign.He chooses to resign.

He moves in with his daughter Lucy,a farmer in a remote place.He tries to accustom himself to a pastoral existence; helping his daughter with the farm,volunteering at an animal welfare center and working on an opera about Byron.Lucy appears awkward,unfeminine and quite unlike David Lurie's women.He ponders over the minuteness of her world,the simplicity of her existence and its lack of urgency.This existence is interrupted by an attack by a group of miscreants.Lurie suffers minor burns while Lucy is subject to despicable atrocities that are only implied and never mentioned.The incident leaves David scarred; he is confounded by Lucy's tight lipped denial,the silent acquiescence of all that is meted out to her and a complete surrender to the local anarchy that is now her fate.

David realizes,slowly, that his relationship with his daughter is strained beyond redemption.He throws himself at his work at the animal welfare center;developing an unlikely kinship with Bev Shaw,a woman who almost single handedly runs the center.David doesn't understand Bev Shaw and her way with animals. She has taken it upon herself to put unwanted animals to sleep, 'because someone has to do it'. David offers to take corpses of dead dogs to the incinerator. This activity becomes almost routine, like hard labor. This daily routine, Lucy's condition, and the endless drudgery of a standstill existence form the outline of his penance,his disgrace.

Coetzee writes with grit and cynicism.The cloud of impending doom looms over our heads from the start. Coetzee's Lurie stands out in his attempt to question the anarchy of this troubled land.His trials compel him to face his deeds and the burden of his incapacity.The only thing fleeting in the midst of all this perennial doom is the existence of the people in its vicinity.

Reading Pamuk

2010-11-21T12:08:00.001+05:30

I bought 'Snow' by Orhan Pamuk as a part of an exercise to read more contemporary fiction and started reading it as an antidote to 'The Diaries of Franz Kafka'.I read the first few lines of 'Snow' as I was travelling in a bus where the driver felt that lowering the temperature of the air conditioner would bring passengers more comfort. The freezing interior of the bus coupled with Pamuk's prose,to put it crassly, set the mood for the melancholic 'Snow'. When I picked up books by Lessing and Pamuk at a book exhibition, it was with a great deal of skepticism. I vowed, that after reading them, I would sell them at a second hand bookstore in exchange for classic 19th century literature (little wonder that my friends think my taste in books is 'archaic').

There are usually two very predictable reactions to Pamuk's work. I personally know people who've never been able to get past the tedium of the first few chapters of his books, and then there are folks like yours truly who can't stop reading his work. There are no in-betweens or gray areas to this rule.To me, reading Pamuk's work is like unraveling an impressionist painting. Superficially, it appears like something you may have seen before (Pamuk's influences include Kafka, Dostoyevsky, Thomas Mann and several other 19th century authors), until you decide to undo the novel layer by layer. Pamuk tells stories through the landscape of his hometown,Istanbul (with the exception of 'Snow' which takes place in Kars). He engulfs his characters in the spirit of the city, its 'Huzun' or melancholy, and its many contradictions.

Pamuk's characters grapple to come to terms with themselves, their surroundings and their place in time. One can liken each person in his books to a map; with textures, contours and fissures, like hidden wounds, running across the length and breadth of his being (to date all of Pamuk's protagonists have been male). He creates a gossamer web that underlies all his novels, delicately mixing fact with fiction till the reader loses all sense of what is real and what isn't.

Pamuk writes and thinks in Turkish. Readers in the non-Turkish-speaking world are left to the mercy of translation. Pamuk, by his own admission, says that a lot is lost and gained in translation. He works meticulously with his English translators to ensure that the spirit and voice of his books are replicated in a foreign tongue. We English readers are lucky to have Maureen Freely whose lucidity gives readers the impression that they aren't missing too much.

I leave you with a video of Maureen Freely discussing what it is like to work with Pamuk and the challenges of translating from Turkish to English.

A Potential Gold Mine

2010-10-17T16:58:00.000+05:30

I swore I would never enter 'Reliance Time Out' after an experience with an overzealous member of the 'literary police'. Thought policing apart, I abhorred the layout of the store which characterizes what may potentially be a librarian's worst nightmare.It is as though the retailer inherited a junk yard full of books,DVDs,watches,perfumes and miscellaneous paraphernalia and decided to host the world's largest garage sale.

Nevertheless, I decided to go in since I was in the neighbourhood and far from being in good humour. The organization of the store didn't help to alleviate my dejection, but the thought of leaving the store with a bundle of books did. One walks in and sees best sellers and potential revenue generators arranged in a pyramid. I was dumbfounded to see that the next two sections had nothing to do with books whatsoever. The third section was titled 'We Recommend', and it had the latest in contemporary fiction. I got the sense of a colonial hangover when I found one section called 'Indian Fiction' and another labelled 'Foreign Fiction'.

I found 'The Castle' by Kafka in the 'Foreign Fiction' section and picked it up. Since I have recently discovered that I derive tremendous satisfaction from the work of Orhan Pamuk, I started to rummage,without much success, through all the shelves to find his work.I don't consider a stroll through a book store complete without a visit to the 'Classics' and 'Literature' sections.I was overjoyed to find 'Orlando' by Virginia Woolf and quite surprised to find 'On Argentina' by Jorge Luis Borges. At this point I wanted to scream,'They have Borges!', as I started to pull out books from random shelves in search of Borges' works of fiction. When I realized that the uplifting feeling was starting to wane, I requested one of the shop assistants to help me find other books by Borges. He ambled to a computer, started internet explorer, refreshed the desktop a couple of times, logged into Amazon, searched for Borges and decided that Borges' work is classified as 'Literature'.

What ensued was plain hilarity.He searched in every shelf for a book by Borges. If you ever go to Reliance Time Out, beware. The classification of books is neither intuitive nor conventional. You may find Kafka in the 'foreign fiction' section,Margaret Atwood in the 'classics' section and perhaps a self help book lurking in the 'literature' section. I was almost sure that I would find 'My Name is Red' in the 'Indian fiction' section next to 'The Inheritance of Loss' (google Orhan Pamuk and Kiran Desai to see what I mean).

Somehow, by some twist of fate, I found 'Istanbul' and 'Other Colors' by Pamuk, placed on the bottommost shelf and books by the 2009 Nobel Laureate on the topmost shelf. I gathered that books by various Nobel winners are arranged in descending chronology. Paradoxically, there was no sign of Mario Vargas Llosa, the 2010 laureate.

I decided to buy two books by Pamuk, one by Kafka and one by Woolf. At first I politely declined the membership card. It's quite evident that,despite my little conquest, I had no intention of returning.It soon turned out that I would have to pay a pittance to become a member;the proximity of the store to the bibliophile's house was another nagging factor.

So there I was, the 'potential gold mine'. The bookworm who came empty handed,nearly launched a defamation campaign, and instead left with four books and a membership card.

A Day at the Taluk Office

2010-10-02T22:17:00.001+05:30

This is a dramatized account of my mother's recent tryst at the local taluk office. She was required to get a notarized document and was directed to this particular office. She was accompanied by a young man who works as an assistant to one of the many agents who help people with such legalities.

The scene: The lady and the assistant trudged down a narrow,woe begotten lane in a woe begotten location in North Bangalore.Somewhere, among the multitude of thatched huts, was the office. They looked carefully into each of those huts before they recognized one of them as the office.There was a lone man sitting at a table with a heap of papers to his left. There was a small cup of tea to his right. He seemed to be in a foul mood, quite typical of government officials who are forced to work,and the dingy room did nothing to alleviate his condition.

Before they enter:

The assistant: Madam, you will have to give him 'something' if you want things to get done quickly.

The lady nods and they enter.

Inside the office:

The lady: I need you to prepare a family tree. Here is a draft version of it (holding out a piece of paper).As you can see; this is my husband's name, this is my name, this is my daughter's and there are no others.Here's the necessary proof.(She goes on to show various government documents specifying the details of her family).

The official:Alright, but these names are written in English. I will prepare a document in Kannada.

The lady:I have to send copies of this to people in Mumbai and Hyderabad! How are they supposed to understand Kannada? (The assistant also pleaded in order to soothe the official).

The official (looking visibly offended): I belong to this state. You cannot force me to write in any other language. I will write it in Kannada.

The lady and the assistant decide not to push things further. They accept whatever he has written. The assistant,with some subtlety, signals to the lady. She duly offers four hundred rupees to the official as she has been instructed earlier.

The lady and the assistant make their way out of the miserable room and visit a notary. The notary translated and notarized the document.

The translated document doesn't state who is the husband and who's the wife. It doesn't specify if the child is a son or a daughter(this is actually a big deal in Indian family law).It only depicts a hierarchy of names. The script below the diagram reads, "If no female children/legal heirs are specified, then I take sole responsibility in case of any litigation".

The lady sighs; the fact that the child is female had been lost in several layers of translation.

An Audience with the Tigress

2010-09-18T17:49:00.005+05:30

I heard this woman play the sitar two weeks ago.Her nimble hands slid gracefully across the frets as she played with both soul and dexterity.It is a rarity among musicians these days,particularly among Indian classical musicians.Her style is typical of those who have trained under the tutelage of Pandit Ravi Shankar. Yes, she is one of his pupils, just not the one you're thinking about.

Jaya Biswas,a stalwart in her own right, epitomizes the artist who creates for the sake of art alone. She instructed the bewildered Master of Ceremonies not to make any introductory remarks about her save the name of her guru. She then apologized, in advance, for any mistakes that she might make during the course of the concert. I expected her to be some kind of Diva, but she only had one complaint; that the heat generated by the harsh lights was causing the strings of the sitar to expand, thus setting them out of tune. She nevertheless re-tuned the instrument painstakingly and without fussing over the laxity of the light attendants.

Great musicians let their music speak. Western classical composers seek solace in knowing that their music is preserved for posterity. Sheet music survives the ravages of time and the limitation of human memory and serves as the only living proof of the composer's genius. Indian classical music, on the other hand, relies entirely on improvisation. Indian classical musicians are limited by the whims of a particular 'raga' (a limited sets of notes, their sharps and flats) . They must find their freedom in such confinement. Before the recording era, there was no way to preserve such impromptu compositions. Things like technique,interpretation, and a select set of compositions were passed down from teacher to pupil. An artist's reputation was left to word of mouth. The current situation of such musicians is ironic. One one hand, recordings of their work stand as stronger validation than mere word of mouth.On the other hand, it is nearly impossible for a musician to replicate that genius each time, without sounding repetitive.

It is for this reason that the audience was offered an apology that turned out to be rather pointless. While some artists wane with age others surge to new heights. The latter is the case with Jaya Biswas. At the ripe age of 75, her interpretation of the raga was original without any disrespect to her guru (all Indian classical musicians must allow their style to betray some proof of identity of their guru). Between performances she joked about how she is often referred to as 'the tigress', and compared to frightening women politicians. It takes a 'tigress' to admit that an experimental concert is likely to be flawed, and then to give a performance that speaks quietly of perfection.

I often wonder how, being a woman, she was 'permitted' to become a musician. Till the advent of playback singing and the national obsession with celebrity, Indian women belonging to families that were either 'respectable' or of 'sufficient means' were barred from becoming performing artists. Women in music either needed the protection of a doting father, the surname of a 'broad minded' husband or the patronage of a wealthy connoisseur to survive. It takes immense courage to create something with single minded devotion; allowing the music of the present to cast a shadow over unanswered questions of the past. I leave you with a piece of music here. It is a duet and the sitar is played by the 'tigress'.

The Music Room

2010-09-10T19:48:00.003+05:30

I am generally wary of the 'prowess' of contemporary writers, more so if they're Indians writing in English.There is something very unnatural about the writing style of most contemporary Indian writers who use English as a medium of expression.It's not that their writing comes across as foreign,it just appears as though they make a tremendous effort to sound literate.It is with this skepticism that I sat through a book reading by Namita Devidayal, a Princeton educated journalist turned writer, as she read out excerpts from her first book and memoir,'The Music Room'.

'The Music Room' is an account of the author's experiences during the course of her training in Indian classical music.It also contains the histories of Dhondutai(the author's teacher),Kesarbai(Dhondutai's teacher) and Alladiya Khan(Kesarbai's teacher).It begins with a reluctant child being brought to her teacher, Dhondutai,to learn music. It then covers the dichotomy of the author's 'double life'.On one hand she studied in a westernized school for the elite, and on the other hand she took lessons from a traditional Indian guru. The book talks about the author's personal strife to reconcile the two worlds, and the personal strife of her guru to carry her musical tradition forward.

The narrative tends to sound like what Indian writing in English has sounded like ever since Arundhuti Roy won the Man Booker Prize. What redeems this book is that it doubles up as an anthology of anecdotes that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. The occasional clash of cultures that are diametrically opposite was something that most readers will find fascinating.The musicians mentioned in the book hail from a variety of backgrounds and, as the author said, 'would probably not eat food in each other's houses'. Yet they somehow touch each other's lives and, quite inevitably, the author's. The inexplicable relationship shared between a music teacher and her student can only be understood by one who is musically inclined. This book gives us rare insights into a world that is slowly withering away due to its inability to carve a niche for itself in the present.

Reading 'The Music Room' was a pleasant experience on the whole. It left me with a deeper understanding of a tradition that I've struggled to come to terms with(a different story all together).

Decoding Kafka

2010-08-15T11:41:00.006+05:30

I have said enough and more about the consequences of reading Kafka's work. I have admitted,quite openly,that his diaries peak the limits of repressed gloom. With nothing better to do, I decided to read Max Brod's epilogue to the diaries. Max Brod's friendship with Kafka is probably the most enduring of its type in literary circles. Kafka made Brod the executor of his work and requested that his diaries be burnt after his death. Brod, however, skimmed through Kafka's diaries and published an edited version of them, so we may get an insight into the mind that gave us 'The Metamorphosis'.

Brod's task was nothing short of a mammoth effort.Kafka's accounts,often incoherent,are an editor's nightmare.Brod states that he left out the bits that were either too confusing or too personal.I was particularly struck by what Brod says about the dismal tone of Kafka's memoirs.He says that people use diaries as a means for catharsis. They are more likely to record unpleasant experiences and things of a darker nature that have been plaguing them;all with the idea of purging what is undesirable. Kafka was nothing like the man we see in the diaries. On the contrary, he was jovial and not quite the misanthrope they make him out to be.

There was a time when I was amused that Brod despised the term 'Kafkaesque'; not anymore. It is regrettable that Kafka,owing to posthumous fame,has been obscured into the uncomfortable niche of 'experimental existentialists who know nothing but grief'.

On Reading Kafka's Diaries

2010-07-31T20:23:00.003+05:30

I grate my hands
Along the pages of your memoir.
I see your vacant eyes
Scorching mine,so that
You could burn them
Before I stared to read.
I see samples of your scrawling hand;
The crests and troughs
Of your doodles form familiar shapes
As my mind acclimatizes itself.
I fathom nothing,
I cannot tell if you're right or wrong.
I only know
That you hold me
To an eternal ransom;
One that is interminably long.

Excuses

2010-07-22T21:34:00.004+05:30

I realize I haven't been regular when it comes to updating this blog.I've been quite busy doing a lot of other things apart from writing.Here's a list of excuses to explain the rather blatant neglect of this blog.

1.New books:I started reading 'The Diaries of Franz Kafka' and stopped abruptly.My tryst with Kafka's diaries is a lot like my tryst with 'Ulysses'.I find fresh new reasons to put off reading these books.I'm planning yet another intrepid reading of 'Ulysses' in the near future.While I firmly believe that 'Ulysses' can be conquered with the help of a few annotated guides and a PHD thesis or two;I think that Kafka's diaries are not for faint hearted individuals with a shaky mental disposition.I finished reading 'Chronicle of a Death Foretold' by Marquez.I felt as though I was in my element when I read Marquez.There is something very comforting and familial about Marquez.No matter how loathsome his stories get,I still want to read them.

2.A shaky mental disposition:I wasn't completely honest when I was talking about new books in my life.Literature apart;another new book in my life is 'The Art of Computer Programming' by Donald Knuth.As a result,I often see Greek symbols and MIX code in my dreams.I visited the IISc bookshop the other day, in search of a book on Lisp(it's a long story).An attendant managed to find me a book on Lisp and looked surprised when I thanked him profusely.In addition to Greek and MIX,I have also started dreaming of endless pairs of matched parenthesis containing code in prefix notation.

3.Lisp:I just love lisp so much.I want to spend as much time as possible with the common lisp console.I've become so obsessed with it that I've installed a CLISP console on every operating system that I run.

4.Another blog:I started a blog at wordpress with the idea of experimenting with CSS and a new blogging platform.What was intended to be a 'dummy' blog, ended up being an account of life as seen from the eyes of six mongrels in Bangalore.Updating the new blog has been a lot of fun.It reminds me of the hilarity of living in a house with six mutts.You can check out The Mutt Blog.

5.My ACM membership:I have to admit that holding the ACM membership card made me feel like a Diva with a new credit card.I spend more time at the ACM Digital library than I do at project Gutenberg.Hence,I am more likely to lecture you on the uses of augmented reality in the animal birth control program than on the utter hopelessness of empathizing with Franz Kafka.

At Checkpoint Charlie

2010-07-10T13:17:00.005+05:30

In the spirit of sharing my father's anecdotes(it's sad he didn't ever write a blog),here's one of his favorite stories about his visit to Germany.My parents lived in Germany for around two years in the early eighties.Germany was divided into West and East Germany by the formidable wall.My father decided to pay a visit to East Germany,possibly because of the notoriety of the communist regime.

A bus full of tourists,my father included,were driven to 'Checkpoint Charlie'.They were made to stand in a line after alighting from the bus.A stern faced communist guard went from one person to the next,scrutinizing passports and facial expressions.Since a majority of tourists were American, the guard had a perpetual scowl on his face.He then came to my dad,the sole Indian tourist,and his expression changed.'This is our friend!',he said,his rigid face breaking into a smile.My father was escorted out of the line and given a privileged seat in the tour bus.This meant that he was seated next to an overzealous,matron-like guide who directed all her commentary at my father and ignored everyone else.

My father admitted that the pro-Soviet propaganda was amusing and quite predictable.The wall came down a couple of years later and the East and West merged into a single country.Nevertheless, the experience was a priceless consequence of belonging to a left-leaning nation that called itself 'non-aligned'.

Nostalgia

2010-07-07T19:47:00.002+05:30

It's been a year since I lost my father.I'm now at a place where I'm comfortable sharing past incidents that are now reduced to fond memories.

My father had a tendency to overuse tubes of toothpaste till there was barely any left.My mother and I would implore him,quite irritably,to discard the old tube and use a new one.The justification he gave was quite absurd.

My father,an engineer to the core,loved watching movies with a lot of gadgetry and espionage in the back drop of either the cold war or World War II.Gregory Peck played an American Spy in one such flick.In a particular scene, he is trying his best to squeeze out toothpaste from a near-empty tube.He is being watched and targeted by a sharpshooter in the opposite building.The sniper has zeroed in on his target and pulls the trigger.Our hero,in the meantime,lunges forward in another attempt to squeeze out toothpaste.The bullet grazes his hair and he escapes.Hence my dad's passion for spy movies and war aircraft.The first thing he said when we watched 'Dr. Strangelove' was, 'that's a B-52 bomber!'.

Here's to his resilience and originality.I only hope he's in a better place.

Of Football,Traffic Offenders and Other Things

2010-07-04T10:09:00.003+05:30

I haven't written anything for a while,so I decided to get over my block by making lists of random things.

1.The Gallic shrug might have its origins in France,but footballers who have been yellow carded seem to employ it with the greatest aplomb.It goes a long way in placating furious referees who are on the verge of changing the card colour to red.

2.Divers in football need to learn Ballet and Kathakali.While Ballet lessons will make the 'fall' appear more graceful and sublime,a lesson in Kathakali will help accentuate the expression of 'pain'.

3.When Bangaloreans are caught for over speeding,their faces take on the most sheepish expressions.The sheepish quality of the expression is directly proportional to the apparent indolence of the cop.

4.People,in Bangalore,booked for driving under influence look so ashamed.Quite unlike their brazen,western counterparts in 'World's Dumbest Criminals'.

5.The number of goals scored by a footballer in an international tournament is inversely proportional to the product of the hype,endorsements and number of goals scored for one's club.

6.Irrespective of the quality of the teams,people in India will always support Brazil and Argentina.Both teams may have been booted out in the 2010 quarter finals,but it won't dampen the fervour of their Indian fans.

7.People love parking in front of 'No Parking' signs.There is a thrill in dashing away before the towing van arrives.

8.I have never seen a more stoic loser than Fabio Cannavaro. It takes a lot to walk back to the dressing room with one's head held high;especially when one knows that one's career is almost over.

9.Zebra crossings in Bangalore are only for the benefit of motorists,not pedestrians.

Of Traffic and Bad Metaphors

2010-06-20T11:11:00.005+05:30

I want to make this a post about the existentialism of driving and the associated state of being. I want to write 'lyrical prose' about the feeling of flying,of being a part of the ethereal and of the endless dilemma of not knowing how or when to stop.The only thing stopping me is the unfortunate truth;I live and drive in Bangalore.I write this as I listen to Carla Bruni and think of a million mundane metaphors.

I remember so vividly;the crawl of my ten year old car and the drone of my diesel engine. The cars aligned across seven lanes on a three lane road.I think of all the expletives I know,in five different languages,over and over, in my head.I have them practised to perfection. I intend to use them when wayward drivers cross lanes.I know I will shriek and wreak havoc till I have the road to myself.Yes I will.In my head I will.

The traffic crawls,like a moulting arthropod mentioned in a distasteful metaphor, and this is where I know that my articulation has taken a beating.I can't swear anymore.I've forgotten all the curses that I had recollected during the hours I spent at the signals.The light turns green and there is a surge of movement.From an astral plane,the cars look like bacteria in a Petri dish.In the larger scheme of things,it all looks so minuscule.As humans,however,we are bound by the Kafkaesque sense of 'refutation' and our own self-approved significance.

I end by saying this much.Girl who spend entire weekend driving in Bangalore write blog with bad metaphors.

A Vacation in Divaland: Part II

2010-06-05T17:27:00.002+05:30

The prequel to this post was inspired by 'Three Men in a Boat:To Say Nothing of the Dog'. This one is inspired by 'My Family and Other Animals';written by the venerable naturalist,the late Gerald Durrell.

Durrell purists are likely to be let down by this entry because of certain constraints in Divaland.I think it has been established by now that Divaland is a culmination of all the places that the Diva has visited in her lifetime.Given that this includes five cities,one small town and one hill station,all located in India;the scope of Divaland is somewhat limited.Nevertheless,one is allowed to let one's imagination run wild,especially in a place of such biodiversity as India.

The island:I propose to find a tiny island lurking somewhere in the Arabian Sea.I personally dislike the Bay of Bengal for its unpredictable spurts of turbulence egged on by several notorious cyclones.The Arabian Sea tends to be more placid.

The family:My family comprises two humans and six dogs at the moment.Of the six dogs,five enjoy the benefits of their 'stray' status;it allows them to doze all day in our garden and wreak havoc on the streets at night.All of them are unanimously terrified of travel.My mother and I are the two humans in question.My mother loves to travel and has this wayward sense of humour that took me more than two decades to understand.

The Journey:Two humans(both women) with what looks like a travelling circus;except that the animals aren't as well trained.I believe that dogs ought to behave like dogs and humans like humans,although the former and latter sometimes like to get into each other's shoes.So,here we are on a cruise ship.My mother being a stickler for cleanliness,has inspected every inch of our cabin to make sure that our quarters are 'habitable'.Our dog Toffee shares our cabin.The other dogs are in a separate place because Toffee has unresolved issues regarding the sharing of resources,like owners and food,with less fortunate mortals.Every time the ship lurches forward,the dogs howl in unison and Toffee barks,her voice taking on a series of variations.The lot finally arrive and meet a certain benefactor who has been kind enough to help us find an animal-friendly place to stay.

Biodiversity:Given that tiny islands are purportedly rich in flora and fauna,studies in biodiversity shouldn't be impossible.The only impediment I foresee, is that the dogs aren't exactly civil to non-canine and non-human life forms(they aren't particularly civil to fellow canines either).Imagine this;I'm nearly prostrate on the ground,eagerly watching an earthworm,and then all of a sudden, a huge paw quashes the poor creature into a shapeless,gel-like mass.Gerald Durrell was blessed because Roger was mostly co-operative during their many expeditions.Still,where there is a will there is a way.The Diva will gain the upper hand over her mother's aversion to reptiles and the dogs' tendency to chew anything lying within hunting distance.

Zealous Durrel purists can extrapolate the rest.Those who haven't read Durrell,animal lovers and otherwise,read his work now!

Going Home

2010-05-19T21:00:00.004+05:30

The city ceases to smoke.The evening neon hovers like distended film across the sky.The streets are strained;bearing the weight of impertinent woe.Motorists stare into the blockade that divides here and now from there and then.Their impatience wears thin; horns blare and pedestrians stare.All is still,reminiscent of the result of a useless cosmic dance that culminated in creation.

The bus hobbles over potholes,passing claustrophobic construction sites.At a red light there are haggling vendors,foul mouthed eunuchs and beseeching beggars.They hover incessantly at the driver's arm.Stoicism is his element.He shrugs.He is pert and embarrassed.He speeds away,relieved,as the light turns green.

How they race,these motorists,so they may reach a second earlier than the other.They snarl insults at each other.Still, they are stranded at the same red light.They are bound together by this kinship of futility.All of this monotony is marked with the grit,the sheer desire to return to where one belongs.

As I alight and make my way back home,the neon has gone.I now see the familiar vapor of the street lamp and the dance of a dozen thronging flies.All is intact.All is familiar.The dance is in my imagination alone.

P.S. - Written to the music of Pink Floyd(Great Gig in the Sky).

Reading Doris Lessing:Part III

2010-05-04T20:40:00.003+05:30

In part I what I wrote was based almost entirely on first impressions.In part II I wrote mostly about recurring themes in the book.Now that I've finished,I intend to approach part III with a certain degree of candour.It may seem trite for someone who claims to be a bibliophile to lap up what the very next Nobel laureate has to offer;in my defense(and I only say 'defense' for want of a better word),I read 'The Golden Notebook' out of curiosity.

There is something Freudian about the book.Towards the end,I started to imagine Doris Lessing herself;a woman in her thirties,writhing in some inexplicable despair,writing in her diaries to gain a fake sense of who she really is.One of the tags associated with this book is 'feminist'.As a woman,I found it both empowering and derogatory.Perhaps some schools of feminism like to perceive women as invincible creatures who scorn domestic bliss and prefer what women loosely define as 'independence'.Lessing explores the meaning of terms like 'freedom' and 'liberation' only to remain inconclusive.On the other hand Lessing must be lauded for her depiction of women as human beings with blemishes and insecurities.

Very little is said about her depiction of men.It is quite hard,impossible actually, to find a man in Lessing's book who fits the conventional bill of 'a good man'.These men are either over grown babies with a need for mothering or adult and frigid.They are mostly married men with mistresses and a violent streak.Occasionally,one gets the impression that the real victims are women in the way that they hunger for a man to make them 'whole'.

The book is otherwise tedious.The blurring of the real and the surreal,fiction and fact and the vigorous rants organized categorically have something Kafkaesque about them(read Kafka's diaries before you kill me for saying this).The smattering of politics hampers one's sense of continuity.This may have been intentional to deprive the reader of a sense of time(Lessing says that people go insane when they lose a sense of time).

P.S. I am tired and infinitely more pleased with myself for some absurd reason.

Stereotypes in Classic Bengali Film

2010-05-01T16:33:00.004+05:30

There is something about old Bengali films that make them archaic and endearing at the same time.Particularly the ones made in black and white(I just don't watch Bengali film that is made in colour).When non-Bengalis consider Bengal they typically conjure up names like Satyajit Ray and Mrinal Sen whose work is anything but stereotypical.The characters that I am going to write about are the ones seen in the matinee lineup of Bengali television channels and the ones that were 'commercial' and not 'arty'.I urge my readers to note the subtle differences between Bollywood stereotypes and their Tollywood counterparts.

The poor but proud genius:In several movies,the hero is a poor young man supporting a widowed mother and,optionally, an unmarried sister(I mention optionally because in a Bollywood film the unmarried sister is not an option).He attends college and works odd jobs.He always scores the highest marks and 'scholarship' is his middle name.He never accepts money or favours even in times of dire need(hence the pride).

The intellectual daughter of the haughty tycoon:Unlike her Bollywood counterpart,the wealthy Bengali heroine is never a spoilt brat.She is well read,attends college and is ranked second in class(The first ranker is the 'poor,proud hero' remember? Stereotypes of the time remind us that film makers did this out of consideration for the fragile male ego.).She disagrees with her father's radical capitalist views and is openly left-liberal.She secretly gives the servants money in time of need and eventually falls in love with the first ranker.

The Oxford/Cambridge educated hero:This stereotype is very similar to the first with the exception that he has money.He has a degree from either Oxford or Cambridge(Brit degrees were more popular than American degrees back then).He spends his time playing billiards in various nightclubs,helps his father run the family business,takes beautiful and bratty girls for drives along Park Street and Chowringhee and doesn't fall in love with any of them.Unlike his Bollywood counterpart,he doesn't break into a desperate and personalized rendition of the twist.Oh I forgot to mention,he speaks impeccable English with an anglicized Bengali accent!

The poor under-educated heroine:She lives with her widowed mother/chronically ill widowed father in a shack.She has had to leave school at a very young age due to financial constraints.She is something of a maid in waiting for the rich heroine.She comes face to face with the Oxford educated hero and it's love at first sight.She is not an intellectual but her rich 'mistress' may have been kind enough to teach her how to read and write letters.

The capitalist tycoon:The pipe smoking,newspaper reading,Scotch drinking millionaire;the father of either the philanthropic heroine or the Brit-accented hero.He his full of disdain for his wards' penchant towards socialism.He intends to bulldoze his views upon them through various acts of stealth, which may range from disowning his children to forcing them to marry the bratty kids of his friends.

The forever weeping mom:All aging mothers are made to weep.Irrespective of caste,creed or social status.It is imperative that they love their children possessively and weep when they are disowned or wrong.Such women pay frequent visits to the famous Kali temple in Kolkata to offer prayers.Some of them are naive and others scheming but they all cry when the time is right.

The overzealous backstabbing in-laws:Without the backstabbing in-laws classic Bengali films would be unbearably tedious to watch.Most films have near-realistic stories told in the pace of real time events,mostly without fight scenes or cabaret.Anyone who appears overzealous is meant to be a backstabbing in-law.Such characters are modeled on the evil Shakuni from the Mahabharata and they stop at nothing to bring the next infeasible twist to the tale.

Reading Doris Lessing : Part II

2010-04-20T20:27:00.003+05:30

This entry starts from where this one ends.I'm nearly halfway through 'The Golden Notebook' and I'm pleasantly surprised by the simplicity of Ms. Lessing's style.I've grown more accustomed to some of the themes explored in the book, although I find a central theme rather elusive at this point.

A recurring theme in the book is that of the British Communist Party,it's modus operandi and the protagonist's strife with the party in general.I find her(Anna's) candid admissions about the party rather amusing;especially the general 'defensive and apologetic' air that ails all party members.The communists are far from being romanticized in this book,irrespective of whatever affiliation the author may have had with them.

Another theme is the way women relate to men,both physically and emotionally.Female stereotypes may exist,grow old and then vanish, but they all subconsciously yearn for the same thing;the comfort and security of domestic bliss.

Then there is the theme of writer's block and another one that I like to call writer's pride.I am a little disappointed with the treatment of writer's block.Perhaps all those witty Woody Allen flicks are to blame for my preconceived notions of it.On one hand Anna is reluctant to have her bestselling novel adapted for the small screen(one can't blame her,the offers are ridiculous) and on the other hand she seems to be recoiling in an endless cycle of self doubt.She prefers instead to log memories of her years in Africa and her sessions with a psychotherapist.

Anna maintains a separate notebook for her personal experiences(with men,her daughter and her friend Molly).I found it interesting that she writes it in a Kafkaesque manner;all the while referring to herself in the third person and giving everyone an assumed name(Note:Kafka's diaries have a fictitious quality just like Anna's journal).

I will post the next update when I have read a little more.

One Step at a Time:Reading Doris Lessing Part I

2010-04-08T19:51:00.003+05:30

This is a case of a book being judged by it's cover.I may have read the name 'Doris Lessing' on a couple of lit blogs forgetting,rather conveniently,that she had won the Nobel Prize.The jacket of 'The Golden Notebook' bears a picture of a woman sitting on the floor;writing with feverish intent.The summary at the back had the words 'insane','writer's block' and 'notebooks'.Something in my head snapped and I bought it.

It isn't an easy book to read.There are too many things on a woman's mind,particularly,if she suffers from writer's block and a troubled love life.The protagonist Anna lives off the money that she has earned from her first and bestselling novel.She laments the decline of the contemporary novel to a journalistic device for relaying facts.She has bouts of cynicism and insecurity as she contemplates her life,work and love affairs.Doris Lessing(like most Nobel winners for literature) leans to the left and so does Anna.Anna often reminisces about her affiliation with the communist party and their work in apartheid ridden Africa.Her reminiscing flows like an endless babble of memories,portraits and random doodles.All this in the first 120 pages!

Lessing's style is not unnecessarily verbose or conversational.She is one of those rare writers who engages the reader with the dullness of everyday life and the sourness of lofty ideals gone limp.What is inspiring is the attention to detail and the unique structure of the novel ;the way Anna divides her life into parts and chronicles each part in a specific notebook.The book was touted as the precursor to the women's liberation movement of the seventies and is often incorrectly dubbed as 'feminist'.The women in the book are fiercely independent and vulnerable at the same time. They have relationships,of varying degrees, with several men and are stung by feelings of insecurity and jealousy.Each section of the book is nevertheless titled 'Free Women'.

I will post more updates as I continue to read it.

We don't Writhe

2010-03-20T10:41:00.003+05:30

Sister,
Hold on to your pen
Before your fingers slide
And you forget.

We women don't writhe.
Not in the open;
Not in our books,
Doodles,scribbles and rants.
It is said
That we are subtle;
That we are made to bundle and pack
The drudgery of our lives
In quaint lies;
That we will always paint
Within the lines.

Sister,
Hold on with iron grip
Before you cast away your craft.

To All my Sisters

2010-03-06T16:08:00.002+05:30

As an only child I arbitrarily pick characters from books and think of them as my brothers and sisters. Since 'the international day of the woman' is around the corner, I thought that a tribute to my favourite 'sisters' is quite befitting.

Elizabeth Bennet:The headstrong heroine from 'Pride and Prejudice' and a sister like no other.Perhaps one of the first real feminists to appear in an 18th century book of fiction.The aspect of her feminism is often masked by all the endless musing on marriage and men; but Eliza is human,impulsive,imperfect and perfectly lovable.

Ursula Buendia: The endearing matriarch from 'One Hundred Years of Solitude'. Marquez had a way with female characters and Ursula is probably the least vulnerable of them.She survives the whims of an eccentric husband,diametrically opposite sons,a spinster daughter,dysfunctional grandchildren,soldiers and other house guests who invite themselves over,a descendant who floats up into thin air and a motley crew of great grandchildren who count her as one of their toys when she goes blind.She is the least unpredictable and probably the least sensual of Marquez's female protagonists;she nevertheless commands respect like no other.

Tess: The milkmaid in 'Tess of the D'urbervilles' who refuses to become a victim despite being violated by one man and abandoned by another.She possesses a quality that is pure and unblemished by years of suffering.Her ethereal beauty and quiet stoicism break your heart.It is as though a part of you is altered.

Emma:Jane Austen's precocious heroine from 'Emma'. The kind of girl you would love to take on a road trip.Well meaning and naive; she will ensure that you are always entertained.Her misdirected efforts at matchmaking can drive you insane,but at the end it is only the thought that counts.

Here's wishing all you girls a very happy women's day.

When I Dreamt of IT

2010-02-26T22:05:00.004+05:30

I sit hunched;my spine partly coiled in an unnatural arch.My eyes are glued to an LCD screen as I warm my feet to the buzz of a machine.I decide that I need to be kind to my back and pull my feet off the ground.I sit in a near-yogic pose,making good use of the back rest.The sun streams in,acting as a substitute for artificial light during the day, and I wonder how it all added up.

Let me take you back in time to the decade of the dotcom boom;when every middle class Indian kid either aspired to be a 'software engineer' or had parents nursing such aspirations.I was a high school student ,preparing for the board exams,watching all these people in their twenties looking rather affluent and working weird hours.I used to live in a place in Bangalore called Jeevan Bima Nagar.It was close enough to the then international airport and there was also easy access to the upcoming IT hub.The International Technology Park was all that people talked about back then.A workplace with a coffee shop and an oxygen bar was quite a novelty.The buildings in the park looked interesting,the lights were always on and they had names like 'Innovator' (there was a time in India when innovation wasn't a buzzword).The hype was pervasive to an extent that it inspired Bangalore University to organize a field trip for teachers to the tech park as part of a 'refresher course'.

There were a lot of new faces in the street where we lived. A new creed of people known as 'IT professionals' started to move in.There was nothing better for a teenager who needed a break from the monotony of public service employees and their 'stable' lives.These new folks woke up at 11 am to the sound of music blaring from a stereo system,drove to work in the latest car,came back at 11 pm and partied every weekend.

I recall a particularly memorable drive to the tech park that probably lead to all the things in the first paragraph.I needed a break from all the studying for the board exams, so my dad thought that it would be a nice idea if he took me for a long drive.We also took our car-crazy dog Jojo along.The drive from Jeevan Bima Nagar to ITPL was scenic.There were lush expanses of land,no flyovers and barely any traffic.There were two things that struck us about ITPL; the way the buildings looked like a patchwork of neon across the dark sky, and the scowl of a wizened security guard.We decided to leave as it was getting late.I took one look at the place and started to imagine myself working there.

I can sit no longer.I need to take a walk down the corridor and take a look outside.The drive from Jeevan Bima Nagar is no longer scenic, one is inevitably caught in a jam of traffic despite a criss cross of flyovers,the international airport has moved to a place far away from ITPL and I no longer live in Jeevan Bima Nagar. All the lush expanses of land are now occupied by various IT companies.I just happen to work in one of them.

To James Joyce

2010-01-23T20:18:00.003+05:30

Why did you write?
Squirming uneasily
Through the remains
Of an alien tongue.
Were you in search
Of an equal?
One who would walk
And linger with you;
Circling your errors,
Striking out your whims,
And marking your quirks
With vermilion ink.
Did you think
That the pen would suffice
For proof of erudition?
Or did you think
You could confide
In all who read
Without knowing that they did?

Things I've always wanted to Do

2010-01-14T17:36:00.002+05:30

1. Go on a road trip with a pack of canines,stop at MacDonalds and give the poochies a treat so that I can eat sushi in peace.

2. Make wine and cheese at home

3. Take pictures the old fashioned way and get the film developed in my own personalized dark room.

4. Learn opera singing.

5. Watch the sun rise at Papua New Guinea

6. Clone my pets.

7. Travel back in time and say hello to Richard Feynman.

When Bookstores Annoy

2010-01-08T23:28:00.003+05:30

I happened to be shopping and Reliance Time Out was just around the corner.I decided to go in;partly because it would be my first visit and partly because a friend said that it wasn't 'his kind of place'.I understood what my friend meant the moment I stepped in.The sheer disorganization hits you the way pretentious art does.There are best sellers piled at various angles,as is the norm in bookstore chains these days,followed by the section on music and movies with watches and mp3 players on either side!I realized that it was a rather crass imitation of 'Landmark',but I didn't mind because I have seen P.G. Wodehouse lining shelves labeled as 'Indian fiction' in Crossword.

I made my way to the classics section and then,quite inevitably,to the section on science.They seemed to have quite a collection on theoretical physics,the metaphysics of quantum mechanics,evolutionary biology,genetics and a book on math by Lewis Carroll.I was sufficiently pleased till I noticed a row stacked with self help books.The theoretical physics shelf faces the shelf of travel books and sits adjacent to the self help section without any hint of warning.It's a lot like being in a room with Richard Dawkins talking about the non-existence of a personal God, Richard Feynman giving a lecture on quantum mechanics,William Darymple raving about the forts in old Delhi and Rhonda Byrne saying that quantum mechanics supports 'the law of attraction' and hence the universe provides what you ask for! I tersely picked up a copy of 'Man's Search for Meaning' by Victor Frankel,not strictly self help in my opinion,but nevertheless occupying shelf space in the self help section.The next moment,a rather obnoxious gentleman asked,'Why do you read such books?'. I mumbled something and left the aisle quite annoyed.

The trouble with large bookstores is the loss of a sense of belonging.A large bookstore feels like an airport terminal;impersonal with an air of harried worry lurking at every corner.It is quite rare to find a brand that devotes itself exclusively to books.A coffee shop at the corner is quite inevitable and so are the multitude of other unrelated items.Books end up landing on shelves of different genres thanks to the flippancy of window shoppers who stroll in,pick up a book,forget where they took it from and place it back at an arbitrary location.Store personnel are equally indifferent when it comes to this matter(it is pretty obvious from the vacant stares they give you when you ask for something a little more 'niche').

Finally, the prize for 'The most annoying book chain phenomenon' goes to overbearing customers who take it upon themselves to decide what the rest of the world gets to read.I personally don't endorse the self help market, but I don't hold anything against others who do.The sheer pleasure of shopping at 'Blossoms' has everything to do with its silent,contemplative air(apart from the faint scent of tattered seconds).One can stand in the competitive exam section without appearing pitiful and soak in the mush of a 'Mills and Boon' without appearing desperate. Every reader has his or her quirks and a large bookstore is just incapable of respecting that.

P.S. I think the owner of 'Blossoms' owes me a commission for the following reasons:
- I always say nice things about 'Blossoms' in my blog.
- I have recommended it to all my friends who like to read.
- I have given them a great deal of business myself.

Haiku

2009-12-29T13:23:00.002+05:30

I used to dream of
Things I thought I did not have,
And then I woke up.

The neon at night
Lights up the dismal city
With unhappiness.

I think the horizon
Ends abruptly because I
Never look further.

I Need to Write

2009-12-27T15:53:00.002+05:30

I need to write;
Without rusted doors creaking,
Without a dozen voices wading
Through canals in my mind.
I need to write;
Quietly,sans distraction,
Without the deviating yelp
Of well meaning help.
I need to write;
To remember
The amber of the sky
As I turned pensive.
I need to write;
To recollect
The drone of verse
Turning indecisive.

A Guilt Trip

2009-12-24T22:51:00.003+05:30

Dear Diary,

Writing is a guilty pleasure,not because I derive so much from it but because I expect others to read what I write.I must be the embodiment of conceit and unfazed narcissism.There is no remedy to this condition.It is a case of the means justifying the end.I need to know that someone else is reading so that I may continue to write.I cannot deny the instant gratification I gain from the little comments I get on my blog, no matter how scathing or flattering.

Writers often use a self deprecation as a weapon to gain compliments.I prefer to use a garbled sense of humility instead.My Indian sensibilities make such things very easy and my aversion towards self deprecation is probably genetic.

I can go on and on; but I wish to save myself the embarrassment of having to use words like 'magnanimous' and 'illustrious'.

Yours truly,
A guilty writer.

P.S. Dear reader,I know I am supposed to apologize for the use of such utterly indiscreet methods of manipulation.However, since I am still the writer, I am only doing my job.

Two States

2009-12-19T22:24:00.005+05:30

I did it! I came out of my shell,with an inching reluctance,took a look around and decided to crawl back in.Earlier this year, I had resolved to look beyond the lure of classic literature(when it comes to classic literature I am the proverbial moth that hovers around a flame).I've read non fiction,contemporary fiction,books on evolution,theoretical physics,self help and endless rhetoric. I miss the comfort of my familiar niche.I miss the lilt of the words and the archaic obsolescence of the writing.This feeling is reinforced by a recent reading of 'Two States' by Chetan Bhagat.

Chetan Bhagat is something of a poster boy for self confessed 'unsophisticated' writing.He is as colloquial as the 'big fat Indian novel' is allegorical.'Two States' is the saga of a couple who meet at business school,fall in love and nearly end up being star crossed lovers as they are from very different communities.The stereotypes are easily recognizable and the writing makes it almost possible to play the various Indian accents in your head.At times the book assumes the pace of three hour long Bollywood film.At some point I began to wonder if the lovers were going to burst into song and run around trees.

Bhagat has often been hailed as simplicity's answer to the 'great Indian novel'.Bhagat's style is unassuming and annoyingly simple.Unlike R K Narayan,whose style is unequivocally Indian in a quirky but lovable way,Chetan Bhagat's writing ends up being dry and predictable.If I want to hear the juicy account of a star crossed marriage,I needn't look beyond the ever prevalent and ubiquitous neighbourhood gossip.

As an afterthought;I should try Vikram Seth.

Ahead of Time

2009-12-14T20:14:00.002+05:30

Let us talk in slurs
That bear no meaning;
Till the lifeline of wit blurs
And relives its years of weaning.
Let us both reflect in repose;
And,casting stoicism aside,
Let our lofty ideals prepose
The underlying lethargy in our stride.
For who knows? In some lamentable eon
Our words;churlish and devoid of depth,
Like cherished relics of a time bygone;
Will hold all to ransom,with an empty threat.

The Book Trail

2009-12-05T20:49:00.003+05:30

I take a lot of pride in just knowing that each book in my collection is a vault of secrets.There are telltale signs that do more than just reveal where each book has been.There are some with what I like to call 'tears from the rain',or the after effects of keeping books in bags that aren't water proof.Others bear signs of insufferable suffocation,a consequence of stuffing a bulky book along with a plethora of necessities in a container.The 'fresh from the crop' variety are those that remain untouched;some laden with dust and slithering silverfish, and others spic and span from years of imprisonment in an airtight(or so I believe) bookshelf.

'Tess of the D'Urbervilles' is an exception.My mother gave the book rave reviews,she passionately maintained that it was 'more poignant than 'Jude the Obscure''.For an adolescent the impending appeal of a book increases exponentially when it bears the whiff of a century old scandal.My mother bought it as one would acquire a relic.I began to read the story of a maiden of aristocratic descent, born into poverty and duped into being scarred for life.Hardy's gradual narrative with rural overtones can tire the impatient reader.I read three fourths of it and moved on to Dostoyevsky(Hardy is rarely as intense and as dramatic).

Years later,I turned to Hardy again.I suppose it's safe to assume that in literary terms,age caught up with me.I re-read it and understood the melancholy and the dignified suffering of Hardy's people.For the first time,I saw the breathtaking splendour of the English countryside that formed the core of Hardy's work.I grew accustomed to his style and then I was mugged. My handbag,the one taken by the thief, had a copy of 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles'.

A few months later,my mother bought another copy of 'Tess' to make up for the loss of the first one.The new book is from a different publisher and it stands eagerly,in its unused yet familiar glory,waiting to be read again.When an old book goes missing,a new one arrives to take its place.

See How they Run

2009-11-21T19:49:00.002+05:30

"See how they run",a line from 'Lady Madonna' by the Beatles,reminds me of one of our domestic maids who came,worked and fled.When we moved to North Bangalore,like the average urban Indian family,we needed a domestic maid.This 'amma' (a term of endearment assigned to a lot of domestic maids) was recommended by nearly all of our neighbours. She worked in several other houses and had a reputation for being honest,pious and meticulous.

One could see amma cleaning the premises of the local temple,during the wee hours of the morning for absolutely no charge.She would then clean our house as all of us left early in the morning.She had a striking young daughter who was an excellent cook.The duo worked in our house during the evenings as well.Although generally reliable,she was also known for going on sudden pilgrimages and trips to her 'native town'.She also suffered from stress related health problems owing to the domestic work at ten different houses.

Her personal life was unimaginably complicated. She had a truant husband who happened to be an unemployed parasite in the bargain.He cheated on her and married his mistress.Amma paid for the wedding and she also funded his life with his second wife(bigamy among Hindus is illegal but not uncommon).The daughter was married to a man who epitomized the proverbial 'bum'. She had a school going son and had a kind of 'on and off' relationship with her husband. Every time the daughter separated from her husband she came to live with amma.

As a family they lived beyond their means.They had a refrigerator and a plasma TV.They splurged heavily on ornaments and religious functions and were always short of funds when it came to paying the school fees of the little boy.In due course of time the daughter went back to her husband and they kept five purebred dogs as pets. As amma's health was taking a turn for the worse,she decided to quit domestic work.She opened a convenience store in the heart of the slum and ran it with the help of her daughter.

Setting up a convenience store and living beyond one's means almost never go together.They needed an initial investment and a loan.Most domestic workers are unaware of facilities provided by cooperative banks and hence don't have bank accounts.Banks usually don't grant loans to 'slum dwellers' over issues related to getting a surety.Entrepreneurs like amma end up relying on wily creditors and dubious chit fund schemes to fund their ventures.When business doesn't go well and the chit fund fails to pay,they default on their loans.

Amma and family were no exception.Their creditors were after them.Things went on till the day they just disappeared.No one ever saw them or heard from them again.

Bengali Names and Colonial Hangovers

2009-11-13T19:16:00.004+05:30

What lies in a name? A hidden agenda or a colonial hangover? It is my luck to have a surname that differs from that of my parents even though both surnames are effectively the same.

Bengal bore the brunt of British,French,Portugese and Dutch colonists.It is also one of the last states to rise,sleepy eyed,from an extended colonial hangover.The signs of this are very obvious.There is the restaurant in Kolkata named 'Moulin Rouge',the Victoria Memorial-the house of colonial relics;then there are sprawling colonial mansions lining the banks of the Hoogly river on Kolkata's outskirts and of course shortened surnames.

My surname is Banerjee,short for Bandyopadhyay.I am quite accustomed to arched eyebrows and eyes brimming with questions every time I submit a form. My surname reads Banerjee and my father's reads Bandyopadhyay.Individuals with a tendency to be curious ask,sometimes politely and at other times pointedly,about the apparent discrepancy.My answer,that the British shortened Bandopadhyay and made it Banerjee because the latter was difficult to pronounce,is met with guffaws and sighs of relief.

Interestingly,my grandfather's surname was also Banerjee and at one point of time so was my father's.The education board in it's zeal to make a patriotic statement changed his surname to Bandyopadhyay when he was awarded his high school certificate.He lived with the name for the rest of his life and my mother acquired it by virtue of marriage.My parents decided to spare me the agony of having a last name that non-Bengalis find difficult to pronounce(that hasn't spared me the agony of having Bengali first name which is pronounced differently in all other languages).

When my friends ask me why I don't consider using the original Bengali name as my surname I have only one thing to say.Bureaucracy,a part of the colonial hangover.

Tales from the Crypt

2009-11-07T16:43:00.004+05:30

My mother often narrates these stories about two women in her extended family.One who dared to live on the edge and the other who was shunned into complete obscurity.Although they make great case studies with respect to the general paradigm shift in the perception of women;to me they serve as a grim reminder of what my life could have been like in their time.

The first,a distant relative of my maternal grandmother,chose to become an actress. She starred in the Bengali version of 'Sahib Biwi Aur Ghulam'(titled 'Sahib Bibi Golam' in Bengali) alongside Uttam Kumar,the then superstar of Bengali cinema.I did a little research on the internet;starting with Uttam Kumar's IMDB page and moving on to bits and pieces about the plot of the movie to conclude that this is she . Regrettably,very little is known about her. There are no photographs as the family had nothing to do with her,owing to her 'exploits' in the film industry.Bengal,in the days preceding India's independence,was superficially the capital of the 'forward thinking'.As I mentioned,'forward thinking' was a superficial tag.Acting was typically considered to be the forte of individuals with 'loose and questionable morals'.For a woman,a profession in the performing arts was akin to one in prostitution.It breaks my heart to think that she had to live the way she did;bearing all the burden of societal censure,being ostracized by her loved ones,and hopping from one man to another(as was believed about every other actress no matter how chaste she may have actually been).

The second,a relative of my great grandfather,languished because her horoscope was as horrendous as she was beautiful.It was decreed that she would be married to an alcoholic who would drink himself to death.Her father ensured that such would be her fate.He got her married to a man who was drunk nearly all the time and hired a bodyguard so that her husband wouldn't come near her.Thus she lived;till her husband died,leaving her widowed and destitute.Indian families rarely acknowledged widows and her family was no different.I sometimes try to picture her;moving around like a creature of no significance with her tonsured head bowed in shame,never daring to look another man in the eye.It is said that she died alone,her body remaining unclaimed till one of her nephews became aware of her plight and gave her a decent funeral.

I often recount these stories in my mind and I am thankful that I live in a different time.I am fortunate to live in a city where it is occasionally possible for a woman to shed the inhibitions imposed by gender, and think like a human being.

Illness

2009-10-29T11:46:00.002+05:30

I lie still
Woe begotten,grief stricken.
The dust on the window sill
Stays unmoved,almost forgotten.
My eyes flicker;
Trying to grasp the intangible.
I start to bicker;
Attempting to list the interminable.
In all this time
I have danced,lingering on numb toes.
In all this time
I have wilted,confiding in bitter foes.
I conjure rhymes;
My senses flung upon some distant shelf.
My mind mimes
The trappings of my former self.
I wait for the day
When my life will again be trite.
For I cannot stand to sway;
Singular in diminishing might.

P.S. The after effects of the seasonal flu.When one desires to be healthy, it is more comforting to walk with both feet on the ground than with one's head in the sky.

It Helps to Miss the Bus

2009-10-20T12:34:00.002+05:30

It literally helps to miss the bus.Especially if the nature of your search for an idea for a blog entry verges on the desperate.I spend three hours a day commuting to and from work and cover a distance of nearly thirty kilometers one way.People living in parts of the world, where long distance travel is trivial and the infrastructure makes one's burden a tad lighter,might scoff at the number.It takes a seasoned Bangalorean to understand that thirty kilometers nearly amounts to the first hurdle of a dreary pilgrimage.My employer is kind enough to provide transport,thus saving me the ordeal of inching through snail-pace traffic.The only catch here is that I need to be present at the bus stop at 6:50 am;something that my occasional tardiness doesn't permit.

When I miss the bus,I rely solely on the benevolence of Bangalore's ubiquitous transport provider the B.M.T.C. The Bangalore Metropolitan Transport Corporation has buses coming in various colors,differing in the provision of air conditioning,comfortable seating and vehicle suspension.The B.M.T.C. has a set of air conditioned buses popularly called 'Volvo buses'(there are other buses manufactured by Volvo which have no air conditioning but only the air conditioned ones come with the 'Volvo' moniker).For the remainder of this article I will use the terms 'regular' and 'Volvo' to refer to the different types of buses.

Travel in a 'Volvo' comes at a higher price.While 'regular' buses are packed with a diverse mix of individuals,'Volvos' go nearly empty and house either 'IT professionals' or ignoramuses who have no idea that the tickets are priced higher than usual.One can't help but feel piteous towards these oblivious travelers who pay the price for ignorance with a quiet grimace.'IT Professionals' belong to a different creed altogether.In 'regular' buses it is common to see school children without shoes,construction workers with shovels,bangle sellers with stacks of their wares,poultry sellers carrying hysterical chickens,eunuchs looking enviously graceful in saris and I once saw a turban clad man carrying a primitive musical instrument.Going in a 'Volvo' is like moving through a delusional alternative world where everyone,barring the average ignoramus, is affluent.This is the world of IPods,Blackberrys,noise reduction headphones,designer clothes and accessories and accents that are a hodgepodge of the American and the local.

As one approaches the IT hub,the commuters turn unnecessarily 'hip' and the bus conductors,politely multilingual.Passengers are guaranteed the pleasure of being addressed as 'sir' or 'madam' as opposed to 'regular' buses where the average commuter is treated to a derogatory 'aye'.One can no longer see demure college girls struggling to keep their balance as the bus swings precariously.People flinch self consciously even to ask each other the time.

It helps,occasionally,to miss the bus and witness,with wonder,the great divide.An extra hour of travel with four bus changes is far more gratifying than staying put in the company shuttle that gets you to work in a jiffy.

Living to Write

2009-10-18T14:51:00.004+05:30

It takes a little more than being well read to be a convincing writer.Feigning experience sometimes impedes the thrill of a riotous imagination.Writing that lacks the richness and the tangibility of reality starts off as something promising and turns frigid and limp towards the end.If all that is meant to be written has already been written,then new writers need to encircle a little more than what lies 'outside the box'.

Here are some of the things I intend to try before I write

Faith:If being an agnostic implies spending quality time on the fence then it is only fair that I give equal weight to the existence of a personal God as I do to the nonexistence of one.

Standardized tests for admission to business school: Writing one of these tests is very tempting;the cycle of preparation,rejection and acceptance appears nearly as lucrative for a book premise as the cycle of death,birth and reincarnation.

Appearing on the cover of 'Good Housekeeping': How else can I come up with something like 'Mrs. Dalloway'? One might assume that I intend to work as a traveling salesman in order to envision something of the magnitude of 'The Metamorphosis'.Fortunately,Kafka wrote about what was within and not without.

A visit to Calcutta:I must ensure that I travel either on foot or rely entirely on public transport.The suffocating humidity and immeasurable wealth of the city makes enough fodder for a thesis.

A visit to Paris:I need to convince myself that one needn't live in Paris in order to experience a personal renaissance.

Regular trips to government offices in India:I need to understand bureaucracy in order to capture the sheer joy of a life without it.

Going for a month without internet access:I believe that such a measure will bring forth a personal renaissance.

I urge my readers to suggest other things I can try before I write.

A Little Quietude

2009-10-11T11:22:00.002+05:30

Death makes us silent.The bewilderment of survivor's guilt and the sheer futility of repeated cross questioning leaves us tired,ambivalent and in a rut.Death leaves a glaring void;a finicky desire to remain rooted and not move on.I wanted to avoid posting this on my blog but I feel the need to purge in order to progress.

When I watched my father succumb to a long illness,I held a presumption about my ability to accept things without vulnerability and irrationality.I was wrong.Grief came in the most unlikely form and left me choking and overwhelmed with the myriad list of possibilities.Like that of never having a father to give me away on my wedding,or that of my unborn children never getting to know their grandfather and the cruel reminder that my widowed mother has to seek comfort in the faded memories of a marriage that lasted thirty four years.

I also lost my dog,a constant companion of twelve years,last week.Ironically,four months after my father's passing,in a way that was excruciatingly similar.My mind is filled with images that are brutally beautiful and poignant.I want to shun any trace of remembrance and start over as though nothing had happened in the first place;something of an impossibility when there are former belongings and photographs lying strewn all over the place.

I realize that this entry is a tad personal and pitiful.I wanted to share this as I know I am not alone in my tryst.

The Unexpected Delight of 'Twilight'

2009-09-26T10:50:00.002+05:30

The appeal of 'young adult' fiction lies in the nostalgic empathy it evokes in the 'mature' reader.'Twilight' was presented to me on the occasion of my birthday(I'm old enough to have a quarter-life crisis and wish that I was 15 again);I started reading it more out of curiosity than from the desire to fit in.'Twilight' makes me want to be 15 again. If only Stephanie Meyer had written it when I was 15.

Ms. Meyer's writing is akin to what a low-profile teenager with a growing flair for writing might pen in her journal.The over-descriptive text peppered with gushing accounts of every look,every touch,every accidental brush of the skin and the slow frustration of young love, ever reminiscent of that first high school crush;forms the substance that holds the reader,irrevocably glued, to the manuscript.'Twilight' sits comfortably,filling the void left by overused cliches in the romance and horror genres.

'Twilight' is surprisingly gripping and a lot less hilarious than I had anticipated it to be.It may be the substance for good satire,but even the unparodied original has its own share of charm.Stephanie Meyer is far from being a new age Jane Austen but she has certainly found herself a niche.'Twilight' may never qualify as one of the most loved books of all time but it is definitely one to be remembered.

It Happens Only in India: High Tea in Disposable Cups

2009-09-15T17:02:00.005+05:30

I miss reading books by English authors that had elaborate accounts of the ritual of 'high tea';perhaps a less cultured and studied version of its Japanese counterpart but nevertheless,treated as an integral part of the 'English' way of life.I attended a 'tech talk' at 'The Leela Palace';where the attendees were treated to a scrumptious assortment of goodies, good enough to keep the naive epicure satisfied.They called it 'high tea'.I was pleased to note that they had kept their word,unlike some other event organizers who skimp on their promises.

Educational institutions organize similar events quite frequently.It is understandable that universities must skimp in order to avoid budgetary and logistical nightmares.It is also an accepted fact that most people(disinterested students in particular) attend technical lectures at universities with the hope of getting the much coveted 'high tea'.The lengths to which people go to get free stuff is amazing; considering the fact that every lecture in an Indian university begins with a prayer,an invocation song and the ceremonial lighting of the lamp; and then moves on to the actual lecture(at least an hour long) followed by a question and answer section completely devoid of questions.Guests wait in eager anticipation for the announcement that sounds something like ,'please assemble outside for some high tea'.

So what does high tea look like in this context? There is a queue that originates at a flimsy wooden table(covered with a white tablecloth or a plastic sheet) ,runs for some finite distance and then diverges into two(and sometimes three)distinct lines.The point of divergence(or convergence depending on how you see it)is usually the location for a potential scuffle.As one approaches the 'tea table',one will see a large stainless steel dispenser,minuscule disposable cups made of plastic and biscuits(or sometimes a slice of cake per person).It is customary for people to gulp down the tea and gobble up the snack and return to wherever they came from;satiated and content with the fact that even though the lecture sounded like ancient Greek,they stayed long enough for high tea!

It Happens Only in India: The ABC of the 'A.B.C. Programme'

2009-08-29T08:10:00.003+05:30

A lot of acronyms come to my mind when I see the title of this entry,A.B.C. and B.B.M.P. in particular.For those living outside Bangalore the B.B.M.P.(Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagar Palike) is the city municipality corporation and the A.B.C. is the famed 'Animal Birth Control' programme launched by the B.B.M.P. to counter a certain growing menace. Let me dissect the nuances of the programme based on things I have learned and perceived over the years.

A for Animal- The animal in question is man's best friend,the domestic dog. A spate of events involving citizens,particularly children,being attacked by 'pariah' dogs, has made the city municipality sit up and take notice.It isn't uncommon to see the most fascinating variety of mixed breed dog packs lounging around outside butcher shops and dumpsters.Little children,and adults with juvenile tendencies,often find themselves in the vicinity of dogs at the height of all kinds of canine activity;like squabbling,eating and even mating(yes Indian kids learn early).It is a well accepted fact that even the most docile house pet turns hostile when disturbed.The B.B.M.P. realized this after a spate of unfortunate and gory incidents where toddlers were killed by street dogs.

B for Birth- The cycle of birth and death is inevitable,even for the Indian street dog.For a species to survive,it is necessary for the birth rate to exceed the death rate. This probably explains the population explosion of stray dogs,given the fact that each female has around ten puppies every six months.Let us remember that only a handful from each litter live to attain maturity but the cycle repeats and the doggy demographic expands.Clever females have their puppies around places where food is available in abundance.Do dumpsters and butcher shops sound like nice places to hang out? For dogs,yes. For people,no.

C for Control- The B.B.M.P. realized that it was a lot easier to launch an Animal Birth Control programme as opposed to running a 'Keep Bangalore Clean' campaign(running two campaigns at the same time would have probably been a nightmare).The 'knights of the ABC',as I like to call them, are B.B.M.P. employees who move around in dog catching vans; carrying nets,rods and other equipment to catch dogs.Sterilized canine veterans who have been there and done that,sit nonchalantly as their compatriots are bundled into cages.The unlucky ones are 'euthanized' and the lucky ones(mostly friendly puppies) are sent back within a day,sporting a small cut in the left ear to mark them as 'sterilized'. There are also a set of dogs who are only too well versed with the methods of 'the knights of the ABC' to get caught.These are the animals who give birth every six months and over whom the B.B.M.P. has no control!

More Haiku

2009-08-15T16:32:00.003+05:30

In The Spirit of the Flu:

I cower and hide
In times of disease,counting
Numbers of death's strike.

To Etta James:

Dark angel, swaying
Voice,ethereal in irony;
Sings till I'm silent.

To James Joyce

King of the abstruse,
Erring in speech,confounding
Them who understand.

To the Art of Haiku

Truant sentences
Entwined in structure,crushing
Minds of sane poets.

Growing Pains

2009-07-31T23:34:00.002+05:30

I wasn't born a Diva. Being a Diva was something I acquired by trying to emulate the average Victorian heroine.I wasn't always a rambler.In fact my writing used to be a lot simpler. Allow me to illustrate with an example.

Here is something that I would have written as a six year old.It is titled 'My Pet'(based on a vague recollection of a similar 'composition' I had written when I was in school).

I have a pet dog. Her name is Jojo. She is twelve years old.She has brown fur and brown eyes.She likes to eat chicken,biscuits,ice cream and chocolates.She also likes to drink milk. She goes for walks everyday. She likes babies and barks at all the other dogs. I love my pet very much.

If that was then then this is now.'My Pet' as written by La Diva.

I often refer to my dog Jojo as my pet;perhaps out of conceit and sometimes due to the pressures of convention. Jojo and I are practically siblings.We've grown up together and lived under the same roof for a good twelve years.I've always maintained that a dog is like a sibling who never retaliates. I may have taken the canine trait of submissive 'human worship' for granted; but Jojo was,is and will always be the real 'Diva'.

Age has not marred the honey-like hue of her golden brown coat, nor has it diminished her fetish for chocolates,cookies,ice cream and chicken.Jojo can put the Atkins diet to shame by surviving on nothing but milk for days.Walking,as far as she is concerned,is a social event that involves hurling uncharitable curses at pariah dogs that throng the streets. She is nevertheless maternal towards puppies and little children.We share a bond that transcends the trials of adolescence and the perils of young adulthood.I sometimes wonder if she is secretly human.

I have always felt that children express profoundity by cloaking it in simplicity.Why must growing up be so painful?

The Dance

2009-07-26T09:13:00.006+05:30

I think this is what Zen is supposed to feel like.

I leap
Over endless peaks
Clothed in unbearably light infinity.
I dance
Till I am ground
To a halt.Reminiscent of sleep.
My feet aren't mine;
But my toes itch
Till I anoint them with balm.
I spin around the realm
Of my being,as I watch myself
Playing truant with eternity;
Teasing and tilting
The delicate balance
Of what I think I perceive.

Dear Diary

2009-07-19T09:26:00.004+05:30

Dear Diary,

I picked up a copy of 'The Diaries of Kafka' from a bookstore yesterday.A friend who detests reading commented saying, 'it is a diary,it is someone's private property'.Yes,Kafka's diaries were his own till he died and his friend Max Brod decided to edit them and have them published(much to the probable chagrin of Franz Kafka;a tormented man writhing in his grave).The diaries are now available in large numbers,open to public scrutiny decades after his death.I'm not quite sure if Anne Frank or any other diarists, victimized by posthumous fame and the perils of posterity,find this amusing.

I'm positive that I should find such a thing revolting if my diaries were to be published instead of being burnt(or buried,whichever is ecologically beneficial).All the entries, driven by the most abject privation and desperation, may serve as fodder for a psychology class,but little thought goes into the quiet humiliation of the diarist.I realize that I am being hypocritical but Kafka's work cannot be read,it can only be felt.I am looking for a portal that will grant me that small glimpse into Kafka's world, so that I may understand the depth of his work.

I can make peace with the public circulation of my diaries once the content is comparatively abstruse.

It Happens only in India: The Stampede for Stamp Paper

2009-07-11T19:57:00.001+05:30

Perhaps 'stampede' is a rather impolite exaggeration of 'really long queue'.From the wee hours of the morning till the scorching hours of lunch time,frequent visitors to M.G. Road in Bangalore are treated to the sight of a line of people desperately queued up outside the State Bank of Mysore.It is one of the few banks that deals in foreign exchange and it is the only bank in Bangalore that sells stamp paper (the other is another branch of the same bank).I came to know,quite recently,that the fuss had nothing to do with foreign exchange and everything to do with stamp paper.

A bank employee hands out 'challans'(application slips) to the people lined up.Everyone in line has to,in a short time,become adept at the art of safeguarding one's position in the queue and filling in the form at the same time.Most people lean at dangerous angles against the wall of the building to achieve this feat. The challan has fields like 'denomination','amount' and many others; the most intriguing field being the one titled 'commission'. The 'commission' is usually a percentage of the amount and it varies with the nature of the stamp paper.There are a few veterans who know these figures by heart, irrespective of whether they know the mathematical calculation behind it or not.

Passers by throw curious and sympathetic glances at the people in line.The well informed mutter things like, 'This stamp paper thing is a pain'; the less informed claim in wonder, 'Such a long queue for foreign exchange!'. The average person standing in line checks his watch from time to time;getting more agitated as the hour nears 2:00 pm.

It is thus not surprising that there was a stamp paper scam. Just as every other annoying Indian phenomenon comes bundled with an associated scam.

Gathering Dust on the Bookshelf

2009-07-04T17:12:00.005+05:30

An eclectic bookshelf,nurtured by three very different individuals, is bound to be quaint. The bookshelf at home has books written in English,Bengali,German and other tongues understood only by mathematicians and machines. There are corners of immaculate cleanliness and other corners laden with dust and reeling from neglect. My eyes scan every book and linger for a moment longer on each book plunged and squeezed in with good intentions and left untouched for no particular reason. Here is the list of books that have been both intentionally(yes there are books that I've been curious about but somehow the barrier set by the average mental block is indomitable) and unintentionally left out.

'Understanding Physics' by Issac Assimov- In school I hated physics not because I had anything against the subject but because of unavoidable circumstances. It was a bizarre combination of the Indian education system's obsession with 'learning by rote' and the fact that my mother is a teacher of college level physics.I was intrigued to find a physics book written by Assimov and this is why I sometimes yearn to read it. The pictures of energy levels of electrons add to the mental block. I hope to clear this hurdle and I am seeking help from Stephen Hawkins and Gary Zukav('The Dancing Wu Li Masters' or physics coated with eastern philosophy for dummies).

A collection of short stories by O Henry - I love O Henry and his sense of pun and irony. I sometimes pull the volume out,read one story and slide it back. The book remains untouched till the next time I see it. The neglect is unintentional but regrettable.

Two volumes of short stories by Guy de Maupassant- Too melancholic! I needn't say anything more.

'Gitanjali' by Tagore - I read about fifteen poems translated to English by Tagore. The emphasis on God was a little too much but the soothing verse offered solace. I feel ashamed when I see Tagore's scrawling handwriting in the Bengali script next to the English translation. I need to learn how to read in my own mother tongue first.

'Shirley' by Charlotte Bronte- A book my mother picked up at a book fair. The line 'As unromantic as Monday mornings' made it quite clear that it had nothing in common with 'Jane Eyre'. I may read it, sometime in the distant future.

A collection of five novels by Dickens- The only one I've touched is 'A Tale of Two Cities'. Even the facebook group 'I am a maniac for classic literature' failed to stir my interest in 'Hard Times' and the rest. I really don't know how to deal with Dickens and it simply breaks my heart.

'Mother' by Maxim Gorky - A book my mother bought at a Soviet bookshop when she was a young girl. She admits that she bought it only out of curiosity at a time when Bengal was enraptured by the 'promise' and fervor of communism. She never read it and the book summary makes me a little frightened.

'The Diary of Anne Frank' - I feel an inconsolable lump in my throat whenever I think of Anne Frank and start to read the first few entries. I don't know how to deal with Anne Frank either and it also breaks my heart.

After all this I still unashamedly buy and sell books as though they were shares!

The Observer

2009-06-12T20:24:00.002+05:30

I sit in silence,
Like a hostile witness
Concealed cleverly
Behind blinds.
I dare not blink;
Lest my movement provokes
Any suspicion
Of impending lethargy.
I watch;
I do not implore
Against that which is unseemly
Or applaud
That which represents beauty.
Stillness is my forte,
Firm and rooted I stand.

More Haiku

2009-05-23T12:53:00.002+05:30

I keep my finger
On the tab of my future;
It kills my present.

The nature of lust;
Its inconceivable guile
Aids evolution!

I see your visage
Blurred to infinity when
Your comfort I seek.

Pursuing lost chance
Is like looking for ice while
Treading on hot coal.

P.S. I don't even know why I wrote the last one.

Books for Sale

2009-05-17T11:00:00.003+05:30

This is a sequel to this entry about the sale of books to a second hand bookstore. During the course of the past month I have been trying to cleanse my life of all traces of redundancy. I am also trying to make space (physical space to stack new things and not just space in the metaphysical sense). I've been putting this activity off due to my excessively maudlin attachment to books. I got a wake up call yesterday(more like an obnoxious wake up alarm) when I brought home Homer and Dahl from Crossword (I couldn't resist opting for the Crossword membership card either).

So here's a list of books that are getting the axe. I will be selling them to Blossoms,my favorite second hand bookstore(and the only one that I know).

'Lolita' by Nabokov - I agree the book is well written and a pioneer in its own right.I loved Nabokov's 'love affair' with the English language and the terrain of the United States of America. However, I will never cease to find Humbert and his paedophilia disgusting and revolting. I would probably shudder to read it again.

'Atonement' by Ian McEwan - Loved the beginning,hated the way the end was written. Here's the entry detailing my love-hate relationship with the celebrated novel.

'The Da Vinci Code' - I will reiterate yet again that Dan Brown should write books on art History,Biblical conspiracy theories and speculation on religious orders without an element of fiction in them. I would have loved to cut out the portions of the book that are evident of Brown's fiction writing prowess and preserve the rest,but it's more work than I would like.

'The Sands of Time' by Sidney Sheldon- Racy but predictable read with a lame ending.My favorite part in the book was the front page containing a quote from Hemmingway about Spain.

The other books getting the boot will be all the Mills and Boon romances and some other books of a mushy nature.

I'm not selling my soul,I'm merely dragging it out of a rut.

The Stuff that Dreams are Made Of....Wishful Thinking

2009-05-09T09:45:00.004+05:30

I started a fitness regime that comprises a combination of Yoga and Pilates as a part of the 'Self Improvement Plan' I make every year(In other words,I made a resolution at the beginning of the year).As a result, I've purchased a yoga mat and a set of hand weights;things kept at a strategic location so that I feel inspired to roll out the mat,grab the weights and get started.On the bright side, I feel a lot better and more energetic.On the flip side; sports shops are now on my list of places to visit while on a shopping spree(as though shoes,bags and clothes weren't enough).

I had a shopping spree inspired dream that took place in an RbK showroom.I usually don't visit RbK showrooms.I am more content with Addidas(so that I can swoon over Zidane jerseys) and Nike(I usually walk in with the hope that someday I'll buy an Arsenal jersey and cheer the gunners at the Emirates stadium).I vowed never to walk into an RbK showroom ever since Thierry Henry left Arsenal,joined Barcalona and had Rbk as his sponsor.

Allegiance to sports teams aside,my dream was relatively football free.The new fitness regime made me want to run to the nearest place and buy some 'exercise clothes'. I went from store to store till I landed at RbK. I found a pair of jeans that caught my fancy(what happened to 'exercise clothes'?).The jeans were well fitting and flattering (the wishful thinking starts here). To add to that, they were a part of a new line of clothing exclusively for women.I was then given an offer that I could buy a Tata Nanao (the cheapest version priced well over Rs. 100,000) at a 'discounted' price of Rs. 44,000! Amen!

I still remember the excitement with which I made out a cheque of Rs. 44,000(This was excluding road tax,insurance and registration fees.I sometimes wonder if I subconsciously crunch numbers in my head).I've just read 'The Secret' by Rhonda Byrne which says that one just has to ask and the universe will provide.Since then,I've decided never to dismiss nice and lucrative dreams as merely an outcome of wishful thinking.

Something in Common

2009-05-02T22:52:00.002+05:30

What do socialism and capitalism have in common? Their implementation was highly flawed. The application of both lacked one thing; common sense.

Haiku for the Diva

2009-04-19T10:16:00.004+05:30

Girl who thinks that she
With her work will change the world
Thrives in the unreal.

Lyrical,vain dreams
Crafted from nothing;to feed
The unwritten whim.

Soliloquy is
The forte of the poet
Who forgets to write.

I fly on the wings,
And abide by the rules of
Wretched vanity.

Damsel in distress,
Scribbling to carve pictures
In white and charcoal.

Damsel in distress,
Smudging brushes with ire
To paint her visage.

P.S. - A few things you already know about yours truly.

It Happens only in India: Snail Pace Speed Post

2009-04-11T10:06:00.003+05:30

Even the postal department isn't immune to computerization and its many pitfalls.I had the experience a few days ago, when I wheeled into the tiny neighborhood post office to send a letter via speed post.I realize that many of you are wondering how the postal department still holds its head high in times like these.Well it does;with the aplomb and alacrity of the tortoise who outran(or out-crawled?) the swift rabbit.

I did mention the pitfalls of computerization.Yes,even the post office has to deal with constantly crashing and seldom cooperating stubborn servers.It so happens that in this particular office,there is one counter to handle speed post and money orders.Every money order has to be approved(most people who make out money orders aren't aware of the postal code of the recipient.Every search for a postal code takes a good seven to eight minutes).The heat is sweltering,the post office can be likened to a dungeon housing sacks of letters.There are people trying to jump queues and others trying to chide them for doing so.Then there is the demure clerk sitting behind the counter, her shoulders slouched and her face pallid.Irate customers hover around the counter trying to cast a cursory glance towards the monitor.They move away in resignation;shaking their heads as they say,'slow server'.A senior postal officer tells the clerk to relax and not to hurry. These words of wisdom have a visible effect on her as she continues to stare at the screen.

It took me an hour just to pay for the postage and to get a receipt.On my way back, I started to weigh the pros and cons of faxing attested documents.

A Cup Full of Class

2009-04-01T21:26:00.002+05:30

This entry is inspired by the sweltering yet tantalizing tea factory located on the hills of Ooty.One enters the premises and is swept away by the sheer force of the aroma of the 'ambrosial drink'.A swift tour of the factory,overlooking the machinery, culminates with a tiny cup of tea with a whiff of cardamom.There is a charming showcase with souvenirs lining shelves that are seldom touched.What struck me the most were two books; one titled 'Tea Poetry' and the other 'Tea,Scones and Cake' (I don't recall what the latter was called as I was already carried away by the former).

I asked one of the salesmen to show me the book of tea-inspired poems.I was struck by the blatant astonishment on his face. He handed me the book on scones and tea,his disbelief doubling when I insisted that I preferred the book of poems.It is quite common for people to buy tea at tea factories,rare for books to be sold at tea factories and even rarer for someone to buy books sold at tea factories.The man gently wrapped the book in a paper bag and then inside a cloth bag; giving me the bag directly instead of handing it to the clerks at the counter.

For someone who relishes wine-inspired poetry and generally uses coffee for inspiration, tea suddenly became the subtle liquor that brushes the senses lightly without much upheaval.The book carries a motley crew of poems, ranging from stiff upper lipped British reminiscence to the quaint Japanese haiku. It bears testimony of convoluted Chinese philosophy captured in Jasmine and the faint lamentations of a 'tea taster'.

If one can associate passion with wine and insomnia with coffee, one can comfortably attribute class to the delicate flavor of the so called 'Elysian' drink.How it calms the brimming soul of the fettered writer!

Constrained Liberation

2009-03-22T13:27:00.002+05:30

The definition of personal liberty is subject to societal constraints. The boundaries of that definition are narrower for a woman.I wish I could say,with unwavering conviction, that my sisters and I are free; free to do as we wish within the confines of the legal system and free to indulge in things that our male counterparts take for granted. I don't think that the efforts of feminism are misplaced; but they still have a long way to go in making such freedom apparent, instead of letting it remain superficially glued to the edicts of constitutions.

One might argue that women today are far more liberated than their counterparts in the previous century.Women,in most countries,are allowed to vote,earn a living,own property and reap benefits that were once unimaginable.So does this mean that liberty isn't an absolute and that women ought to be 'thankful' that they are relatively better off now than women were before? It is like saying, 'the citizens of our city are relatively safe,if not completely safe,compared to people in other cities'. As far as I'm concerned there is not much difference between 'relatively safe' and 'unsafe', just as there isn't much difference between 'more liberated than before' and 'still not liberated'.

India was one of the first democracies that gave women the right to vote immediately after its independence.Still,given that it's been more than sixty years since that right was granted,women in India add societal constraints to define their sense of liberty.A 'free-thinking' woman in India must think twice before she refuses to marry young.She alone doesn't bear the brunt of the repercussions of such a decision, her parents bear it even before she does.A woman cannot be too intelligent,too opinionated or too 'talkative' for it is to her detriment. If she doesn't know how to cook she isn't adequately feminine.It also doesn't help if women cast aspersions on each other whenever convenient.How often are women expected to be domestically,politically and fashionably correct by their peers?

The dictates of traditional roles deal blows of death to the empowerment of women; and so does the self inflicted harm that outdoes the harm done by the opposite sex.The cause of feminism is misplaced in a world where women hurt each other and themselves as a rule of thumb.Feminine liberty is still a far cry away from where it should have been.It hurts to admit that womankind may have been partly to blame for this mishap.

The Diva Writes Chick-Lit

2009-03-14T12:56:00.004+05:30

I swear that if the recession strips away my income,source of nutrition and sense of dignity;I shall start to write chick-lit.

This isn't your run off the mill feel-good chick flick.It is probably the shortest one you will ever read and the first one to make you curse your designer accesories if you're a girl.Our heroine Shiela (incidentally 'Shiela' is Australian slang for woman) is your run off the mill chick lit heroine.Read further for her misadventures.

Shiela wants to skip along the sidewalk. She wants to step into the gurgling puddles that line the street,but she can't.She isn't sure if her present circumstances make such behavior seem appropriate.There is a slight drizzle after a thorough shower of rain;her patent leather Gucci boots, worth a quarter of her bonus, are dripping wet.The Louis Vuitton handbag,purchased after months of deliberation,is disintegrating from manhandling;the income tax department owes her a tax refund and there is a text message on her phone that says 'It's over'. The autorickshaws will not stop,there are no buses and definitely no good samaritans who will offer her a ride without taking undue advantage of her vulnerability.

The sudden change in relationship status is accepted without a sense of defeat.She will not tell her family about the juvenile split from a seemingly amiable boyfriend. Not when such news will grant them the incentive to introduce her to someone they have in mind.The cracks in a broken heart tend to heal with time, unlike the irrevocable damage done to designer goods made of patent leather. She calls her best friend.She realizes that it is a sign of propriety to wail over the loss of a presumably 'good catch', but she prefers to whine about the soaking boots. A home made remedy is suggested. The suggestion is taken with a tonne of gratitude sprinkled with a pinch of salt. The Guccis were gone for good. Was the sudden concern over the Guccis just a defense mechanism to avoid confronting the real issue? She didn't want to answer the question, she just wanted to skip!

Prudence can be a source of great discomfiture to those who want to burn the remains of a love affair gone sour. Shiela dourly wrapped her fingers around the bracelet he had given her on her birthday.She tugged gently at the beads without pulling the links apart.She treaded carefully into a cafe. She wanted to change the way she looked. At least she wanted to make it look like she was taking it well, and ghoulish eyes with smudged mascara weren't necessarily helpful.The door was opened even before she could grab the handle. Such a vision of perfection! A rare specimen of the opposite sex holding the door open for the benefit of a damsel with a diminishing morale. He tilted his head and smiled politely. She stared as he walked with his back towards the cafe,his demeanor reminiscent of Cary Grant.

She would stop him the next time. She would stop him and thank him for resurrecting chivalry. Yes! The next time! She would wear waterproof gum boots instead of designer disposables.

P.S. I now know why great writers prefer to starve!

Tweet Tweet

2009-03-14T11:48:00.003+05:30

I am tweeting! Pop culture and the realm of social networking gives a different interpretation to my statement,albeit not very different from the meaning when taken in the ornithological context.Little birds 'tweet' for attention and so do 'Tweeters' who 'tweet' on 'Twitter'. While our avian counterparts are simply saying 'feed me mama,I'm hungry' with every tweet; we,as the most 'evolved' species, say different things like 'I am single! Date me!' or 'I'm sending updates to Twitter from my phone,I am like so connected!' or something as simple as 'Everyone's on Twitter and I am not socially irreverent enough to stay off it'. 'Tweeting' is on the road to outdoing it's predecessors 'Facebooking','Orkutting' and 'Blogging'.It takes a Web 2.0 junkie like yours truly to do the incorrigible; writing a Facebook status message that points to a Twitter update that says something about how I'm posting something new on my blog.

If the use of 'Twitter' is called 'tweeting' and if the use of 'Facebook' is called 'Facebooking' does it logically follow that programming in 'Lisp' (my latest fetish) called 'lisping'? I guess not. Such is the paradox of technologically inspired lingo.I admit that lisp has been around longer and is sometimes perceived as a tad archaic or just a tad 'geeky'; but apart from the reason that lisp coders may not want to use the adjective 'lisping' to describe what they do, I see no reason why a 'geeky' term should suffer such discrimination. There are several Lisp users with pages on Twitter, but they only 'tweet' they don't 'lisp'.One might argue that it is not the business of pop culture to embrace the idiosyncrasies of 'geekdom' but there wouldn't be any Web 2.0 if it hadn't been for the geeks in the first place.

The cruelty of pop culture aside,everyone seems to tweet for their fair share of attention. I've seen Twitter pages for 'The New York Times','BBC click' and about five pages for 'Lisp'.I too have my own Twitter page and I intend to add a 'Twitter' widget to my blog! I have no intention of rewriting the etymology of 'lisping' but I might spearhead the 'Give geeky terms their fair share of pop cultural exposure' movement.'Tweet tweet!'

Impersonal

2009-03-11T20:38:00.006+05:30

As a blogger, one is often given warranted and unwarranted advice on how to have an overflowing blog ticker.I've heard things from 'Why do your posts have so much text?' to 'Why don't you write about the people in your life?' to 'Why don't you make your blog more personal?'. The last one is the most tempting and the most vile. I am terrified at the prospect of turning this blog into one of those where the lines between reality and fiction become blurred to culminate into one maudlin memoir. There are less maudlin memoirs that end up on bookshelves but the last thing I want to do is turn myself into a memory logger.

When I started the blog as a whiny,self obsessed 'loner', I wanted attention and I got it.My friends confessed that they were seeing a side of me that they never had anticipated.It may come as a surprise to the proponents of the personal blog that the blog hardly had any followers till I rechristened and reinvented it to represent the chronicles of a diva who swirls around in half done endeavors.Even if life isn't a joke, I still want to cultivate the humor to laugh at it.A truly laudable personal blog takes integrity and conviction.A lamentable personal blog is one where the author finds her own anecdotes boring(I'm not trying to be sexist by saying 'her'. I suppose my male readers know better).

It took me a year to realize that the aegis of speculative fiction lets you run for cover when you need it.In the end I just happen to be a diva who loves speculation and wants to have nothing to do with the word 'lamentable' or its etymology.The blog stays the way it is!

P.S. I think I'm expected to say 'sorry' at the end of all this.

The Tepid Sunset

2009-03-03T21:42:00.006+05:30

Impatience in watercolor;something that comes effortlessly,something not hard to create. As a young girl, I offered myself comfort by assuming that Van Gogh wasn't a pacifist.At least he didn't leave traces of tranquility in his thick and vivid brush strokes.I invoke the same words of comfort now as I leave you a legacy of imperfection and restiveness.If you zoom in you might feel lost in the mesh of colors.Of course,I could give myself airs and call it post modernist impressionism.

P.S. - I still wonder if I should delete this.

All in a Name

2009-03-01T10:10:00.002+05:30

What lies in a name? A lot if you're human. Reading 'The Namesake' brought back memories of the many issues I had with my own name.I could see a bit of myself in the protagonist Gogol who has to struggle to come to terms with being a second generation immigrant with a peculiar sounding name.While I am not a second generation immigrant,I come close to being one in the Bengali sense.I am what Bengalis refer to as 'probashi', or a Bengali who lives in India but outside Bengal(the generic term N.R.I. is used for Bengalis living outside India).'Probashis', like immigrants,can never feel a sense of kinship towards their resident counterparts. They rarely fit snugly into the grind of their adopted homes and they end up creating an impenetrable microcosm that rarely offers escape routes to those already entrapped.'Probashis' are sometimes afflicted by the burden of bearing a Bengali name.

Bengali words are pronounced with rounded tones.There is a delicate line that distinguishes Bengali from Sanskrit and other Indian languages that are derived from Sanskrit.This disparity is as conspicuous to someone who doesn't know Bengali as it is negligible to someone who does.A Bengali name thus sounds quite different from its counterpart in almost any other Indian language.For instance my name is Anusree(often misspelled as Anushree). In Bengali it is pronounced 'o-nus-ree' which explains the absence of the 'h' in its English spelling.In other parts of India the name is spelled with the 'h' following the 's' and it is pronounced 'uh-nush-ree'.It thus follows that linguistic minorities are unintentionally subject to the erroneous rendition of their names,either in spelling or pronunciation.

Growing up I had to watch my teachers cringe every time they arrived at my name during roll call.I didn't bother to correct fellow Bangaloreans who happily called me 'uh-nush-ree' and spelled my name as 'Anushree'.I remember being unsure if my name was being called when my kindergarten teacher called my 'uh-nush-ree' on my first day at school.I felt embarrassed when people called me 'uh-nus-ree' in an effort to sound phonetic.There are numerous occasions on which I have been called 'Anusha','Anushka' and 'Anuri'; while close friends and other diplomatic folks call me 'Anu'. In a country where one can almost never get any work done at a government office, a name like 'Anusree' is a clear disadvantage.It isn't enough to spell my name twice in most cases.

I have given my mother endless grief over my dissatisfaction in this regard.She usually lists the alternatives and the rationale behind each one so as to drive home the fact that 'Anusree' was indeed the best option.Unlike Gogol, I don't intend to change my name (maturity aside,it is a bureaucratic nightmare). Over the years I have encountered names that are more than a mouthful and I am now content that my name pales in complication when compared to some of them.

p.s. - I was really flattered to find that 'Anushree' is listed in Namespedia

An Acquired Indifference

2009-02-19T21:20:00.005+05:30

When 'Slumdog Millionaire' swept up a fleet of Oscar nominations,a lot of Indians sat back and wondered whether all the attention was well deserved. There was restrained and unrestrained wrath from various quarters that included Amitabh Bachchan who wrote something in his blog about India not being a slum and Indians not being dogs.The success of 'Slumdog Millionaire' is attributed to its dismal depiction of life in India,the kind that fits the stereotypical notion of the 'Indian way of life' the western media likes to convey.(The same has also been said about 'The White Tiger', this year's Booker Prize winner).

I am not here to list the merits or the pitfalls of this seemingly one sided portrayal.I was struck by the workings of my own psyche as I watched the film.I walked out from it untouched,unchanged and without a whine or a word.I admit that it doesn't epitomize the pinnacle of cinematic brilliance but there were moments in the film that were as real as life on the streets of India. One can easily recognize the blinded child who begs for his living,the shrewd,smooth talking urchin who wants to pocket a quick buck, the lethargic,pot bellied police constable who beats up a convict to get answers,the little girl whose future is in the brothels and many of the others.I realized that I wasn't watching the film as an outsider with the objectivity of a curious novice,I watched the film with all the studied nonchalance of a veteran who has seen and heard too much to flinch. I suppose this sentiment is shared by many others who felt that the film was 'watchable with nothing new to show'.

The Indian press never fails to use the words 'lest we forget' after every national disaster or tragedy.It is a wonder that Indians forget nearly everything but they always remember to smile;something that has confounded multitudes of expatriates.Perhaps it is due to the indifference acquired from years of observation; like an heirloom making its way from one generation to the next,hardening with the passage of time. 'Slumdog Millionaire' is definitely not the most moving ode to the Indian slum. On the other hand; if Bollywood can churn out films that make us feel fulfilled, and the Indian art scene can wrench our tear glands dry, then maybe transnational productions that make us confront our indifference aren't as scheming as we think.

When Technology Aids the Artist

2009-02-12T18:56:00.006+05:30

Making self portraits is one thing and making a sketch of an animal is quite another.Eleven and a half odd years ago, I had accomplished the feat of making my dog Jojo sit absolutely still while I made a likeness of her in pencil.The picture was well appreciated by members of the family and got a B+ from my art teacher who said that I hadn't planned the layout of the picture well.Some five odd years ago we moved to a new house and all of the old artwork was banished to the loft along with an overflowing book collection.A few weeks ago,around the time I made a self portrait, I attempted to sketch a much older and wiser Jojo.She wouldn't sit still, she kept rolling over like a Diva(I acknowledge that she gets her Diva-like tendencies from me while I get my dislike for Bryan Adams from her).I decided to cheat by taking a little help from technology.What good are camera phones if they don't allow you to take snapshots of animals at their spontaneous best? This time I chose my 'photogenic and always pleased to pose pet' Toffee.Animals,unlike humans, have the charm of not being able to fake their facial expressions.Truant artists like me love to exploit this bestial trait to the fullest extent.Besides, it is much easier to replicate something from a camera phone than to use a live model.I give you 'Toffee in Black and White'.

The Red Carpet

2009-02-12T17:09:00.004+05:30

'The Red Carpet' by Lavanya Sankaran was highly recommended by a friend of mine.It is a collection of 'Bangalore stories' as the cover suggests.This is the author's first book and for a maiden venture her attempt is decent yet fleeting as far as long term memory is concerned.

'The Red Carpet' is the kind of book you may want to read if you're waiting at an airport and don't want to gulp down yet another predictable bestseller.It can be particularly nostalgic for those who have seen Bangalore transform from the city known as 'the pensioners paradise' to 'India's silicon valley'.The characters include all the usual suspects and urban legends starting from the dapper chauffeur who wants to give his family a good life, to the scheming domestic maid who steals money from her employer's handbag to the U.S. returned yuppies who are caught in a clash of two cultures.The author herself is a U.S. returned, former investment banker educated in one of the 'hippest' schools in the city.Although her stories are quite authentic,they do not span the panorama of all that is 'life in Bangalore'. Her style is lucid,witty and entertaining. Had 'The Bangalore Times' been a tad more well written and observant of the pulse of Bangalore it would have sounded a lot like 'The Red Carpet'.

Nevertheless, I still see a hint of promise in this investment banker turned writer.She may not be Bangalore's answer to Jhumpa Lahiri but a little light reading shouldn't hurt.

Receding into Oblivion

2009-02-07T22:35:00.003+05:30

A lot is said about the evils of recession and its cascading effects on sectors like IT,Finance and Real Estate.Very little is said about book lovers with an entrepreneurial spirit;the kind who open tiny bookshops round street corners.This is an ode of some sort to that spirit which sometimes wanes with the weight of the effort required to brace oneself in tough times.During the course of the past month I have become aware of the almost systematic demise of the minimalistic bookstore.I use the word 'systematic' as there seems to be a conspiratorial prophecy lurking behind the end of the proverbial 'shop around the corner'.

Tiny bookstores were dark and asphyxiating.They had books stacked haphazardly and precariously from floor to ceiling;as though the shop owner intended to replicate the leaning tower of Pisa by using nothing but books.One would,with intense apprehension,approach the shop owner and whisper the desired book title into his ears,lest the leaning towers crumble.One had to know what he or she wanted to read.Quite unlike shops of larger chains where readers flop down on bean bags and spend hours pouring over manuscripts before they even decide to buy something.The wizened owner of the shop around the corner always knew what to recommend.He knew every detail of the last book of even the most obscure genre.He didn't need a computer to find out whether a certain title was in stock, he merely glided over to the next decrepit shelf/stack and retrieved it as though he were Houdini.

The gigantic book chain is something like the cannibal that swallowed the tiny bookstore for lunch.I have no intention of sounding politically inclined but my lamentation is well justified.I lament the fact that I now need to go to some impersonal and impeccable store with sprawling interiors and sturdy shelves.It no longer seems blasphemous that such stores keep books by Sidney Sheldon and Archer under a section titled 'Indian fiction', or that I need to spell out the title of a book so that the salesperson may look it up in the database.I am now on a hunt for the last survivors of the endangered species of book entrepreneurs.Recession is too lame a reason to compromise on well recommended reading.

To Ms. Blyton: The Lady who made me Write

2009-01-31T20:00:00.001+05:30

The very first books I remember reading,after ruminating over fairy tales,were those by Enid Blyton.She was something like the J.K. Rowling for people who were children in the early nineties and before.While she brought out the silent sleuth in some of my friends,she brought out the writer in me.It was at the tender age of nine that I began writing what was intended to be my first book;a tale about a boarding school inspired by Ms. Blyton's 'Malory Towers' series.

Ms. Blyton's books had the quintessential quality of being unmistakably British.Little boys and tomboyish girls had faces covered with freckles and dainty pretty things were always pale English roses.Culinary feasts were described to the last delectable detail.There were always tables laden with sardines,potted meat,pies,scones,cucumber sandwiches and the works.Naughty boys always forgot to wash their 'grubby hands' and conceited girls brushed their hair till it shone.Enid Blyton,unlike several other writers,catered to a wide age group.It is quite rare to find someone who writes with equal panache for a five year old child as she does for an adolescent of twelve.Her characters climbed enchanted trees,flew around the world in chairs with wings,solved mysteries that left Scotland Yard red in the face,played tricks on each other in boarding school,suffered from pangs of guilt and envy and learned from their mistakes.Through her books she covered a gamut of experiences that every child either has or dreams of having.

One might accuse her of being a tad misconstrued and perhaps almost puritan in some of her views.Americans are described as shallow,narcissistic characters who need a little English 'sensibility' to be brought down to earth. In her books the perfect girl is one who wears no makeup,studies her lessons,never questions authority,shows no interest whatsoever in the opposite sex and is perpetually altruistic (we're talking about girls who are on the threshold of adulthood and about to enter college).She never ventured towards darker subjects like abject self doubt and the trials of conscience that plague angst ridden teenagers.It is unclear whether her female protagonists grow up to be pioneers or prefer to turn into Stepford wives.

Nevertheless,her work had this urging and inspiring quality that can goad a young girl into thinking,'What if I wrote like that?'.When we were children we saw ourselves as invincible creatures with an indomitable talent.Ms. Blyton helped fuel that presumption to the fullest extent.As a child I never moaned over the implications of my work,its desired impact on the present generation and its venerable quality for posterity.I simply wanted to write because Ms. Blyton showed me that she and I had something in common; we both loved telling stories.

A Land Less Traveled

2009-01-25T11:09:00.003+05:30

I envy writers who have pages brimming with accounts of travel and simmering visions of places and their people.I look over my work and see the dearth of a sense of belonging.If I were to write fiction,my characters would most likely be individuals without countries;the kind who dwell in mirages and lose all sense of possession once the mirage is dry.If writers are paid by the word then I stake my claim to bankruptcy even before I intend to bombard publishers with waif-thin manuscripts.

I see my own country as an alien would behold a foreign land.All that I have learned about India is through minute conclusions drawn over a series of observations made on life in Bangalore and Kolkata.The two cities represent two ends of an infinite spectrum and the void of all that is left in between haunts me.Nevertheless these pangs of self pity have brought to my notice that India is a land less traveled by its inhabitants.

Most Indians probably see the land as they see themselves,given the fact that many of them either live below poverty or are too busy chalking out a 'living'.We are a race that cannot feel pride as we're ignorant of what exists.There are some textbook writers who try to add a hint of romanticism to dreary descriptions of natural wealth.There must be some unspoken sentiment that hints that the average Indian stands still and wavers only occasionally to look beyond his/her immediate surroundings.

I am reminded of what Amitav Ghosh said about how one cannot feel like a writer unless one has seen the world.Drawing inspiration from a textbook is like plagiarizing a prescription and calling it science fiction.Little wonder then that the premise of the great Indian novel hangs precariously from the string that fastens the great Indian assumption.Those of us who don't like to assume,have nothing more to offer save anorexic stories of alienation.

The Unsatisfactory Self Portrait

2009-01-24T10:44:00.002+05:30

Last weekend I decided to while my time away by giving in to that faint artistic craving I feel when I look upon my untouched art supplies. I fished out a sheet of paper,a HB and a 2B pencil,a decrepit eraser and a drawing board.I sat facing my reflection in the mirror with not so much a sense of narcissism as with a sense of aesthetic censure.Self portraits are invariably deceptive.In this case it depicted the artist the way she wanted to be perceived; imperfect yet not quite herself.I seem to have got most of myself right.I wish I could boast of possessing a Parisian nose described by Victor Hugo as 'The despair of painters and the charm of poets'.My narcissism will only stop short of that kind of blatant gloating.Here's the fruit of my labor. I give you 'The Lost Diva'.

For Eternal Memory

2009-01-18T17:57:00.002+05:30

There are some who learn in a day what others may learn in a lifetime.There are events that memory won't allow you to erase.Someday in the future one might cast a cursory glance at one's reflection only to view an old,discarded version of themselves.So it dawned upon our protagonist 'X' after a certain day in his life that he would forge eternally to his very selective memory.

It was his first day of work.Six years of prayers muttered in resignation,mule like determination and one successful job interview had landed him there.As a teenager in Bangalore,he had gazed longingly at those buildings with darkened glass exteriors and the seemingly indomitable people who sauntered out of them with badges hanging round their necks.The building he entered was one of a multitude that swarmed the premises of a technology park.There was a prayer on his lips and a tie around his neck that occasionally suffocated him.He didn't care about asphyxiation.He remembered the tears in his mother's eyes and his father's grim blessing as they wished him well on this auspicious day.

He entered the lobby clutching a briefcase.He wore a crisp cotton shirt which would probably never crease,glistening black shoes and a tie that epitomized elegance.His hair was carefully oiled and combed painstakingly to one side.There were others waiting with him but the fact that he was the most dapper of them all gave him a sense of a competitive edge.What struck 'X' the most that day was what came next.

The 'freshers' were ushered into a board room designed to be aesthetically and acoustically pleasing.They were welcomed by a representative from human resources,a man without a tie.Of course there was no sin in not wearing a tie,perhaps this was the kind of place that was a little more relaxed.There were other employees who followed; directors,managers,a vice president and several others.'X' was now the most crestfallen with an impending sense of alienation.He imagined that they looked askance at him every time they saw him.Here they were; stalwarts in jeans and t-shirts and there he was, a fawning fresher in an uncomfortable outfit complete with a tie.

The lunch hour came quite soon as it usually does on the first day of work.'X' cringed every time he placed food on his plate.He wished he could pile food on his plate as inconspicuously as the veterans without looking like a conspicuous glutton.He was introduced to his new team after lunch.He felt like 'Forrest Gump' as he looked from his patent leather shoes to the sneakers his new manager was wearing.The informality put a bad taste in his mouth.He felt like he was culling himself one blow at a time every time he forgot to call his manager 'sir'. He could not recline in his new chair for it was too comfortable.He could not touch the bag of stationery he had been given,he wasn't accustomed to being given things without asking.He could not laugh at the jokes and participate in the afternoon banter between teammates,he wasn't familiar enough.All in all he felt like the caricature of an alien from a comic book nightmare.

Later that evening,he smiled blissfully when his parents asked him how his day was.He used the word 'awesome' to describe it to his college junior.He put his briefcase and patent leather shoes away.That night as he ran over the events of the day in his mind,it occurred to him that he wasn't alone.He finally rolled over to sleep and decided that perhaps the tie was a little too much.

When Classic Literature meets Reality T.V.

2009-01-10T22:49:00.002+05:30

I hold the belief that reality television would have spared classic writers the agony of starvation if it had come a couple of centuries earlier.Here's what reality T.V. would have done to some of my favorites.

Jane Austen- The undisputed queen of the love lorn.The witty producer behind the likes of 'The Bachelor'.There would have been a heavy demand for corsets,tea sets,pretty damsels and innuendos.

George Orwell- The mind behind 'Big Brother' and the relentless stalking camera.The contestants of Orwell's show wouldn't have felt the need to feign discomfort at the very blatant invasion of space.The necessity of having a celebrity version would have been close to nil as the regular version would have been invasive enough.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky - The relentless genius behind 'The Moment of Truth', with the exception that the questions would relate more to the strength human conviction than the wringing of filthy linen on T.V.

Franz Kafka- 'Existential Survivor'. Need I say more?

Ayn Rand- A force to reckon with.The lady who would make many a spine shudder with the ghastly 'you're fired' in the objectivist version of 'The Apprentice'.Donald Trump are you listening?

Oscar Wilde - Simon Cowell step aside you are nothing in front of Mr. Wilde! The judge on Idol who takes meanness to a whole new level.If you thought 'musical hara kiri' was a witty euphemism for bad singing, think again.It would have been the age of 'All good singers are good in the same way.Each bad singer is uniquely bad'.

It's a pity most writers live ahead of their time.

Multiplexes and the New Minority

2009-01-01T10:46:00.003+05:30

The advent of the multiplex in India has condemned the friendly neighborhood movie hall to a slow and painful death.Gone are the days when school kids and college students queued up outside theaters to buy tickets well in advance.People wore their best outfits.While the traditional preferred to look immaculate with not a strand of hair out of place,the rest came with a carefully crafted 'bohemian' look.People bought modest little packets of popcorn and small cups of Coke.The ushers at the hall would check tickets with a practiced nonchalance as they admitted familiar and unfamiliar customers.People reclined in their seats and watched every advertisement and movie trailer with bated breath.An air conditioned hall was an added luxury and a balcony seat was considered truly elite.

Multiplexes are air conditioned by default.The concept of the balcony seat no longer exists.One can buy popcorn only in large buckets that never seem to finish and the coke glasses are also gigantic in comparison to their 'small hall' counterparts.There are no long queues outside multiplexes thanks to plastic credit and the internet.The ushers at multiplexes remind one of stern matrons in Enid Blyton stories; they stand with discerning expressions on their faces as they run metal detectors all over one's belongings.Most small time theaters have been torn down to make space for bigger multiplexes.The remainder of this dying breed are nevertheless valiant and standing unfazed.

The new minority are frequented by those who don't particularly enjoy watching movies at home and at the same time don't want to spend a fortune at a multiplex.The little halls are rarely full and it is possible to get balcony seats five minutes before a show.Audiences here lack the curt propriety of multiplex audiences.Screen heroes are greeted with standing ovations,comedians are treated to boisterous laughter and potential box office flops are subject to uncharitable banter and cat calls.Smaller movie halls also provide respite to secret lovers meeting incognito.

It is for us to see how many of these miniature stalwarts will withstand the ravages of time and intimidating theater chains.Here's to stuffy halls,unpretentious audiences and tiny helpings of popcorn.Long live the new minority!

Holiday Cheer with a dash of Grit

2008-12-24T21:12:00.005+05:30

No human being is born perfect.It is inevitable even for those bearing a slant towards anarchy to rejoyce when the season of resolutions draws near.In my attempt to revel in holiday cheer,I've decided to add structure and rigidity to my life by drawing out a list of resolutions that are either too stifling or too unbecoming of a diva.Here are the ones that are relevant to the blog.

- To expand my reading list to include subject matter that goes beyond classic literature.To explore work that is more contemporary.Not exactly stifling but nevertheless verging on anti-diva blasphemy.

- To brush up my skills in three different languages (Bengali,Kannada and French).It is said that heaven helps those who help themselves.Are agnostics even allowed to believe in heaven? (In the divine sense at least?)

- To come up with the first draft of either a novel,a collection of short stories or an anthology of poems.I would have prayed for the mental well being of publishers had I not been so fiercely agnostic.

- The readers of this blog may heave a sigh of relief as I do not have any new intentions for this blog.However,readers are urged to bear in mind that new resolutions may be appended to the list any time during the course of the year.

I wish all of you a wonderful holiday season and sincerely hope that the next year is full of promise and hope(no pun intended).Please continue to read my blog, I love to watch the numbers on the blog ticker spiraling out of control.

The Limits of Dissection

2008-12-21T17:32:00.004+05:30

What are the limits of cinematic dissection? Perhaps we can ask David Lynch or the ghost of Stanley Kubirck to answer.I know a lot of people(self confessed film buffs included)who insist that the purpose of film is to offer relaxation and a sense of escapism to the viewer.'Why read a book when you can watch the movie?',is what I often get to hear in the form of well meaning advice.

It is a commonly held belief that a film saves you the laborious hours of interpretation you would have spent on the book.It is often overlooked that film does for the director what a book does for the writer.Film represents the conglomeration of art,poetry and literature.If art,poetry and literature have the right to shove the human mind down the throes of discomfiture;why shouldn't film have the same privilege?

Film is as open to interpretation as any other form of artistic expression.It is wondrous to some and loathsome to the rest.An avant garde film maker once said that all films should have a beginning,middle and end but not necessarily in that order.The dissection of film as as simple as predicting the mood swings of the film maker.The limits of dissection are defined by the limits we, as interpreters,impose on our own ennui.

Yet again,what are the parameters that define whether a film needs to be taken at face value or not? I still don't know whether I should consider 'Eyes Wide Shut' as literally as I consider the next blockbuster, or whether I should subject it to the microscopic evaluation of every David Lynch inspired paroxysm.Perhaps the dichotomy grants the viewer the liberty to play the devil's advocate and say,'We only interpret something if the need for interpretation is made obvious'.

Selling Your Soul

2008-12-13T22:07:00.000+05:30

Bangalore is a city that feeds the most quaint need of every other quaint bibliophile.One can find bookshops in the most unsuspecting corners(apart from the scores of pirated material available on street corners).I like to regard each bookshop as a separate individual,complete with quirks and a territorial sense of defense for its niche.

'Blossoms' is one such place in Bangalore.It is aptly called 'the house of used books'.There are two floors stacked with books on every subject and of every possible vintage.One can find brand new bestsellers, with crisp white pages reeking with the odor of the printing press,and the most unkempt manuscripts of the classics yellowing with age.'Blossoms' allows customers to bring in old books and buy new books at a discount.The question of 'to sell or not to sell?' arises quite inevitably.

The next question that follows is 'what to sell?'.Books that are either subject to unconditional love or irrational loathing are impossible to sell.The two digit discount percentage bundled with a new book may seem like the ultimate catch;but once a book slips out of your clutches it is gone,along with the portion of your soul that it possessed while you read it.Selling a book is like selling a portion of your soul.The new book may or may not fill the void, but that portion caressed and fulfilled by the old one is dead.Perhaps it is the reason fashionistas fail to part with their shoes.No wonder libraries in Divaland often overflow on to the streets.

I will never know what a double digit discount on a book feels like.

A Dying Breed

2008-12-05T20:34:00.002+05:30

I once had an argument with a male friend over the degree of masculinity or femininity of a job in the software industry.He was of the opinion that software was to a greater degree the forte of the human male and that women in software(with a few exceptions) were just 'tailoring'.I spent a great deal of time telling him that he was being 'sexist' and he spent a great deal of time telling me that he was being factual.I found this article in 'The New York Times', that seems to support the claim made by my friend.

Apparently the number of women entering computer science is on the decline.The article doesn't count women who enter related fields like web design.It is alleged that women prefer not to enter the field due to certain 'artificial constraints' and because there is a sense that 'true girls don't play with computers'.As a woman working in the software industry,as a computer programmer,I find it a little offensive that we need to attach gender to a profession that has its foundations firmly rooted in the intangible.It is equally bizarre that the number of women entering the field is on a progressive decline since the early nineties.

A year and a half in the IT industry has taught me that the statistics quoted in the article are believable.In my undergraduate days,I was in a class that had 77 boys and 11 girls.The boy-girl ratio at my workplace is also a deplorable 'one girl for every four boys'.However,if one considers the Indian IT industry in isolation,the influx of the feminine kind has gone up considerably since the early nineties.More girls have started enrolling for courses in Computer Science.I could have dismissed the phenomenon as being 'purely American' if women still weren't a minority in the IT industry in India.

Factors influencing these numbers in India can be quite diverse.The enrollment rate is never equal to the employment rate as a lot of women graduates prefer to get become homemakers as soon as they finish college.Fewer women make it to the top owing to the pressures of juggling a family and a career in IT at the same time.The barriers we're talking about here are neither 'artificial' nor are they driven by the 'masculinity' of the software profession.Perhaps people to the west of the Atlantic, who speculate along the lines of mapping gender to profession,would like to look to the east before they dismiss something as 'not fit for the feminine mind'.

'So what does all this say about me?', I asked my friend after sending him a link to the article.He simply said something witty about me being behind my time.

Activity in the Reading Room

2008-11-30T18:31:00.005+05:30

Tolstoy is irksome,overwhelming,sometimes redundant,brutally frank,brilliantly poignant and above all an irresistible force.One can either ignore him or yield to him.I choose to yield, and I am a million times more endowed with the capacity to love his work.I write this with a sense of unapologetic irreverence.I seek comfort in Tolstoy's insistence that events in history aren't the result of the whims of certain individuals.

I sought out 'War and Peace',Tolstoy's epic tale of the Napoleonic invasion of Russia.My readers are probably thrilled with the redundancy in my reiteration of the fact that I'm reading it for the second time(In all fairness, I read only 600 pages the first time).I've strained every nerve to read each word of the last footnote.My memory occasionally fails to recall the trivia,my mind filters out the subtle humor and the characters are like my kin.I loath the irony of Russian battle strategy and crave the disillusionment of Andrew Bolonski.My spirit dances with that of the spontaneous Natasha and alters with the profound changes in the mind of Pierre Bezukhov.One must read Tolstoy as one would regard,with reverence,a fable narrated by a grand raconteur.

I have a hundred or more pages to go before I feel satiated.The book doesn't grip one's senses at the very beginning;it gnarls its roots around them when the end is near and when one realizes that a thousand odd pages aren't quite enough.

Anarchists Rejoyce!

2008-11-23T12:24:00.003+05:30

Being 'anti-establishment' has never been easier! Most establishments have reached such a stage of irrevocable decay that they are bound to crumble.The anarchist just just has to sit back and watch.

Inspired by Chopin

2008-11-21T20:46:00.005+05:30

I stand by your tomb.
My eyes tread over the epitaph;
Tiptoeing with caution,
Lest this elegy wakes your slumber.
My eyes behold some distant mirage,
With the blurred reflection of your visage.
I try to recall,in vain;
Your face,its contours,
The subtle wrinkles
Bridging the caprice of youth
With the wise disdain of age.
My ears strain
To reminisce; the timbre,
The nuances and ecstatic thrill
Of your now failing voice.
I long to contain that intangible guile,
The kind akin to mourners.
I crave the comfort that only the living,
Can bestow upon their kin.

P.S. Listening to Chopin reminded me of the person I used to be.It is as though a part of me has died.

Hail Thee Gertrude

2008-11-18T22:47:00.002+05:30

There is the forgotten tale of Alicia and Roberto (aka Alice and Bob of the cryptography textbook fame).While cryptography textbooks make an ode to the legitimate romance of the illicit couple;they also neglect the working of the scorned genius, Gertrude (known in textbooks as Trudy).

Historical records reveal very little about her lineage.While it is known that she was the sole heiress to a couple of estates in Tuscany,the antecedents of that inheritance are somewhat hazy.Gertrude ensured that all the wayward gossip and uncharitable hints concerning her ancestry,were reduced to a trickle of whispers in her lifetime.It is thus hardly surprising that there are no visible traces of Gertrude's existence,not even a tombstone if you please.

Little did Gertrude anticipate that her jealousy would serve as fodder for posterity. Gertrude knew she was plain;her sharp mind was the antidote to her unflattering looks.She possessed both wit and charm.In fact several anonymous poems and scrolls of the Renaissance period have been attributed to Trudy.However,no amount of wit could sway the affection of her wayward husband Roberto in her favor.She gazed on helplessly as her husband carried on a cryptic correspondence with his lady love Alicia.She often confronted him with proof of letters she intercepted by use of her cunning and guile.He often turned pale as she shredded to pieces every code he devised to encrypt his love letters.Roberto often looked at her with awe,the kind that is laden with mistrust and guilt.How this woman learned the art of numbers without being aware of their beauty,no one knew.

After Roberto died,she withdrew from society and lived like a hermit.She lived and died mysteriously, but left to the world the invaluable wealth of her analytical mind through her diaries.The rest,as far as cryptography is concerned,is history.Just as hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned; the fretting genius of a spurned wife is rather indomitable.

Animosity at the Aisle

2008-11-15T20:18:00.003+05:30

In weddings in Bengal, it is customary for the mother of the groom to be absent.I have often questioned members of the family about the origin of this custom,but sadly enough there aren't any convincing answers for posterity.I am thus left to contemplate its origin and come up with cynical interpretations of it.

I would like to remind my readers that this custom isn't generally 'Indian', it is more peculiarly 'Bengali'.In the heyday of the arranged marriage,matches were made more for convenience than for love (I don't wish to give the impression that arranged marriages are passe in India,it's just that the marrying parties are entitled to an opinion in a lot of cases.)It was common for the fathers (or other male relatives) to strike what was literally a business deal.The bride and groom never saw each other before the wedding and the groom's mother was usually denied the pleasure of glaring at her future daughter-in-law.Perhaps the custom was a move to abate the effect of the impending hostility for the benefit of the bride. Or perhaps it was meant as an indirect reminder to each woman that in laws are required to treat each other like outlaws even though they are now part of the same family!

Numb

2008-11-09T12:04:00.004+05:30

Elusive fleeting doubt;
How thought is thrust
Into narrow corners
With jagged edges.
How deeds amble
With the lethargy
Of fading inspiration.
How the shroud of hope
Gags the stuttering harangue
Of speech,once valiant,
Now thwarted.
So here we are,
Swarming,with bated breath,
Around the buzzing drone
Of a forlorn dream.

Mission Statement

2008-11-08T22:18:00.005+05:30

If organizations and individuals can define themselves with mission statements why can't an independent,intangible entity like a blog have one? It does occupy a finite space of the blogger's mind after all!

Here one for 'La Diva':

To attempt to express through the medium of writing,that which cannot ordinarily be said in words.

P.S. : I swear I didn't use a mission statement generator.

Drizzle

2008-11-08T21:40:00.003+05:30

I slink past the unsuspecting,
I steal subtle gazes and telepathic whispers.
Where this poem turns to prose,
And where stoic lines are blurred,
I shall never know.
I tiptoe down a noiseless hall
That echoes sentiment with fraying zest.
I hum;till my song is slurred,
Till the earth turns to quicksand on its spurs.
Where sense turns to a senseless drizzle,
And rattling prattle dwindles to mournful scorn
I shall never know.

Of Knights,Damsels and Mills and Boon

2008-11-02T22:48:00.008+05:30

I accidentally stumbled upon this link about a hundred years of Mills and Boon.I was reminded of the one and only Mills and Boon romance I read as a precocious 12 year old. I discovered a dusty and tattered copy of 'The Son of Adam' flung away at a corner of a loft. 'The Son of Adam' was in the exalted company of 'O Jerusalem' and other books of caliber,but to a wide eyed adolescent damsels and knights held more promise than the uncompromising research of Lapierre and Collins.

The Damsel

'The Son of Adam' was the story of a distressed damsel who eventually rescues the unlikely knight.Dove Gray,the heroine who in every way epitomizes the 'English rose',is suddenly shunted out of a sheltered and fettered existence in her attempt to get her parents out of a financial scrap.She decides to take up a position as an au pair to the children of a wealthy Arab sheikh.She is interviewed by the hero,a close friend and confidant of the sheik.

The Knight

I don't recall his name so I will refer to him as 'the beast'.'The beast' fits the tall,dark,rugged and formidable stereotype of the typical romance novel of the 1970s.He has this jagged scar across his jaw that came from the time he saved the life of the sheik.'The beast' seems to disapprove of Dove and her slow learning curve.Yet, he is passionately taken by her beauty.

The Story

Dove Gray struggles to get accustomed to Arab customs that have her confounded and miserable.'The Beast' doesn't make life easy; with his endless censure of her activities at one end and his tormented lust at the other.He asks the sheik if he can marry her.The sheik being hospitable and quite indebted to the hero consents immediately.They are married much to the horror of our poor damsel.She eventually breaks the thing off.'The beast' is devastated but nevertheless lets her go.She slowly comes to terms with her stifled attraction and affection towards this vulnerable rock with a core of whipped cream.They eventually marry and 'live happily ever after'.

I flipped through the pages of 'The Son of Adam' faster than I turned the raciest portions of 'The Da Vinci Code', I giggled at the pathetically unromantic confessions of love and at the end I cooed when the hero begs her to 'save him'.The appeal of a Mills and Boon novel doesn't lie in its saccharine coated pill of delusion or in its soap operatic thrill.It lies entirely in the fact,that despite being badly written,it carries an irresistible pull.Happy hundred Mills and Boon!

Love in the time of Facebook

2008-11-02T21:25:00.006+05:30

Most web 2.0 enabled young adults find themselves experimenting with Facebook sometime or the other.Despite its questionable usability and the bizarre terms and conditions,the 'Info' page is the first page people encounter(not counting the fact that it's one of the simplest pages to use on Facebook).The information page allows users to fill in their date of birth,relationship status,job information and a bit about their religious views.While users have considerable control over what they enter in most fields,the relationship status field is probably the most laughable with terms peculiar to social networking websites.Here is a dig at all the options that exist in the 'relationship status' menu and the less obvious implications of each one of them.

What they read and what they might just mean!

Single :

It's not that I need a 'partner' to validate my happiness. No I'm not desperate.I just need a date for Valentine's day and New Year's eve. As much as I love Facebook, I can't spend my weekends crawling from one site to another.

I'm actually not single,but a little harmless flirting never hurt anyone.

Okay,I'm not single but I have way too many folks from the family on my friends list.I'm afraid that if they get to know the real story they will squeal about it to my parents (a common dilemma faced by young Indian people engaged in covert courtship).

In a relationship:

I'm a lot cooler than all you single people. Ha ha!

I'm not really 'in a relationship'. I just picked this option to make it look like I've got a 'life'.

Married:

I'm single but I don't want weird friend requests from potential stalkers.

In an open relationship:

So I like to swing. At least I'm honest about it unlike those 'in a relationship' types who tell the whole world that they're 'single'.

It's complicated:

I want attention! The least you can do is visit my profile when you read my relationship story.

A Dash of the Exotic

2008-10-27T19:52:00.003+05:30

Aravind Adiga's Booker prize win for 'The White Tiger' and a reading of 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' got me thinking about the appeal of the indigenous.'The White Tiger' deals with the great Indian class struggle(I haven't read it yet,the reviews and newspapers are my sources) and 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' deals with the eternal strife of the Afghan people (women in particular);enough to have the west sit up and take notice.There is an unwritten rule that I like to call the curse of the great Indian novel;Indian writers need to gain validation in the west in order to gain so much as a compliment from their compatriots.

It seems that a best selling book involving the Indian subcontinent or the middle east must fulfill the following criteria.

- It must conform to a commonly held misconception.
- It must must arouse a condescending sense of pity in the reader.
- The writer must be represented by an American or European agent.
- A first novel is an advantage.
- It must be written in English peppered with indigenous references.

While I loved reading 'A Thousand Splendid Suns', and as an Indian I feel proud when Indian authors gain prominence; I sometimes wonder whether we,in our zest to heap praise upon what we consider to be 'native but mysteriously exotic',overlook the quiet greatness that is staring us in the face.I do not question the methods,the craft or the potential of these writers .I'm just a tad concerned that we may have missed out on the wit of a potential R.K. Narayanan, or the melancholic romance of some obscure middle eastern bard.

It is one thing to offer encouragement and quite another to overestimate achievement.

Growing Up

2008-10-24T20:05:00.004+05:30

With growing up comes a sense of loss,of death, of something gone awry and not quite right.It isn't quite the same as altering superficially with age and remaining youthful at the core.Something within hardens,toughens and turns into an impenetrable lump that cannot be swayed or moved easily.

Perhaps some of the aftermath spills over to the blog.I started the blog as a chit of a 21 year old with no concrete intention whatsoever.It was intended to be a place to recuperate. I used to call it 'Alone all the Way'. I wrote about darkness,distress,disillusionment,dichotomy and a lot of other things beginning with other letters of the alphabet.A year later I reinvented myself as 'La Diva'; so as to say,'I cerebrate therefore I am apathetic'.

My apathy was pronounced in the way I scourged for anything and everything that would make the blog appear a tad off tangent. I was apathetic enough to say that I loathed the empty blubbering of contemporary literature. My nonchalance was enough to start a whimsical campaign to 'plunge platitude down the drain',to write scathing things about Dan Brown's fiction writing skills and to drool over Dostoyevsky and lament his misfortune.

Now,the growing up starts.Just as a raw yearning gave way to apathy. The apathy slowly makes way for the ambivalence that has no end.The intensity fizzles out. There is just a lurking sense of the nebulous.

The aging spirit; a full circle it doth make.

The Art of Complaining

2008-10-19T12:00:00.003+05:30

Being mugged and robbed was like opening Pandora's box. I have now become aware of a slew of things I would have otherwise overlooked. For instance, the art of filing a police complaint in a place like India. Law enforcement in India is preceded by the reputation of magnanimity its officers bear.Owing to previous instances where police officers have refused to accept complaints filed by civilians,it is now illegal for the cops to refuse the same.The cops have decided to overcome this tiny glitch by altering the nature of the complaint.

I initially filed a complaint for theft.My complaint contained a detailed description of all the stolen items,the incident and that of the offender.The subject of the complaint read 'Theft of purse containing the following'.While I was busy writing things down,the cops questioned my dad about what he did for a living and what I did for a living.The moment I was done, the cops politely refused to accept the complaint."No madam, this is not the way. Don't write 'theft of purse', write 'missing of purse'", said the clerk(complete with the grammatical error).I soon realized that since I am devoid of any kind of pull or clout;I cannot coerce law enforcers to listen to me unless I have the government of India sitting snugly in my pocket.I duly wrote 'missing of purse' in another version of the complaint,which was sealed, accepted and filed by the officer on duty.

It gives me a sense of cold comfort that he overlooked the use of the word 'stolen' in the body of the modified complaint.

An Interview with the Diva

2008-10-15T16:21:00.003+05:30

My friend Rajat suggested that i try this out.So here goes.Know thy blogger better!

WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
Not to my knowledge

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
A few days ago,curled up in my bed all alone.

DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
It's legible and has a nice slant to it so I guess yes.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
I prefer fish and seafood to meat.

DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
Not human kids,do dogs and puppies count?

IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Maybe.

DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
Sarcasm? Who does justice to sarcasm these days?

DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yes

WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
I want to but I'm not sure if my insides do.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
I don't eat cereal that much.

DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
No. I prefer sandals or letting my feet go commando.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Anything with chocolate.

WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Facial expression or its lack thereof.

RED OR PINK?
Pink!

WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
The fact that I love cynicism.

WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
My pet rabbits, and all other animals that I've known and loved and are now no more.

WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Dark brown cuordroy pants and no shoes.

WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
An apple

WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
The sound the keys of the keyboard being hammered upon.

IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
A deep,misty blue.

FAVORITE SMELLS?
The smell of coffee,dogs(very offensive but very comforting) and new books.

WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
That's classified information.

DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO TAGGED YOU?
I wasn't tagged by anyone, but the person who suggested this seems real nice.

FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH?
Football(what Americans call soccer)

HAIR COLOR?
Black

EYE COLOR?
Brown

DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
No

FAVORITE FOOD?
Pasta

SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Scary movies

LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Deception

WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Deep blue

SUMMER OR WINTER?
Summer

HUGS OR KISSES?
I love to get both but prefer giving hugs.

FAVORITE DESSERT?
Chocolate fudge with ice cream

WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
'The Rainbow' by D.H. Lawrence

WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
The table is my mouse pad!

WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT?
A silly reality show followed by a sillier soap opera.

FAVORITE SOUND?
The ticking sound of a dog's feet.

ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
The Beatles

WHAT IS THE FURTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
Uh Kolkata?

DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
I can read the thoughts of dogs(I think I can).

WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Kolkata(known as Calcutta when I was born).

Spammed

2008-10-15T14:23:00.004+05:30

Given the encouraging number of hits this blog gets (an average of 10 per day), I disabled character verification for the benefit of those who wish to comment on the blog.It has come to my notice that there has been some spam related activity in some of the older posts.I have no other recourse but to enable verification. So dear reader,please do not cringe every time you have to type that annoying little character string to prove that you are not a machine. The inconvenience is deeply regretted.

An Obsession with the End

2008-10-04T12:29:00.003+05:30

Why do writers,those aspiring to snag the 'dark and brooding' tag,obsess with death? Is it driven by the dread of posterity, the novelty of astral projections or by the embarrassing dearth of subject matter? For me it had to be the irresistible allure of immortality; fueled by the gore of goth, peppered with the subtlety of Sufi and tempered by the terse verse of a certain Ms. Emily Dickinson.

Here is an excerpt from a Dickinson inspired poem I had written as a supposedly angst ridden teenager.

Where to,does the winding path lead?
Covered with sand and cobble stones,
It must be the sleep that my soul will need need;
As I walk this path alone.

If that was death by verse circa 2003,here is death by verse circa 2008.

Sitting perched on higher ground,
I watch her lying,swaddled in a shroud.
Her lips are pursed,her eyes tightly bound,
Her arms folded,lest she be aroused.
I cannot,by the parchment kneel,
My own faint breathing I cannot feel,
For though she and I were once one;
Our present disparity cannot be undone.

The obsession continues as the verses continue to kill.

P.S.- Gone is the age of 'Death be not proud'. This is now the epoch of 'Death, thou art a dead bore'.

The Portrait that Paints Itself and Remains Incomplete (Part II)

2008-10-02T11:50:00.002+05:30

There stands an incomplete portrait.The canvas is stretched across the easel. It has yellowed with age since its untimely abandonedment.The diva strolls into her studio,with the sun in her hair and the floor caressing her bare feet.She cocks her head to one side to study the fruit of half baked cerebration.It isn't normal for subject matter to age with the portrait,but it has happened.

Take 1:Time for some damage control.We don't want self portraits that remind us of Dorian Grey.So the diva picks up a brush,with the right blend of several shades of paint to impart the botox effect.

Take 2:The Dorian Grey effect is achieved but the botox has rubbed off some of the distinctive vanity.All self portraits are supposed to be vain,but how in the name of art do you dab the right amount of vanity?

Take 3:Now the portrait looks vain enough.The diva still sees platitude smeared at one minute corner.Bring in the varnish,let's dissolve the flaw and be done with it.

Take 4:The background and foreground look like a nightmare from a book of kitsch.The diva rips the canvas into two and watches the asymmetrical parts fall to their death.

Take 5: The Diva decides to mend it by sticking the parts on to a blank sheet of canvas.The two parts look like pieces of a puzzle that need to be forced to fit together.

Take 6:Perhaps self portraits are not meant to be perfect.The portrait is now scarred and left to heal itself.It will paint itself and remain incomplete.

On the Fence Passing Judgement

2008-09-28T13:39:00.000+05:30

Why is everlasting joy the forte of the spiritual writer while despair is the niche to which the existentialist is condemned?

The Diva Does a Ballad

2008-09-28T13:08:00.004+05:30

I have lived in a cocoon;
In comfort,in oblivion,
As still as forgotten carrion,
Like a moth that doesn't see the moon.

I've emerged from my sleep;
My wings fine and feathered,
Not bound nor tethered,
No boundary too fickle or steep.

Now how I shimmer;
My back cleaving from the strain,
Of intrepid flights made in disdain,
My memory; the hope of yesterday's glimmer.

P.S. - A Lousy attempt at being Sylvia Plath

Sitting Pretty in a Corset

2008-09-25T21:33:00.003+05:30

She sits pretty in a corset,
Emancipated,free and uninhibited.
Her face is flushed,she gasps for breath;
She still sits pretty in her corset.
How will they measure her worth?
By the inches of her waist?
Perhaps,by the swing of her gait.
Or maybe by the number of suitors who wait,
In suspended thrall,to court her.
How she sits still as a picture,
Emancipated,free and uninhibited.
How will they gauge her depth?
By the inches of her heel?
Or perhaps by the way she conceals
Her nerves of steel.
So she may deign to impress
By playing the damsel in distress.
She sits,still and pretty in a corset.
Emancipated,free and uninhibited.

P.S: Older,wiser and a feminist.

Coming of Age

2008-09-21T01:06:00.004+05:30

The only thing worse than getting a year older is having to deal with it on a Monday(which happens to be tomorrow).I feign nonchalance as I write this piece.My eye flickers towards the astrology website opened in another browser tab.All the years of agnosticism,objectivism,skepticism and cynicism culminate to nothing as I flush my stoic rejection of 'the concept of destiny' down the drain.I gain a sense of relief as the horoscopes don't seem offensive(as a matter of fact they never do),and no news is always good news.

Speaking of futuristic intent; there is plenty as far as this blog is concerned.Readers may look forward to a year of nasty narcissism,nastier tantrums and the nastiest kind of antagonism.There will be plenty of rants with wayward references to insignificant fiendish things, and enough critiquing to make slander seem harmless.

On the bright side; none of it is personal.Just plain and simple vanity.