Avatar

I watched Avatar yesterday. Was really impressed by the movie. Awesome animation! After coming home, I read the Wikipedia article on the movie, which quoted its director James Cameron as saying that though he had had the idea since the 90s, he could make the movie only now because the technology needed to catch up!

What appealed to me in this movie is also what makes me go in awe about good science fiction- the writer's imagination. It is a wondrous talent to be able to create a whole world just out of your own brain!

The movie is set on a distant moon Pandora which is inhabited by a humanoid species called the Na'vi. Now, while I admired the imagination of Cameron in thinking of concepts like the avatars, one-mind-in-two-bodies, each Na'vi having his own bird, hanging mountains etc, I also noticed that Pandora and the Na'vi were too much like the Earth and the humans respectively. The Na'vi have the same anatomy as the humans (the only exception being their tails. Someone in the movie calls them 'blue monkeys'), their blood is red too, they too feel the need to cover up their private parts, their females too have breasts and a softer voice, they too are organized into families and villages, in their society too, the chief is succeeded by his own son, and even, their women wear big ear studs! The ecosystem of Pandora also has trees and flowers and mountains and waterfalls and dogs and horses and hippos. The gravity too seems to be similar because the Na'vi do all the things in exactly the same manner as the humans on the earth.

Whereas that need not be the case at all. The life that inhabits a far-away planet or moon may be nothing more than microbes, but who may be so vicious that they make it impossible for humans to survive on their land. And that land itself may be so different that the human technology becomes redundant there.

What I am trying to say is that there is much greater scope for imagination for a story that is set in a faraway moon.

I saw Avatar as an allegory for imperialism and that is how I reacted to it. Because Pandora was so much like Earth, I saw it as Earth itself. And because the Na'vi were so much like humans and were victimised by invaders, I saw them as the indigenous populations of all non-European continents. The men in the movie then became the Imperialists and Colonists of Europe.

When we read history, we just read facts. A few days before, I was reading V S Naipaul's 'The loss of El Dorado', the central theme of which is ruthless colonialism. But when you watch a movie, you feel the pain of what happens.

From the beginning of the movie, our sympathies are with the innocent Na'vi. We fall in love with their idyllic life, their beautiful forests and their trusting hearts. So, when the marauding military planes burn their whole village, and blow up their sacred trees, we feel the horror of the act. I felt it. The Na'vi however do not get dispirited and mobilize support from other clans to fight the humans unitedly. The military commander of the humans reacts to this by launching a pre-emptive strike on them. These are the words he uses to inspire his men, "They are trying to terrorise us. But, we will fight terror with terror!" And all the men nod vigorously in support. How familiar that philosophy is to all of us today!

Because Avatar is a movie, the good-hearted Na'vi win in the end and send the evil humans back to where they came from and live happily ever after. They got so lucky only because it would have been terrible for us to see them getting so unfairly killed. In actual history, Colonialism won in every corner of the world and mercilessly wiped out the indigenous populations.

There's another thing. The ending is too optimistic. Just because the Na'vi have defeated the humans once doesn't mean the humans have given up their quest. The Na'vi have only won a battle. The war may just have begun. There is no reason why the humans would not attack them again. That perhaps is the realm of sequels.

"A language is a living thing. A patois born in soldiers’ camps not so long ago became Urdu, whose beauty ravishes our hearts. To love Urdu for her low origins and her high refinements, for her generous heart and her reckless love, is not to give up Punjabi. What a mean economy of love and belonging it must be, in which one love is always traded in for another, in which a heart is so small that it can only contain one jannat, one heaven. How fearsome must be this empty land where each new connection must inevitably mean the loss of all roots, all family, each song you may have ever sung in the past. Any ghazal-maker, any Mareez, I think, would flee from such a hellish wasteland. But my region, where Kalidas Gupta Raza continues to sing his passion for Urdu, is different. If Hindi is my mother-tongue, then English has been my father-tongue. I write in English, and I have forgotten nothing, and I have given up nothing."

Vikram Chandra, in the article 'The Cult of Authenticity'

The White Tiger

I liked this book. On my own scale of Greatness, I would call it 'Very Good.'

The book was widely talked about after the Booker Prize and so I knew that it was about Balram Halwai, who was a driver once and had murdered his master, writing his life story to the Chinese President. Now, I didn't really believe that somebody, Indian or otherwise, would write letters telling his story to the head of another country. I decided the writer had tried to be over-smart. Plus, I read some reviewer saying that the book was gimmicky. So, I had no desire at all to read it.

A few days ago I spotted it on the shelves of British Library. This time, I thought of giving it a try.

First, the pluses.

1. The book is written very lucidly. It is an engrossing book. My definition of 'engrossing' is that even when my eyes fall shut with sleep, I force them open to read some more. This book is like that.

2. The narrator is a driver. And Aravind Adiga has adapted the narrative language to the level of a driver very well. There is not one difficult word in the whole book, because the driver obviously cannot know such words. The language, the way of speaking, is totally believable.

3. The way the driver tells us his story too is believable. He is speaking into a tape recorder. No, he is chatting with the invisible Chinese Premier and letting the tape recorder record it. Now, it usually happens that while speaking, we leap between topics quite easily. We may have started telling one thing, but in-between, we remembered something else and started talking about that instead, and only after some time do we realize that we have got off the track from our original topic, and so come back to it. But if we were to convey all that information through writing, we would not allow ourselves to digress that way. We would first finish one topic neatly, and only then move on to the next. So, the way a person would tell us something orally is different from the way the same person would tell us the same story in writing.

It is an achievement of Aravind that the driver genuinely seems to be talking. The book seems to be just a (grammatically edited) transcript of the driver's talk.

4. I liked how the driver boasts to us of his smartness and intelligence- he really believes that he is very smart- but reading further down, we can see for ourselves how naive and ordinary he really is. Isn't this true for us too? The others' view of us is often quite different from our own grand misconceptions about ourselves.

5. The story of the driver's poverty is absolutely true. While reading the book, this thought had come to me again and again that, "Yes! This is how it is! He's an honest writer!"

6. The characters too are very well drawn. Though, I cannot believe that the Balram's granny would have been as mercenary as he and her letters to him make her out to be. I particularly liked Balram's master Ashok's characterization. He thinks that he is a very genial and gentle master. His father and brother think the same and admonish him again and again for it. Balram thinks the same and loves him for it. But he, and we, slowly realize that Ashok too is no less cruel than masters usually are with their servants. True, he is very soft-spoken with Balram, never shouts at him, gives him good food to eat, increases his wages regularly. But- and it is only with time that Balram realizes this, and still later, that he begins to resent it- he is indifferent to Balram. His relationship with Balram is purely opportunistic. Balram is easily replaceable. He is no more than a human machine to him.

And that is how most masters are.

7. Balram Halwai never says 'he had sex with her'. He says 'he dipped his beak into her.' I found that euphemism cute.

Now, the minuses. The minus, in fact. It is the same thing that had kept me away from the book in the first place. The whole premise of Balram wanting to write to the Chinese Premier just does not seem believable enough. Balram is an entrepreneur. And not a naive one either. In fact, he has become a rather shrewd man towards the end. I cannot imagine such a man suddenly turn so innocent and ingenuous that he thinks of writing to Wen Jiabo to explain entrepreneurship to him and, in the process, tells his entire life story, even the fact that he is a murderer at large. I cannot imagine a real-life Balram Halwai doing that. The writer has forcibly made him do it.

Could Balram not have recorded his tapes directly for us instead of using the excuse of the Chinese Prez? The entire narration would have remained the same even then. Only it would have been much more believable, for me at least.

Nostalgia

I can never remember this song beyond its first two lines but I just love it. I often sing its two lines in a loop.

A bunch of my classmates, batchmates and seniors had gone to Rendezvous at IIT-D in 2004. Anika, Nandita and I hung out together. We had an exhilarating three days. I revelled in the freedom. We all slept on mattresses in a large, common hall in one of the IIT girls hostels. I love sleeping like that.Sleeping on a mattress on the floor has festive connotations for me. In my childhood, whenever there was a function at home, or at a relative's home, mattresses would be arranged on the floor of a room and we would all lie down, elders and children, talking till late in the night. Anyways, so we really enjoyed our days at Rendezvous. On the last day of the fest, we kept awake the whole night. We walked on the IIT roads, talking, laughing. I loved the idea of walking so freely at 10 in the night, and feeling not the slightest doubt about the safety of it. Then, we saw something wonderful.

A group of boys, all obviously IITians, were walking on the road as one horizontal line, the arms of each wrapped around his neighbours, dancing together and singing happy, happy songs in loud unison. The song that they were singing at that moment was 'Shirdi waale Saai baba'. Since then, I've loved this song. It is associated with those anonymous guys celebrating the success of Rendezvous. A desire was born in me, to sing like that some day, to sing in wild abandon, in the middle of the night, not caring for the world, just singing and dancing to vent out the exuberance in my heart. I am smiling even as I write this. Really, that is an image I cherish.

Nostalgia- it's such a funny thing, isn't it? It means nothing. It is not real at all. Yet, it is so real. Since yesterday, the theme of nostalgia has been coming up again and again.

Simran's house is at a 10-minute walk from mine. She is one of my best friends from college. Someone who, I say, reflects me. There is a market right behind her street. During college, I've made innumerable to-and-fro trips from her house to the market. She was the topper of our class. I always kept running about for the Magboard, and was quite careless with my notes etc. When the sessionals or the semester exams stared right into my face, I would run to Simran with my half-baked notes and get all the deficient notes photocopied. With time, I realized how foolish that was. So many times, I would find that in the bulk of the material-to-be-photocopied, I had got those notes xeroxed which I had already. So, I told my friends to not get any notes photocopied for me henceforth during the session. It was easier to get them all in one go from Simran in the end.

Whenever I go to that market, I usually take the road in front of her house, 'her' road. Yesterday too I did and saw her Kinetic standing outside her house. For a moment, I could have imagined that I was still in college and I only had to ring her bell and she would come out. "Aslam!" I smiled. We had named her Kinetic 'Aslam', Kaminee's Activa was 'Zeenat', Kanchan's I don't remember and mine, I think wasn't named. I stopped there, gazed at 'Aslam' for a moment, clicked a pic of it, and called up Simran in Australia. "Guess where I am standing right now?" I laughed.

I had thought then, of writing this post on Nostalgia. Silly sentimentality, isn't it?




Later, I tried to remember about how the vehicle had become 'Aslam' but drew a blank. Soon after I returned from the market I went to Jassu's house. Jassu and I met Swedha at Stu C. We had a leisurely time under the white or the orange lights of the Stu C, the roads, the University market and then, the UIET parking. The old UIET, I mean. In the last semester of my engineering, our college had shifted to a grander building. But, for me, UIET remains the beautiful building I spent seven semesters in. We were all feeling so good. The silly sentimentality was at play again.

It was with their group that I had realized my 'Shirdi waale Sai Baba' dream. In early 2006, our college fest Goonj was going on. I was with my seniors' group, of which Jassu and Swedha are a part. We were late for the rock show. So, we stopped at the Stu C, bifurcated ourselves and played Dumb Charades for hours, till the last light went out. I vaguely remembered yesterday that Kaila had stood on a bench and had tried to flap imaginary wings, desperately trying to make us guess his movie but we were all helpless with laughter. Swedha vaguely remembered VJ's turn when he pointed frantically at the Stu C and tried to enact houses made of bricks. After shuffling out of the Stu C, all of us had walked down a footpath, I had suggested that we play Antakshri aloud and the others had readily agreed. That night, I had walked on the roads of PU, singing songs with my friends, caring not a bit about the world.

I go to the University every now and then. I do not feel sentimental about it. But sometimes, I do. Especially, if I am with a friend who is a part of fond memories.

Today morning, I was back to UIET again. It was the center for the TISS entrance exam. My seat was in the hall which used to be our Biotech lab. I was happy to be there, I liked looking out of the window, onto the PU stadium looking lush green in the bright sunlight. After the paper, I walked for sometime on the terrace. This was where we all used to stand, I thought about a spot. That was where we used to sit studying before the sessionals and the vivas, I thought about another. I was happy to be there. Yet, this was a subtle happiness. 'Happiness' is probably too strong a word; it would be more apt to say that I was pleased to be there. Pleased, that's all. All the while, I was fully conscious that the building was mine no longer. I did not regret that the least bit. I smiled as my imagination conjured a scene- I am being offered the chance to relive my college life, and my eyes pop out in shock and I say, "No! Thank you! I do not have the energy to do it all again!"

The past is the past. Firmly behind. Nothing more than vague memories that bring pleasure.

Aha! As I wrote '...that bring pleasure,' I remembered another thought that I had recorded a few days back. The thought was that memory is so malleable. We can see what we want to see and forget that other things, which do not fit the story we want, ever happened. I, as I am today, am the end-product of all the experiences of my life so far. But, do I remember those experiences? No, not many, and even those that I do remember, I remember them the way I want to, not the way they really were. I know the end-product, I know the broad things that happened, and I can script the story the way I want. "I turned out this way because this thing happened to me." "This characteristic of mine is because of that thing," so on and so forth. In the beginning of this post, when I had written about 'Shirdi waale Saai Baba', I had asked myself whether the IIT Rendezvous was indeed the first time I had heard that song. I thought for a moment but could not remember any previous memory. So, I decided that yes, it was the first time I had heard of the song. You see my point? Such a definite statement made on the basis of such an arbitrary memory. The fact that I cannot remember something is no guarantee that it did not actually happen. And equally, the fact that I can remember something is no guarantee that it actually happened.

Ever since childhood, I have had this notion that my life is a novel in progress and one day, when I am at the end of the life, I will compile all the chapters and a book will be ready. A narrative voice always keeps talking in my mind. It is as if a writer is writing down every moment of my life on the book of my brain and he speaks out each word that he writes. What I am realizing is that the words written on the brain are evanescent. The brain can simply forget.

That is why, I think no autobiographical tale is truly autobiographical. Mine certainly won't be, if I set to write it today. I will try to be fully honest but my memory will limit my honesty. I won't remember everything, and my imagination will quietly fill in the gaps. I will not even realize that it is not my memory, but my imagination, that is speaking.

This is also why, I think, that Nostalgia always seems so golden. The present is a hard fact, a reality. It is unalterable. The past is a fiction. We can take the events that make the past, throw spotlight on some, leave out others and weave any story about ourselves that we like. The only condition is that that story should offer a plausible link to the person that we are today. But, on second thoughts, even that is not necessary. Because, it is only the people who were there with me in my past and are still with me who will be able to object that what I say about my past is not what actually happened. But, I think, that if I insisted that the story was true, they would get doubtful about their memories and finally shrug their shoulders and accept my version. "After all, she would remember about herself better than we do," they would think. The truth is that I do not remember much about myself. My friends don't remember much about me. I don't remember much about my friends. We vaguely remember a few of the countless things that we did together or talked about. We vaguely remember the overall story. The fine details are for the imagination to conjure and fill up. And, nobody will be able to dispute anybody's version of those fine details.

Nostalgia is really a funny, stupid thing. It is my constant companion. I am always getting nostalgic about one thing or the other and feeling good about it. When I was in Bangalore, I had written a poem titled 'Nostalgia.' The road between the Infosys main campus and my office building used to remind me of the road behind UIET and that lingering image had inspired that poem. A month back, I imagined that I was back in Bangalore, travelling in a Volvo over the Silkboard bridge, then passing the Singasandra bus stop on the Hosur Road and finally getting off at the E-City bus stop. I find that the crowds on the stop are still the same. I walk down to my office, past it, on that road, feeling so good to be back again, then I walk back to the green building of my office, and call my friends. I watch them come down the stairs, get their bags checked...etc. When I was actually in Bangalore, yes, I enjoyed it, but at the back of the mind, a reel of restless thoughts would always keep droning about which I've already blogged enough. My mind was certainly not as unclouded as it appeared to be in that nostalgic vision which left me, predictably, feeling good and missing Bangalore.

Really, I have the bad habit of telling 'once upon a time...' fairy tales about my life.

Physical feats!

I was randomly searching for ways to make walking more fun or to set for some higher goal in my walking routine. My current best is 13.33 minutes per mile, that is, 9000 steps per hour.

I came upon Racewalking. The current Olympic record in racewalking for women is 20 km in 1 hr 25 min. That is about 17,650 steps per minute! My eyes just popped out at that figure.

There was more to come.

I came across 'Centurions.' These are the guys who have done a 100 miles in less than 24 hours. 100 miles means about 200,000 steps in 24 hours. My usual fast walking speed is 8500 steps per hour. If I were to attempt the 100 miler today, I would have to keep walking at my fast speed for 24 hours non-stop! The people who do that are racewalkers. They walk at speeds much higher than mine.

These mind-boggling statistics told me how much farther I can go with my body. I am inspired.

Piano Stairs

Why taaya and chaacha?

Mother's sister is maasi. Mother's brother, maama. Father's sister is bua. But father's brother? He could be chaacha or taaya. I found it interesting to note that father's brother is the only relationship in which the age-based heirarchy matters. This becomes even more curious when we consider that the father himself uses only one word- bhaai- for all his brothers. He has to use the adjective vadda/bada and chhota in order to tell whether a particular brother is elder to or younger than him. Why then do his children use the distinct words for his elder and younger brothers?

On Activism

"We're so self-important. So arrogant. Everybody's going to save something now. Save the trees, save the bees, save the whales, save the snails. And the supreme arrogance? Save the planet! Are these people kidding? Save the planet? We don't even know how to take care of ourselves; we haven't learned how to care for one another. We're gonna save the fuckin' planet? . . . And, by the way, there's nothing wrong with the planet in the first place. The planet is fine. The people are fucked! Compared with the people, the planet is doin' great. It's been here over four billion years . . . The planet isn't goin' anywhere, folks. We are! We're goin' away. Pack your shit, we're goin' away. And we won't leave much of a trace. Thank God for that. Nothing left. Maybe a little Styrofoam. The planet will be here, and we'll be gone. Another failed mutation; another closed-end biological mistake."
— George Carlin

A Mag full of stories

I grew up on a regular diet of children's magazines- Champak, Chandamama, Nandan, Nanhe Samrat, Pankhariyaan etc. After eighth or so, I read 'Suman Saurabh' religiously. When I grew up further, the magazines dried up. The only youth mag that I knew of in my college was JAM. And, it was not available in Chandigarh.

The previous generations of Indian writers had 'The Illustrated Weekly of India.' This magazine published Indian fiction in English. Now, there is no such magazine of repute! Except, The Little Magazine. This is how this magazine is described in its website:

"TLM is South Asia's only professionally produced independent print magazine devoted to essays, fiction, poetry, art and criticism. It is also the only publication to offer full-length novellas and film and drama scripts, complete with camera and stage directions."

Our family has subscribed to Punjabi Tribune since decades. This newspaper, like all all Punjabi newspapers, publishes stories and short stories once a week, usually on Sundays. But, English newspapers never publish fiction.

The Hindi women's magazines like Sarita, Vanita etc. carry stories but English magazines do not.

England has had a tradition of family magazines and literary magazines which serialized novels and published short stories. Most of the most famous writers of Europe started their careers from these publications.Charles Dickens published many of his novels in his own magazine-'Household Words', which was a weekly 'magazine for the whole family.' It contained fiction and discussions on family-related matters and also on the outside world. This is how Dickens described his goal:

“ We aspire to live in the Household affections, and to be numbered among the Household thoughts, of our readers. We hope to be the comrade and friend of many thousands of people, of both sexes, and of all ages and conditions, on whose faces we may never look. We seek to bring to innumerable homes, from the stirring world around us, the knowledge of many social wonders, good and evil, that are not calculated to render any of us less ardently persevering in ourselves, less faithful in the progress of mankind, less thankful for the privilege of living in this summer-dawn of time. ”
—-Charles Dickens

I am curious to know if any one of you too have observed the lack of fiction in English magazines and newspapers. And, if you have ever wished there was some place which was dedicated to presenting English fiction for the masses in India, an adult-version of 'Champak', so to say.

Pavittar Paapi

Nanak Singh is one of the most famous and respected names of Punjabi literature. His novels were bestsellers when he wrote them (from the 40s to his death in 1971) and they are bestsellers still. Since childhood, I had been aware that his Pavitar Paapi and Chitta Lahu were remarkable novels. So,now when I decided to read him, I first picked up Pavittar Paapi.

I finished the book in 1 day. It is a short novel of 168 pages and is written very tightly. No superfluous words or ramblings, just the story. While you are reading it, you are totally in its grip.

The protagonist of the novel is Kedar. He is twenty-one year old and has just passed his B.A. (a big thing in those days) when his mother passes away. His father died long ago. In his grief, he leaves his home and just wanders off. He is near Rawalpindi (this tale is set in the pre-independence, undivided Punjab) when his last penny is exhausted.

He tries to find work the whole day but cannot and so has to sleep on the pavement with hunger clawing his stomach. The next morning, he again searches the market for a job. He goes to a watchmaker and asks him if he has any use for a B.A. or a watchmaker. He is both. The shop owner, a heavy sardar, gives him watches to repair. He does them excellently. Impressed, the sardar hires him on the spot. Kedar asks him for some advance to buy his food. The sardar tells him to wait till the man he replaces, comes to the shop and hands him all the important documents.

Panna Lal comes in a little while. He is a middle aged father of four, who once used to be very rich, but is now forced to feed his family with this job of a mere thirty-five rupees a month. Sardar tells him that he need not report to work again. Panna Lal is stupefied. He does as directed, bows before the sardar and comes out.

After some hours, a little boy hands over a letter to Kedar. It is from Panna Lal. In it, Panna Lal has cursed him for stealing his job. "You have done a paap. Now, you will be responsible for my family's starvation. You will be responsible for my death." Kedar is stunned. (So was I. I found it remarkable that Panna Lal did not bear any grudges to the master whom he had served so loyally and who had still thrown him out so unceremoniously. Is this the conditioning of a capitalist system?)

Kedar runs out on his hungry stomach, searches for Panna Lal everywhere but cannot find him. After hours, he returns to the shop.

In the evening, a young girl of sixteen, Veena and a younger boy, Basant, come to the shop, looking for Panna Lal, their father. Kedar is lying on a cot outside the shop. He gives them whatever explanation comes to his mind. He tells them that the sardar had to send their father to Bombay on an urgent business and that he will work in their father's stead till then. He asks them where they live and promises to visit their mother in the morning. The relieved children go back.

He goes to Maaya, Panna Lal's wife the next morning. She believes his story. She is much impressed by his gentle manner and education and offers to find a room for him in the same street. He readily agrees.

From then on, he becomes the son of the family. Maaya actually starts calling him her son, and he too calls her Beji like her own children. The children too become very fond of him.

Months pass by. He keeps inventing justifications for Panna Lal's failure to come back. His pay is much higher than Panna Lal's. He however keeps only a very small portion of it to himself and gives the rest to Maaya, telling her that it was Panna Lal's salary.

Kedar doesn't realize when he falls in love with Veena, who is very naughty and frank with him and calls him 'Bhraa ji' (elder brother) all the time. At one level, he recognizes that letting himself feel those feelings will be a betrayal of Maaya's trust. At another, he can see nothing, feel nothing, but Veena. His inner torment starts showing on his health. Veena is very concerned and tries to look after him. He avoids her. When she persists, he even shouts very rudely at her. With tears in her eyes, she retreats.

Later, Kedar is so overcome by remorse, and by his passion, that he can hold himself no longer. He walks over from his terrace to Veena's where she lies sleeping on a cot. He wakes her up, takes her to a quiet place and very awkwardly, tells her the truth.

Veena is flustered. She has been betrothed to someone since her childhood. She has never seen her fiance, has only heard about him, but still loves the idea of him and is looking forward to her marriage. She has never seen Kedar as anyone but a brother. She hates Kedar now, for poisoning the sweet, innocent affection that there was between them. Her whole being is repulsed by even the idea of marrying Kedar. Yet, she also worries that Kedar may die if she doesn't say 'yes.' She doesn't want her dearest Bhraa ji to die!

After a few days, they come face to face. Kedar notices that she was much worried by his absence and that now, she is talking to him without the word Bhraa ji. Veena notices that Kedar is not meeting her eye. Finally, Kedar insists on her calling him Bhraa ji. He apologises for his confession, cutting Veena in mid-sentence just as she starts talking about their marriage.

Kedar now avoids Veena totally, busies himself in helping Maaya make the arrangements for Veena's wedding and even sells his ancestral house to meet the expenses. Veena grows more and more anxious about him, even suggests that they run away but he declines.

Veena gets married. Kedar leaves the street soon after. He come to a new city, establishes his own watchmaking business, and regularly remits most of his earnings to Maaya. He no longer bothers about himself, about his looks or his health. He works maniacally the whole day, surviving on just cigarettes and black tea, which keeps getting stronger with time.

One day, a middle-aged man comes looking for him. He is Panna Lal. After sending Kedar the letter which accused him of being a paapi, he had tried to commit suicide but could not. He had then gone off to Haridwar but even two years of meditation could not pacify his mind, so he had returned, expecting to find his house in ruins and his children dead from hunger, but had been astounded to see them doing so well. He apologises to Kedar for the letter and insists that he go back with him.

Kedar is reluctant but feels the pull of Maaya's motherly love. Then, Panna Lal breaks the news. Veena is dead. She never could be happy at her in-laws, she loved only Kedar and fell ill and returned to her parents, and in the delirium of fever, told her mother everything. "How Maaya repented!" Panna Lal says. "If she had got even a hint, she would have gladly married you two. What could have been better! Now, she wants you to marry Vaani's younger sister."

Kedar is stunned. He refuses to go. He dies that night.

In this novel, I was disgusted by Panna Lal's character. What a weak man!

Kedar on the other hand is portrayed as an ideal man. Someone cast in the mould of maryada purshottam Ram.

The complex love story is handled well. One new technique that I learned through this novel was that of 'The other side Updates.' The narrator first tells us the story from one character's point of view. He shows us his or her reaction and what he did following that scene etc. Then, he goes back in time, and replays the same event from the other character's point of view.

Overall, I really enjoyed this novel. Plus, it made me feel proud to see the words of my mother tongue come together to make something so good.


P.S.: I hope that with practice, I learn to write succinct reviews. My apologies for the way-too-long post :-).

On the Subject

Write only about that which is absolutely essential to your soul. Life is short, so live by your own lights. Vikram Seth

A good forward

Written By Regina Brett, 90 years old, of The Plain Dealer, Cleveland , Ohio

"To celebrate growing older, I once wrote the 45 lessons life taught me. It is the most-requested column I've ever written.
My odometer rolled over to 90 in August, so here is the column once more:

1. Life isn't fair, but it's still good.

2. When in doubt, just take the next small step.

3. Life is too short to waste time hating anyone.

4. Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends and parents will. Stay in touch.

5. Pay off your credit cards every month.

6. You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree.

7. Cry with someone. It's more healing than crying alone.

8. It's OK to get angry with God. He can take it.

9. Save for retirement starting with your first paycheck.

10. When it comes to chocolate, resistance is futile.

11. Make peace with your past so it won't screw up the present.

12. It's OK to let your children see you cry.

13. Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.

14. If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn't be in it.

15. Everything can change in the blink of an eye. But don't worry; God never blinks.

16. Take a deep breath. It calms the mind.

17. Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful.

18. Whatever doesn't kill you really does make you stronger.

19. It's never too late to have a happy childhood. But the second one is up to you and no one else

20. When it comes to going after what you love in life, don't take no for an answer.

21. Burn the candles, use the nice sheets, wear the fancy lingerie. Don't save it for a special occasion. Today is special.

22. Over prepare, then go with the flow.

23. Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age to wear purple.

24. The most important sex organ is the brain.

25. No one is in charge of your happiness but you.

26. Frame every so-called disaster with these words 'In five years, will this matter?'

27. Always choose life.

28. Forgive everyone everything.

29. What other people think of you is none of your business.

30. Time heals almost everything. Give time time.

31. However good or bad a situation is, it will change.

32. Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.

33. Believe in miracles.

34. God loves you because of who God is, not because of anything you did or didn't do.

35. Don't audit life. Show up and make the most of it now.

36. Growing old beats the alternative -- dying young.

37. Your children get only one childhood.

38. All that truly matters in the end is that you loved.

39. Get outside every day. Miracles are waiting everywhere.

40. If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else's, we'd grab ours back.

41. Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need.

42. The best is yet to come...

43. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.

44. Yield.

45. Life isn't tied with a bow, but it's still a gift."

Ladies and Gentlemen, Please put your hands together to welcome the Beautiful, Charming, Gentle, Sweet, Witty, Vivacious BHOPI!!!

A tale through years

Amol-Aalia
…A story that never was

“Chalte, chalte, mere yeh geet yaad rakhna
Kabhi alvida na kehna”

As the radio gently blew out the melody into the sleepy, dark room, the clutter in Amol’s mind was swept away by a pristine image- a beautiful girl in a serene, delicate white sari, wisps of her loose hair playing about her face, glowing against a dark background. It was Aalia as she had looked when she sang this song in the Farewell.

Aalia...that was the name he remembered the most from his college.

The old memories started playing out in his mind. Aalia’s first day in college. She had joined two weeks late. Amol still remembered the yellow suit she had been wearing that day. He couldn’t think why, but a thought had crossed his mind then- “Maybe I’ll remember this day someday.” Then, during a free lecture, Malati, who was also Aalia’s roommate, had introduced her to him and other friends. That day, Aalia stepped into their group, and his life.

Everyday, his eyes would search for her the moment he entered the class. Even today, he could visualize the different dresses that she wore. His face became radiant whenever she talked with him, his heart longing to treasure every word she said. The twinkle of her eyes as she spoke would sparkle his days. Her laughter was heavenly bliss for him. Thinking about those seemingly surreal, magical moments he had once lived, a smile unconsciously alighted on Amol’s face.

But it had not been so easy then!

Four years! For four years, he had suffered in silence. For four years, he had suffered his silence. He would demur at the slightest thought of telling his feelings to her. Such an idea would instantly conjure up images of her saying “No” and turning her back on him forever...it seemed too big a risk to take.

And so, the time flew by- talking with Aalia, laughing with Aalia, thinking about Aalia but not once letting her know his little secret.

Today, lying down in his dark room, Amol was remembering Aalia. Again. It’s not that he doesn’t love his wife. He dotes on her, but he loves Aalia too. Still. At times like today, a question often haunts him…

“What if I had told her?”

*

“You know Mama, a new boy joined our class today, and he’s already become my best friend.” Six-year-old Ahaan crackled excitedly, as soon as he saw his mother.

“That’s very nice sweetie. What’s your friend’s name?” Aalia asked her son, taking him in her embrace.

“Amol.”

Aalia was stunned. She had heard the name after years. The name of the boy she had loved in college.



Afterword: I wrote the above story in the second year of college. It was my first love-story. I felt self-conscious to submit it for Quiet, our college magazine. A few of my friends teased me about it too. "It's not autobiographical," I bashfully tried to clarify. I always showed all the Magboard magazines to my parents as soon as they came out. But while showing this edition of Quiet, I felt a little apprehensive. Will my parents too think that it was autobiographical? They read it. Papa said it was a good story and that was that.
At the time, I had considered this to be my finest story. I re-read it in August this year. The story written four-and-a-half years ago now seemed naive. I made changes. Then, I juxtaposed its older and newer version and realized that the changes that I made were autobiographical. The earlier story was written according to my then beliefs, and the newer according to the belief now. Here is the changed story:



A story that never was

“Chalte, chalte, mere yeh geet yaad rakhna
Kabhi alvida na kehna”

As the radio gently blew out the melody into the sleepy, dark room, an image tiptoed into Amol’s drowsy mind- a beautiful girl in a serene , delicate white sari, wisps of her loose hair playing about her face, glowing against a dark background. That was how Aalia had looked when she sang this song in the Farewell.

Aalia Gujral...the name he had thought he would never forget.

His eyes still closed, he pushed away sleep and tried to remember. A few scenes came back, random, hazy, vague. That surprised him. Time had obfuscated the memories he had thought were unforgettable and he had not even come to know! He tried to put those scenes in order.

Aalia’s first day in college. She had joined (two weeks?) late. She was wearing a yellow suit that day. He had not known why, but a thought had crossed his mind then- “Maybe I’ll remember this day someday.” Then, Maalti, who was also Aalia’s roommate, had introduced her to all of them. Aalia had stepped into their group, and his life.

Amol-of-today smiled as he saw in his mind that young, lovesick Amol, whose eyes searched for Aalia the moment he entered the class, whose face became radiant whenever she talked with him, whose heart yearned to treasure each word she said. The twinkle of her eyes sparkled his days. Her laughter made him euphoric . Those days that he had once lived seemed so surreal and fairy-tale-like now! How simple, how innocent he had been!

For four years, that callow lovesick Amol suffered in silence. For four years, he suffered his silence. He cringed at the slightest thought of telling his feelings to her. Such an idea instantly conjured up images of her saying “No” and turning her back on him forever. It seemed too big a risk to take to that novice in love.

And so, time flew by- talking with Aalia, laughing with Aalia, thinking about Aalia but not once letting her know his little secret.

College ended. Their paths bifurcated . They hadn’t thought it was possible but they lost touch. He hadn't thought it was possible but he fell in love once more, married, had kids. The name he had thought he would never forget dimmed and dimmed and dimmed. Till a random radio song today brought it back in light.

Steeped in those tender memories of his first love, his heart became wet, soft. He mentally smiled at and blessed Aalia- dear Aalia- and the dear naïve boy he once was. Then, he remembered the long-forgotten question which, once upon a time, had afflicted him terribly:

“What if I had told her?”

*

“You know Mama, a new boy joined our class today, and he’s already become my best friend.” Six-year-old Aahaan crackled excitedly, as soon as he saw his mother.

“That’s very nice sweetie. What’s your friend’s name?” Aalia asked her son, taking him in her embrace.

“Amol.”

Aalia nodded but said nothing. She had heard the name after years. The name of the boy she had loved in college.

A video

I've just read about Peter Elbow on Wikipedia. He made a career out of his writer's block!

Binodini

Today morning, I finished Tagore's novel Binodini. The Bangla original is titled 'Chokher Bali.' 'Chokher Bali' literally means 'sand in the eye, an irritant.' This is the friendly nickname that the two female protagonists, Asha and Binodini, give to each other in the novel.

There are some books upon reading which you feel that even you can write something similar. Then, there are some which awe you totally, which humble you, make you bow your head before the talent and the intelligence of the man who could write like that, make you realize what a long way you have to go. Binodini falls in the later category. I think I will re-read the novel in a few months to fully grasp its complexity.

Many times while reading it, I put the book down, simply to reflect over the awesome characterization. "Have any of my characters ever had such psychological depth?" I asked myself. The answer was a straight 'No.' "Will I ever be able to write such characters?" I made a mental note to do specific practice of characterisation.

The main mover and shaker of the novel is Binodini. Her character is also the most complex.

The novel is set in the first decade of 20th century. Binodini is a young widow. A childhood friend of her mother, Rajlakshmi, comes to her village. Binodini is glad to have somebody to fuss over and takes very good care of Rajlakshmi. The old woman becomes very attached to her. When it is time for her to return to her son's home in Calcutta, Binodini cannot bear to let her go away. So, she takes Binodini also with her.

Thus Binodini comes to Mahendra's house. Mahendra is the only and much pampered son of Rajlakshmi. Asha is his girl-wife, Asha. Mahendra and Asha are newly married and can see nothing beyond each other. Binodini sees their conjugal bliss and feels jealous and lonely.

The first proposal to marry Binodini had actually gone to Mahendra. He had rejected it saying that he was not yet ready for marriage. She had then got married to her husband, and within an year had become a widow. Now, staying in Mahendra's house and seeing how superior she is in every respect to Asha, she starts imagining 'what could have been'. She could have been the mistress of this house.

Asha and she become very good friends. Asha looks upto her. She acknowledges Binodini's superiority to her in intellect, knowledge, household skills and beauty. Simple-minded as she is, she is eager that Mahendra too should meet her best friend, appreciate her virtues and befriend her.

Mahendra is indeed curious about the new woman in the house. But he haughtily decides to ignore her, thinking it beneath him to show interest. But when Binodini ignores him even more, his interest is aroused. Subtly manipulating his innocent wife, he sees her. Her beauty impresses him.

Slowly, Binodini seduces him. It all happens very subtly. Asha does not even realize the mischief.

Bihari is Mahendra's best friend since childhood. He is almost like the second son of the house. Bihari is an idealist. He feels great compassion for the poor and also associates with the Nationalist movement. He holds Binodini in high regard. Binodini too respects him very much. What Bihari thinks of her begins to matter to her. She now wants to live upto the image that Bihari has of her. The image of an intelligent but simple and kind-hearted woman. She begins to turn away from Mahendra. Her attempts at seduction stop.

But it is too late. Mahendra has fallen for her. The more she ignores him now, the more determined he becomes in his pursuit. Slowly, she starts directly rejecting him, and then, even insulting him. Yet, he does not stop. His desire for her only becomes more acute.

Soon, the matters precipitate. Asha discovers what has been going on. She is heartbroken. She had always worshipped Mahendra as her god. Now, the god falls from his pedestal.

When his mother confronts him about Binodini, Mahendra declares that he will leave home with Binodini.

Binodini goes to Bihari's house and confesses her love for him. He however only suggests that she return to her village. She agrees.

Soon after she goes to her village, Mahendra too appears there. The villagers are scandalized. They decree that such an immoral widow cannot be allowed to live there.

Binodini has no choice but to leave. Mahendra is glad that she will henceforth be totally dependent on him and will have no choice but to accept his love. She realizes her lack of options yet does not yield to Mahendra. In fact, she treats him with contempt, and the fact that he clings to her despite such treatment, disgusts her further.

Towards the novel's end, Mahendra's sleeping self-respect wakes up. He decides to return to his home. Upon returning, he finds that he has lost the regard that his mother and wife used to have him for him. His wife forgives him, but from now on, treats him as an equal. She is no longer the reverential bride she used to be.

Bihari proposes marriage to Binodini. But, she refuses. "Marry a widow!" she says. "What a shameful thing to do! You may be generous and reckless enough to court such a disaster, but if I let you do it, if I exposed you to social calumny on my account, I should not be able to lift my head up again."

It is said that later, Tagore regretted this ending. I too did not like it.

If she had said, "People will regard it as a shameful thing. And, I cannot let you suffer social calumny on my account," I would have understood it. She loved Bihari so much that she could bear to stay away from him but could not bear one bad word spoken about him. But what she said was, "Marry a widow! What a shameful thing to do!" This shows that she herself believed that widow remarriage was a shameful thing. And this is what I found incongruous with her characterization. Throughout the novel, Binodini is potrayed as a rebellious woman. According to the society and the religion, widows are not supposed to have any physical needs. She, on the other hand, feels no shame about her hunger for love and consciously lures another woman's husband in order to satisfy it. It seems shocking therefore to see her talk like an ideal widow when she declines Bihari's proposal. If she thought that marrying a widow was shameful, why did she offer herself to Bihari before?

I also found Binodini's words above remarkable on another count. Don't they show how our sense of right and wrong is shaped by societal conditioning? Because we have grown up with the idea that widow remarriage is ok, we raise our eyebrows at Binodini's words. She would have raised hers if we told her that there was nothing shameful about her marriage with Bihari.

The Godly dimensions of Knowledge

So many times I feel so awed
By how little I know
There is so much to learn
And, so little time!

Whenever I think about this, a sudden frenzy overwhelms me. I imagine myself drinking in greedy large gulps from the ocean of knowledge. And, I despair, because I am not drinking fast enough and there is so much to drink that my life will fall too short.

Books ought to be cheaper

I read the historical novel 'Roothi Raani' by Munshi Premchand today. The book had two novels in 100 pages and it cost, well, Rs 28.

I like buying books and spend hours at bookstores. I first pick up all the books that entice me. Then, when I do a mental calculation of how much the bill will be, I have to question myself about each of them. "How badly do I want it?" "Do I really want to own a copy of this? I can read it in the library." There are some books which I won't get in the library. So, I have to buy them.

I do these deliberations each time I buy books. Yet, I end up spending quite a fortune. Even as I make the payment, a voice inside screams that I can still leave them all on the counter and walk out and save my money. I never do that and guiltily offer my debit card to the cashier. I ought to be frugal. I am living off on my savings.

But it's so easy to buy a book of twenty eight rupees! The bestselling books of vernacular literature are fabulously priced. I went to Punjab Book Center today and bought 3 Punjabi and 2 Hindi books in Rs 178!

Chetan Bhagat's books cost Rs 95 and that was a major reason in his success. You don't think twice about buying him because it's just Rs 95!

I once bought a book 'Story and Structure' from a roadside second-hand book stall on MG Road in Bangalore. It cost Rs 30 and featured 43 short stories by as many great writers. I was shocked to have got such a gem for so little. It must have been a part of the University curriculum for literature.

I do understand that cheaper books will not be as fine in quality. That doesn't bother me much. The size of the book piracy market should be a sufficient proof that 1) We (usually) prefer to pay for the content and not the fine paper. 2) We are very much willing to pay for content until it becomes too highly priced and pulls itself out of our reach.

I also understand that the books that cater to niches are necessarily expensive. Cheaper books can be profitable to the publisher only if the sales volume is large.

And that is my point. If a book gets cheaper than a bottle of sauce, and also does satisfy some need- whether the need for relaxation or escape or knowledge- then, it will definitely achieve a large sales volume because people will then be able to make guilt-free, impulse buys of books.

The Blog enters Phase-2

I raised my eyebrows as I read the following quotation:

"In a much quoted passage in his inaugural address, President Kennedy said, "Ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country." It is a striking sign of the temper of our times that the controversy about this passage centered on its origin and not on its content. Neither half of the statement expresses a relation between the citizen and his government that is worthy of the ideals of free men in a free society. The paternalistic "what your country can do for you" implies that government is the patron, the citizen the ward, a view that is at odds with the free man's belief in his own responsibility for his own destiny. The organismic, "what you can do for your country" implies that government is the master or the deity, the citizen, the servant or the votary. To the free man, the country is the collection of individuals who compose it, not something over and above them. He is proud of a common heritage and loyal to common traditions. But he regards government as a means, an instrumentality, neither a grantor of favors and gifts, nor a master or god to be blindly worshiped and served. He recognizes no national goal except as it is the consensus of the goals that the citizens severally serve. He recognizes no national purpose except as it is the consensus of the purposes for which the citizens severally strive."
— Milton Friedman

I was astonished because it was a totally new point of view for me. I usually accept quotations on their face value. This one I did. Around three years ago, my group in college had organized a panel discussion on this quote. The movie Rang De Basanti had just been released and we were all in the grips of patriotic fervor. The general sentiment of the panelists as well as the audience had been 'Yes! We will step forward and do things for India. Kuchh kar ke dikhayeinge.'

Idealism that is woken up by a movie and sleeps back after a few days is so shallow! And gullibe is the mind which lets that happen. I cannot claim much intellectual improvement since. I am still not good at critical analysis. Writers need that skill.

*

You are not going to see any more rants on this blog. And as for that October rant about being a failure and all that, well, it was a phase and it's gone now. Things are back on track. On the writing track.

Till now, this was the blog of a 'wannabe writer'. So, you saw all of my confusions etc. here. I am no more a 'wannabe writer.'

Inspired by the vernacular literature

I bought five-six Punjabi books recently. Three of them were by Amrita Pritam. I read them first.

I finished the novel 'Eho hamaara jeevana' by Dalip Kaur Tiwana an hour ago.

It was after a really long time that I am reading Punjabi literature. The experience was delicious. Something written in words that you use naturally is so easy to read! I understood the text automatically, without consciously processing what I read. I felt that those words 'belonged' to me! As indeed they do. With English, the words, the settings, the idioms do seem like good friends but a thin barrier remains. They remain a little foreign.

So, 'the effortless reading experience' was the first point I made a mental note of.

Secondly, I noticed how natural, how plausible the dialogues seemed. Now, that was of course because I picked up good books (though Amrita does get so poetic at times that her prose seems stilted). I found 'Eho Hamaara Jeevana' excellent in this respect. I really admired the authoress' grasp over the rural Punjabi idiom. She has written exactly as a rustic would speak.

In fact, I am writing this post mainly in order to note this point. Authentic dialogue is the soul of a story. A writer need not use metaphors. He need not use heavy-duty words (in fact, he mustn't!). What he needs to do is to present his characters accurately, and to make them speak and act as a real person in that situation would.

Today, I also read a story by Munshi Premchand. Sadgati. There too, I went "Wow!" over how natural his dialogue seemed. I have read some works by Premchand over the years, but all in English.

I've decided to go to Punjab Book Center tomorrow and pick up a few books of Premchand in Hindi and more Punjabi books.

I want my English work, especially the dialogue, to seem as natural as in Hindi or Punjabi. That is a benchmark.

I feel like a failure

Yesterday, a young lady, the daughter of a family friend, had visited us. She is in her second year of B.Sc (Hons) Biotech in a PTU college. When I asked 'what next?', she said 'A M.Sc. from Amity.' 'Why Amity?' I asked. She said, 'Because it offers Masters in Nanotech'. I (i think successfully) dissuaded her from Amity and encouraged her to think of good schools in both India and abroad.

In those moments, I was totally awed by the scope that education offers for improving one's life. I was an outsider to that girl's life. So, I could see it clearly how different her life would be if

1. She does no M.Sc. at all
2. She does it from Amity
3. She does it from a US univ

And, I felt that I do not want to deprive myself of a similar opportunity. Two years from now, with the same girl sitting in my drawing room, I should not look at her and feel like someone who also could have done things but did not do them then and regrets that now.

Around two weeks back, a doubt had hit me with force- "Do I really want to do an MBA? Am I not doing it just in order to escape from the insecurities of being a full time writer?"

For that whole week, I could not prepare for CAT. There was an utter lack of motivation. I went back to my book. Then, on a Sunday, I went for a walk with a friend who is in the first semester of her MBA. We asked each other about what was new in life and she told me about her idea of starting a college mag. She told me how she envisaged it, and I found myself ideating with her about what else could be done, and what would work and what not. I was in the middle of the discussion when I thought, "Hello, it is her college!" I just loved being that passionate ideator for those few minutes. It was a glimpse of the girl I used to be during the Magboard meetings in UIET. To think ideas with a purpose, ideas that would be executed, ideas that would make a difference. I wanted to do more of that! That was the moment when my ambiguity about taking the CAT ended.

There is a 'Me' who wants to do nothing but write. That is the 'me' who worked full-time on my first book for the past one year. But there is another 'me' who craves action, who craves ideation and wants to be on the run all the time, starting a company, bringing out a magazine or a book, being 'in charge'. Both these 'me's are creative. But they seek to create different things. The 'writer me' wants a sedentary, uncluttered lifestyle, which is totally opposite to what lights the eyes of the 'aspiring entrepreneur me.'

The reason behind my yo-yoing between the CAT and the Book in the last one month is that I feel that I have to choose between the two of them. I am unable to make them coexist. I feel helpless in the hands of my unruly mind. I try to discipline it, to make it stick to time schedules which accomodate both the things, but I don't think there's been a single day in the thirty gone, when I succeeded in doing that. People do so many things simultaneously, they do a hundred things in one day, and I am unable to do just two.

Externally, everything is perfect. My family, my friends believe in me, support me. But internally, I am making a mess of my life. There is a countdown to CAT. The exam is not going to wait for me to sort myself out. It's there, the date fixed. And days are passing by, untouched by me. If this continues (and of course it will, like it has for all the October till now), I will not do as well in CAT as I KNOW I can. And then, I will feel miserable. I know that also. I am setting myself up for misery. I realize that and yet fail each day to get myself out of the rut.

Time Management. I've never been good at it. Except in classes seventh, eighth and ninth. Till date, I cherish the extreme focus with which I studied in those years. I would have a proper timetable, accomodating each subject, in capsules of 15 or 20 minutes each, learning things in advance, doing homework the day it was given, not one night before it had to be submitted as I used to do earlier. I still remember how good, how much of an achiever I used to feel then.

I've tried to replicate that ever since, on and off. But that phase never really came back. And in coll, I even stopped trying, because I had discovered passion. I ate, drank and slept Magboard for three years. The whole experience was 'magical.' That made me believe that Passion was a worthier goal than Discipline. With Discipline, you can make yourself enjoy anything, but with Passion, the enjoyment comes naturally. I believed now that one should be doing things that they really wanted to do, because then one does them automatically. You do not even have to tell yourself to do them.

Whenever anybody asks me why I did not go for a Masters in Biotech, I say that during the four years of college, I was doing both Biotech and the Magboard. I did the Biotech related things only when I had to, but Magboard came naturally to me. That made me decide Magboard-like activities as a career goal over Biotechnology.

I still think that Passion is a stronger driver than Discipline. But, I have now come to believe that the best state to be in is: Passion+Discipline. Passion alone did not make me efficient.

I worked on an autopilot for a whole year on a book. That motivation to work just came out of me. I did not even have to make conscious efforts. I worked whole days or nights (depending on whether I was being a day person or a night person at the moment), my work dominated all my thoughts, I even dreamed of words and possible links between them, or the improvements I could do to a particular sentence. My work was all I did for the past one year. Yet, I cannot claim to have had fifteen hour weekdays.

Because, I was not very efficient in my work. For one, I would waste at least an hour each day on TV. Mindlessly. But while doing something better, like reading newspapers, inner voices would make me restless. "You are wasting time," they would exhort, "get back to work!" If anybody asked me to do anything, I would immediately start making mental calculations of how much time it would cost me and would grimace inwardly. And yet, when I was working, I would automatically check my mail and orkut accounts every few hours. I am a part of a mail group of friends. I realized that I was often the most active participant, the one who replied to every mail, almost as soon as it came. I did not like that thought. It made me feel too vella compared to others.

Whenever I would feel too guilty about my time wastage, I would read interviews of writers. "See, that guy worked on his book for ten hours each day. You work more than that. So, you are doing all right."

But, twelve hours of pure, unadulterated work give you a joy, a satisfaction that is almost divine. Tweleve hours interspersed with distractions and time-wasters feel cluttered, unclean. They leave you unsatisfied.

I will not downplay my effort on the book. I did work on my book with full dedication. I felt proud that I could actually execute a whole book! But what I realize now is that I could have done it better. I was not efficient. Had I been, perhaps the work would have been finished by now. Or perhaps, I could have done some other interesting things alongside (learning French, Urdu, swimming and car driving were on my seriously-want-to-do list).

For so many months this year, I did not even take my evening walks. I would feel restless if I took them, would feel that I was wasting time and that I ought to be sitting at the computer at that moment, working on the book. I was obsessed with the book. I was passionate about the book. But I did not do it in the best possible way (I now think in retrospect) because I lacked the discipline.

September came and I started feeling restless for another reason. The book wasn't finished yet and CAT was approaching. I had always told myself that I would give myself three months of CAT prep. So, I ought to open my CAT books in September.

That is when the dilemmas began. The 'writer me' resented the fact that it was being asked to give the book's time to CAT. The 'MBA aspirant me' felt anxious if I spent too much time on the book.

I have wasted almost the whole of September. I didn't do much, either on the CAT front or on the book.

October too has gone similarly till now. And, I am feeling 'Yuck!' I am feeling these days like a good-for-nothing time waster, who will end up disappointing her parents and will be a nobody, who will just tell the girls sitting in her drawing room about what courses to opt for and where, feeling hollow meanwhile because she did not herself do what she now advises them to do and knowing that her advice would mean nothing to anybody, because failures like her were not really qualified to tell others about what to do.

Yes. A failure is what I feel like today. Because I have failed to make the best use of the opportunities I have. I have all the time in the world, I have all the support, all the resources, yet I cannot do two simple things. I started writing this post because I felt like crying. I had woken up after sleeping for three hours, feeling guilty and hollow. Have wasted yet another day. I feel so helpless before my own unruly mind! And yet, this is a mind that I am so proud of. If only I could discipline it! I am making this post public because...well, this angry, helpless, frustrated girl is also me.

In Pursuit of Happiness

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTO_dZUvbJA&feature=channel

Maps for Lost Lovers

I have since long wanted to explore the concept of 'honour killings'. So,when I read the description written on the jacket of 'Maps for Lost Lovers', I picked the book up.

One advice that writers are often given is that their first line, their first paragraph should be able to lure the reader into reading the bulk that follows. In this book, even the first chapter failed to do the trick. I found it too metaphor-driven. There was too rich a description of falling snow and a man standing in it. But I plodded through those pages because I had already been lured by the theme of the book.

This book tells the story of a poor Punjabi neighbourhood in London. Most of these immigrants are Pakistanis, Muslims. Lack of opportunities back home has forced them to migrate to England, but once here, they want to cling onto their Pakistani, their Islamic identity.

This orthodox neighborhood is scandalized when a twenty-five year old, twice-divorced girl, Chanda, moves in with a forty-eight year old, never-married man, Jugnu. The two lovers want to marry but they cannot, because Chanda's third husband has not divorced her. When she was still sixteen or so, her parents had married her to a first cousin in Pakistan. The man divorced him soon after. So, the parents married her to another man in Pakistan. He too divorced her. She then came back to England. Her parents and brothers felt much embarrased and shamed by her double-divorcee tag. But they knew how difficult it was now to get a good man to marry her. So, they arranged her marriage to an illegal immigrant. That man vanished the day he got his British citizenship. But, since he did not divorce her, she could not marry Jugnu till he had been absent for seven years. Not wanting to wait for so long, she simply moved in with him.

Her brothers kill Jugnu and her for daring to be so shameless.

The themes of this novel are the realities that we, the Indians, and more specifically, the Punjabis, are well familiar with.

Heer too was mentioned in one of the pages in the novels.

Heer and Ranjha loved each other but when her father discovered that fact, he married her off to Saida. She stayed cold to Saida. Then, Ranjha came to her marital home, in the guise of a jogi. Soon, she eloped with him. Her father's men caught up with the runaway lovers, and brought them back. Her father then agreed to marry Heer to Ranjha and asked him to go to his village and bring a baaraat. Ranjha happily went away. Heer's family poisoned her.

This tale is one of the celebrated love stories of Punjab.

What has fascinated me for many years now is the fact that each famous love story of Punjab has been a tragedy. To fall in love with somebody and to make a promise to marry him is to take the most important decision of your life on your own, and Punjabi women have traditionally not been allowed that freedom. If anyone did take that decision, she was ruthlessly crushed. And everyone agreed that that action was necessary. But then, such women became heroines in public imagination. That is why, there exists a shrine to Heer in Pakistan, where people go and pray to her as a saint. The people who are the descendants of those who had approved of Heer's murder. The people who themselves approve of Heer's murder and would do the same to their daughter if they discovered she too has run away with a Ranjha.

In this novel too, till Chanda and Jugnu are not dead, the people in the area taunt her brothers for being shameless, for just sitting at home, wearing bangles, watching quietly as a man carried their sister away. They are satisfied when the pair is killed. Then, after sometime, they start talking about two ghosts being seen every night near the lake of that town. Some talk about the two lovers having turned into a pair of peacocks.

Thus, another mythical love story is being born in the public imagination. In a few years perhaps, people would narrate 'The Love Legend of Chanda-Jugnu' with the same reverence and awe as they do the stories of 'Heer-Ranjha', 'Laila-Majnu' etc. And, even then, were any girl decide to become a Chanda and a boy, Jugnu, they would suppress them equally violently.

There were many sub-stories within this novel that I found very interesting:

1. A dying woman donates her heart. However, her son steals it from the hospital as soon as he learns that the heart of his white mother is going to be transplanted into a black man.

2. Suraya is an English girl who is married to a Pakistani cousin as soon as she turns sixteen. She has an eight year old son by him. One night, in drunken rage, he divorces her. "Talaaq. Talaaq. Talaaq." He says and the deed is done. He can remarry her now only after another man has married her and divorced her. Such is the Islamic law for remarriage. He says he loves her, is very sorry for the drunken divorce and wants to marry her but cannot bear to see another man 'having her' in front of his eyes. So, he asks her to go to England, find a husband and get divorced from him. She dutifully agrees, comes to England, and lives in great agony, away from her son, away from her husband. Many men want to marry her- she is really beautiful- but they won't divorce her. Meanwhile, her mother-in-law starts telling her over the phone that her son needs a wife, and so, if she will not hurry, he would have to marry somebody else; he cannot wait for her, forever.

Suraya is desperate. And, she fails to understand why it is she who is being punished, she who is going to lose her everything, when it was her husband who had made the mistake- of divorcing her.

3. A Christian priest tells the Sunday gathering at his church that two Christian lovers from their area, who have recently eloped, are sinners, and so will be condemned to Hell upon death. Then, he tells the people, that if they love those two souls and want their good, they should not help them at all- not give them food or shelter or money- because if they helped them, the two sinners would be confirmed in their belief that what they did was right.

It fascinated me, this whole idea of punishment- ruthless, heartless punishment- being an act of love. Of course, it is not a new idea.

The book's writer, Nadeem Aslam, talks about himself as a writer here.

Just a line

"Yes, I loved those movies. The problem was, I believed them too."

A friend said that about candyfloss romances like 'Kuchh kuchh hota hai." I loved the line!

On life, on writing- in general

Today, I was talking to a friend and I said something which I thought at the time was a cool statement.

"My best writing will come around fifteen years from now, provided I write through these fifteen years."

Right now, what I have to do is to live life fully. Take risks, suffer pain, suffer loses, enjoy thrills, feel the joys- because all of that will go into my writing. 'Pain' I dithered at writing that, I am a little afraid of pain (and that itself is material for a story- the lengths to which we go to avoid pain and how that changes our life fundamentally), but I do realize that pain is what makes a writer. Whatever. These are the years of exploration! Of myself. Of the world!

And alongside, I will write. Regularly. My voice will get firmer, my hand will get tighter, my strokes more confident. But all that will happen, provided I write. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. I'll have to remember to keep taking the next step after this one.

There is so much to look forward to! In my twenties. In my thirties. Life takes unexpected turns. I hope I am able to make the best of the turns it takes. As long as it lasts.

'The Year Of Experimentation' ends today!

Exactly one year ago, I had come back home, from Bangalore, from Infosys and from the security of a job, with nothing more than a vague ambition of being a writer and a sure knowledge that I was not made for the job I had been doing- software engineering.

This year, I've marked all the anniversaries with delight.

Aug-1: The anniversary of Job-leaving
Aug-3: The anniversary of Bangalore-leaving
Aug-5: Today

I could only hope for at this time last year, and I know for sure now,that the decision I had made was right. In the past one year, I have not looked back even once with regret. I have been happy. And that is why, I remember Bangalore with such fond nostalgia. That is the city that made me independent! I love the memories of exploring the city all on my own. In the past one year, my book has kept me busy and I've not really travelled. Now, once the work is all through, I really want to relive the joy of exploration. I am thinking of a week or two abroad or perhaps a trip across India by myself. Even the thought seems so exciting!

I had thought my first book would be a book of stories. There were some themes that I had pondered upon a lot for the past few years and I really wanted to resolve my thoughts upon them, by way of fiction. It just happened however, that a small idea which I had briefly twiddled with a few months before leaving, became my first book.

Vikram Seth is the writer I want to be. Among the things that impress me in his writing is his felicity with the language. He has a great vocab and uses words that, once you've looked up their meaning in the dictionary, make you go "Wow!" about the image they paint. So, naturally, it was my goal to acquire a similar trove of words.

The Barron's word lists were my touchstone. I had to know at least all of those words before I embarked upon my first book. That is what I had long since told myself. My brush with Barron's began in, I think, the third year of college.

After engineering came the one year at Infosys, and by the end of it and the beginning of my writing career, I was still struggling with those words. Of course, since I did not have the strict deadline of a GRE test date, I was not very regular with the lists, but I didn't neglect them altogether. I did do all the word lists at least twice, and quite a few of them upto five times, in these three years. What dismayed me was that each time I did a list, most of the words that I had learnt from it the last time, seemed just as strange to me.

That set me thinking. If I, who had been a good reader all through and who did have an above average vocab, was struggling so much with those words, what would an average student be going through? I sensed an opportunity. I thought about the shortcomings of Barron's and the strategies to overcome them. I developed the idea for a few weeks and showed the work to a few friends. Their reaction was mixed, the proportion of enthusiasm slightly more than doubt, but still mixed. This happened in April-May last year. Then, I applied myself to writing a story for a short story competiion, and the word-lists idea got stored in the cold bin.

When I came back home, I thought of working part-time as a SAT or GRE faculty somewhere, so that I could meet my current expenses without depleting my savings. So, I redid all the wordlists once more. This brought the idea back into focus.

Things took on from there.

'Wordy Tales' is now on the verge of completion. I tried my best to finish it by today, in honor of 'history'. But, it has spilled over. Still, it will be done in a few days and then, this exhilarating journey will be over.

The book is not what I had envisaged last August. It has changed, evolved. I feel proud of it.

So, today, the year of experimentation ends. Successfully! The biggest lesson that it has taught me is that perfectionism is humbug. Just do it, I have learnt; it may not be that great, but I will be able to improve it later. What is more important is to take the first step. At the time I started this book, I had not known all the fields of study that I would get into. All that came later. I used to do nothing because I feared that what I would do would not be good enough. I have learnt that 'doing something' is the smarter strategy. 'Something' can always be bettered; 'nothing' is hopeless.

When will the book finish?

I've been reading, or rather rereading, about Vikram Seth for the last one hour. And as always, feel a lightness in my hand and an eagerness in my mind to write, to write as he does. The same cool, enjoyable style, the same wonderful word plays.

What inspired my latest search on him was his interview published two days back on a website. It accompanied an announcement of his sequel to 'A Suitable Boy.' In it, when the interviewer asked him if he would be able to complete the new novel in the stipulated four years when he had taken seven for ASB, he said that he was a more seasoned writer now. At the time he had begun working on ASB, he had never written so much as a short story! He had not known when he had started the work that it would grow to such gigantic proportions. It had just happened.

As I usually do, I drew parallels of this phase of his with my own life. Currently, I am working on my first book. That stage is long gone when I was skeptical about whether the book would happen at all or if I would lose steam mid-way and all my enthusiasm about being a writer would fizzle out. That has not happened. The book is going to happen. People have been asking me, when. I've been telling them, as I've been telling myself, soon.

On the first day of the year, I had set myself a target of Jan 31. Then, I put it forward by another month. Then another. And so on.

The work is still not complete though it is near to the end mark.

The thing is that this is my first book. I've had to battle with crippling perfectionism and concomitant with it, self-doubts. Also, the scope of the book has grown much wider than what I had envisaged. First the roots, and then, the Indo-European stream came in and fundamentally changed my book, for much better.

Now, as things stand, I ought to complete my book by the end of this month so that I can get on with the other ideas that are waiting in the pipeline. Let's see.

It's the Blog's Birthday today!

While doing my work, I glanced at the cell to see the time, and saw the date and remembered.

Exactly three years ago, on this day, I had attended my first Bulls Eye class and after coming back home, had created this blog, rambling in my first post on the excitement about the future and the uncertainty too. Then, I had gone to the college to see off two dear seniors, I had thought at that time, forever.

Today, three years later, I return to this blog, after a long hiatus, a gap which reflects not laziness but busy-ness. This blog has stood a witness to all the uncertainties and dilemmas, it has documented my gradual but firm acceptance of my dream. It will speak again, hopefully soon, on how the journey till the first milestone has been. It will speak once that milestone has been reached.