... anagram of swine that's a body part&spell and landed in my blog, here's the answer: sinew
Update: OK, I've had three more identical queries from Australia and one from New Zealand so far. Something's going on Down Under. The question is, what?
Monday, January 08, 2007
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Book Review: Not On The Level, Michael V. Maddaloni
About two-thirds of the way into Not On The Level, one of the characters explodes in frustration,
Not On The Level is an engrossing coming of age story of a first-generation Italian American who goes on to build a successful career in the US Secret Service and subsequently in the private sector. The story begins at the beginning, as it were, in Philadelphia, with the birth of Joe De Falco, whose father has just died in less than admirable circumstances in World War II. Joe grows up in an extended family with his mother, sister, grand-parents, aunts and uncles.
The first few chapters describe, in some detail, Joe's Catholic upbringing at home and at school. Much of the narrative is given over to documenting the rules and traditions that govern life at home, school and church. Under the veneer of order, normalcy and regularity that elders, teachers and priests dictate, Joe encounters aspects of people's character that don't quite live up to the standards imposed by these institutions - a school official who's a pedophile, a sextant who steals from the church, a boy scout official who molests children, a grand-father who carries on an affair with his second cousin, and an uncle whose actions, while achieving their objectives (well, most of the time), are not exactly illustrations of moral, upstanding behavior.
Ever the bloke with the clever ideas, Uncle Sal is the purveyor of all things street smart. He encourages Joe to play with non-Catholics against the wishes of his mother (Joe's grand-mother) "because there were a lot more of them in the world than there were Catholics, and most of them were decent people"; he tells Joe to mumble pig Latin under his breath if he forgot the Latin responses on his very first day as altar boy; he coaches Joe to learn the answers to the questions on the exams from previous years (rather than preparing from scratch) because the teachers always reused old test papers.
Following high school, Joe decides to join the Marine Corps (when one of Uncle Sal's plans to help Joe make a quick buck and pay for college backfires). One would expect that the Marine Corps, given all the good, clean values it stands for, would be devoid of the kinds of ethical conflicts that are prevalent in, say, politics, but no. Drill Instructors at the Marine Corps, under pressure to perform and focused on their own career advancement, resort to cheating to improve their success rates.
The story is not much different in the US Secret Service where Joe begins a long career, in the US Attorney's Office with whom Joe works closely on his cases, or at the multi-national pharmaceutical company that he later joins as vice-president of security. If the stories of the underhanded, shady goings-on at all these institutions come as a surprise to the reader, then it serves to drive home the author's point - things are not what they seem or how they should be; things are not on the level.
There are a couple of different varieties of conflict that are at play in the story. At one level is the conflict between the interests of the individual and the institution; at another level, it is the tussle between Joe's two paternal uncles, Sal and Tony (an upstanding citizen who strives to keep Joe on the straight and narrow), for influence over the direction in which Joe's life is heading.
The book is most attractive for the endearing portrayal of a large, bustling Italian family and for the fascinating behind-the-scenes look at the Marine Corps and the US Secret Service. Having worked in both the Marine Corps and the Secret Service, Mr. Maddaloni succeeds in painting a realistic, absorbing picture of daily life in these institutions.
Perhaps for the same reason, however, the narrative reads, on occasion, like a report of some activity the author was involved in some time ago. This drawback is magnified because the story is told in first person. Apart from this and a couple of irksome errors (when Sal is referred to as Tony, the protagonist's other uncle, in a few instances), Not On The Level makes for a pleasurable read. This is served, in large part, by well crafted conversations, be it between family members or in the work place, and the warmth and sense of humor with which Mr. Maddaloni sketches his plot and characters.
If you're even the slightest bit curious as to what goes into the making of those people in the dark shades you see hovering around the President, Not On The Level is for you.
Another example of our tax dollars hard at work. The fucking U.S. attorney wanted the publicity, so he spent about a million bucks trying this case twice. The guy's not on the level and neither is the whole fucking U.S. attorney's office.These eloquent words illustrate the central message of Michael Maddaloni's second book - institutions function within the framework of rules which individuals seek to bend for personal profit at the expense of the larger good.
Not On The Level is an engrossing coming of age story of a first-generation Italian American who goes on to build a successful career in the US Secret Service and subsequently in the private sector. The story begins at the beginning, as it were, in Philadelphia, with the birth of Joe De Falco, whose father has just died in less than admirable circumstances in World War II. Joe grows up in an extended family with his mother, sister, grand-parents, aunts and uncles.
The first few chapters describe, in some detail, Joe's Catholic upbringing at home and at school. Much of the narrative is given over to documenting the rules and traditions that govern life at home, school and church. Under the veneer of order, normalcy and regularity that elders, teachers and priests dictate, Joe encounters aspects of people's character that don't quite live up to the standards imposed by these institutions - a school official who's a pedophile, a sextant who steals from the church, a boy scout official who molests children, a grand-father who carries on an affair with his second cousin, and an uncle whose actions, while achieving their objectives (well, most of the time), are not exactly illustrations of moral, upstanding behavior.
Ever the bloke with the clever ideas, Uncle Sal is the purveyor of all things street smart. He encourages Joe to play with non-Catholics against the wishes of his mother (Joe's grand-mother) "because there were a lot more of them in the world than there were Catholics, and most of them were decent people"; he tells Joe to mumble pig Latin under his breath if he forgot the Latin responses on his very first day as altar boy; he coaches Joe to learn the answers to the questions on the exams from previous years (rather than preparing from scratch) because the teachers always reused old test papers.
Following high school, Joe decides to join the Marine Corps (when one of Uncle Sal's plans to help Joe make a quick buck and pay for college backfires). One would expect that the Marine Corps, given all the good, clean values it stands for, would be devoid of the kinds of ethical conflicts that are prevalent in, say, politics, but no. Drill Instructors at the Marine Corps, under pressure to perform and focused on their own career advancement, resort to cheating to improve their success rates.
The story is not much different in the US Secret Service where Joe begins a long career, in the US Attorney's Office with whom Joe works closely on his cases, or at the multi-national pharmaceutical company that he later joins as vice-president of security. If the stories of the underhanded, shady goings-on at all these institutions come as a surprise to the reader, then it serves to drive home the author's point - things are not what they seem or how they should be; things are not on the level.
There are a couple of different varieties of conflict that are at play in the story. At one level is the conflict between the interests of the individual and the institution; at another level, it is the tussle between Joe's two paternal uncles, Sal and Tony (an upstanding citizen who strives to keep Joe on the straight and narrow), for influence over the direction in which Joe's life is heading.
The book is most attractive for the endearing portrayal of a large, bustling Italian family and for the fascinating behind-the-scenes look at the Marine Corps and the US Secret Service. Having worked in both the Marine Corps and the Secret Service, Mr. Maddaloni succeeds in painting a realistic, absorbing picture of daily life in these institutions.
Perhaps for the same reason, however, the narrative reads, on occasion, like a report of some activity the author was involved in some time ago. This drawback is magnified because the story is told in first person. Apart from this and a couple of irksome errors (when Sal is referred to as Tony, the protagonist's other uncle, in a few instances), Not On The Level makes for a pleasurable read. This is served, in large part, by well crafted conversations, be it between family members or in the work place, and the warmth and sense of humor with which Mr. Maddaloni sketches his plot and characters.
If you're even the slightest bit curious as to what goes into the making of those people in the dark shades you see hovering around the President, Not On The Level is for you.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Out of Babes' Mouths IV
The other day Big N expounded on the importance of relationships with friends and family. After a lengthy monologue during which I nodded and said uh huh a few times in agreement, he concluded with, "but familyship is more important than friendship."
Out of Babes' Mouths I to III.
Out of Babes' Mouths I to III.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Entrepreneurship: Alive and Kicking in Bangalore
India may be known to the business world as the land of the Tatas, the Birlas, the Narayan Murthys and the IITs and IIMs, but the first thing that hits you when you land in India and you drive out of the airport to your hotel or home is the number of shops lining the streets - big departmental stores, tiny shops selling paan, biscuits, chocolates and juices, roadside stalls selling savories and snacks, makeshift stalls for clothes or just men and women squatting on the pavement selling anything from flowers to toys to books.
A paan seller
Dry fruits and fresh fruits on a slow Sunday afternoon
I wouldn't be surprised if the number of entrepreneurs per thousand in India is the largest in the world, though I sometimes wonder how any of these businesses make any money at all. Some of these are just tiny businesses with just a table and a row of huge glass jars with some chocolates in them in the front room of a house (of course, that business may not be the enterprise sustaining the families).
A chaat stand
A peanut seller finds some shade
Of all the different examples of small business enterprises I've seen, the one that fills me with the most satisfaction is the food stalls operated out of tempos or out of the backs of Maruti vans. Because the vehicles are mobile, they are able to operate out of a small strip of pavement. These vehicles arrive at the designated spot (usually near construction sites of which there are untold numbers in Bangalore right now) with huge vats of smabhar, rice, curries and raagi (millet) balls, throw open the doors and set out the dishes. They also bring with them plates, glasses and jugs of water. There's usually a woman behind the vats serving laborers their breakfast, lunch or dinner.
It's thrilling to see this in operation. The food stall operators make brisk business and the laborers get home cooked meals, the kind they like, probably at even lower prices than the Darshinis.
Another small business enterprise that has gained popularity in Bangalore is the mobile beautician. With every little nail clipper, eyebrow tweezer and cotton ball squared away into their one big bag, the women zip around town in their two-wheelers and snip hair, clip nails, pluck hair, scrub away dead skin, massage tired muscles, moisturize, peel, wax, thread - in short, a provide a plethora of services - all in the comfort of their patrons' homes.
And from all accounts, the mobile beauticians make a roaring business. Building her client list mostly from word of mouth, M, one such beautician I know, works from 6 am up to 9 pm, seven days a week! And on many days she still does not have time to break for luch. At one point in her business, she got so busy that she enlisted her cousin as an assistant and it is a sight to see the both of them zipping through the community on their scooter, or one or the other of them walking briskly to make her next appointment, cell phones hanging around their necks.
With a 10th grade education in which English was part of the curriculum, M does a marvellous job of communicating with her various clients (most of whom don't know Kannada). She has a business card and a rate card and no Blackberry. It is a mystery how she remembers where she has to be at the appointed hour, but she does - she's never missed an appointment and more likely than not, it'll be her calling me to remind me.
Her drive and work ethic are nothing short of amazing, and her level of service exists in a rarefied world. When it comes to deciding whether to head over to a salon or pick up the phone to call M, the choice is clear.
And the day might not be far behind when that Blackberry makes an appearance.
A paan seller
Dry fruits and fresh fruits on a slow Sunday afternoon
I wouldn't be surprised if the number of entrepreneurs per thousand in India is the largest in the world, though I sometimes wonder how any of these businesses make any money at all. Some of these are just tiny businesses with just a table and a row of huge glass jars with some chocolates in them in the front room of a house (of course, that business may not be the enterprise sustaining the families).
A chaat stand
A peanut seller finds some shade
Of all the different examples of small business enterprises I've seen, the one that fills me with the most satisfaction is the food stalls operated out of tempos or out of the backs of Maruti vans. Because the vehicles are mobile, they are able to operate out of a small strip of pavement. These vehicles arrive at the designated spot (usually near construction sites of which there are untold numbers in Bangalore right now) with huge vats of smabhar, rice, curries and raagi (millet) balls, throw open the doors and set out the dishes. They also bring with them plates, glasses and jugs of water. There's usually a woman behind the vats serving laborers their breakfast, lunch or dinner.
It's thrilling to see this in operation. The food stall operators make brisk business and the laborers get home cooked meals, the kind they like, probably at even lower prices than the Darshinis.
Another small business enterprise that has gained popularity in Bangalore is the mobile beautician. With every little nail clipper, eyebrow tweezer and cotton ball squared away into their one big bag, the women zip around town in their two-wheelers and snip hair, clip nails, pluck hair, scrub away dead skin, massage tired muscles, moisturize, peel, wax, thread - in short, a provide a plethora of services - all in the comfort of their patrons' homes.
And from all accounts, the mobile beauticians make a roaring business. Building her client list mostly from word of mouth, M, one such beautician I know, works from 6 am up to 9 pm, seven days a week! And on many days she still does not have time to break for luch. At one point in her business, she got so busy that she enlisted her cousin as an assistant and it is a sight to see the both of them zipping through the community on their scooter, or one or the other of them walking briskly to make her next appointment, cell phones hanging around their necks.
With a 10th grade education in which English was part of the curriculum, M does a marvellous job of communicating with her various clients (most of whom don't know Kannada). She has a business card and a rate card and no Blackberry. It is a mystery how she remembers where she has to be at the appointed hour, but she does - she's never missed an appointment and more likely than not, it'll be her calling me to remind me.
Her drive and work ethic are nothing short of amazing, and her level of service exists in a rarefied world. When it comes to deciding whether to head over to a salon or pick up the phone to call M, the choice is clear.
And the day might not be far behind when that Blackberry makes an appearance.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Falling On The Tummy Is Serious Business
Little n turned 6 months nearly two weeks ago. She's progressed phenomenally from the mostly inert infant she was when we got home from the hospital. Initially she slept for a solid 23 hours a day. Eating and sleeping were her only two activities. She would sleep through diaper changes, loud noises, dress changes, hot summer days and cool nights with nary a whimper, sometimes even while feeding!
After Big N, who used to wake up every two hours on the dot, even at night, I wasn't sure if I should be thankful for Little n's habits or, frankly, be worried.
Now, six months later, she still sleeps through the night (hallelujah!), but is awake most of the day. She's also into putting her body into various positions - on her back, on her tummy, on her side, with head wedged against the side of the crib. She also does a really funny backstroke kind of a move on any flat surface that propels her backward at a fast clip.
The process that led to her falling on her tummy is rather intriguing. She first started out lifting her right leg and throwing it over the left, the rest of her body still hanging back. It took her a couple of weeks to figure out that the top part of her body needed to move too. After days of promptly flinging her right leg over the minute she was laid on her back, she finally fell over on to her tummy, but now her left hand was stuck underneath her chest. After a further few days she figured out how to pull her hand out.
The amazing thing is that none of this is learned, obviously. Each time she tried to turn to her side it was as if something beyond her control compelled her to do it. The same is the case with flipping on to back from her tummy which she mastered a few days ago. Now it's a constant flip-flop - on to her tummy, then promptly on to her back.
There is a fair amount of frustration involved. During the time she did not know how to get off her tummy, her neck got tired from keeping her head up and she'd let her head fall forward on the mattress, rest for a few minutes and then lift her head again. Even this got tiring after a few minutes and not knowing how to move from her position, she would start whimpering and looking around for someone to help her out. But none of this prevented her from promptly getting on her tummy the minute I turned her on to her back, her demeanor approximating that of someone working seriously on an important task intent on accomplishing it.
Now that she is able to get on her back by herself the next item on her agenda is to figure out how to move forward while on her tummy. For the present she's stuck in reverse gear.
After Big N, who used to wake up every two hours on the dot, even at night, I wasn't sure if I should be thankful for Little n's habits or, frankly, be worried.
Now, six months later, she still sleeps through the night (hallelujah!), but is awake most of the day. She's also into putting her body into various positions - on her back, on her tummy, on her side, with head wedged against the side of the crib. She also does a really funny backstroke kind of a move on any flat surface that propels her backward at a fast clip.
The process that led to her falling on her tummy is rather intriguing. She first started out lifting her right leg and throwing it over the left, the rest of her body still hanging back. It took her a couple of weeks to figure out that the top part of her body needed to move too. After days of promptly flinging her right leg over the minute she was laid on her back, she finally fell over on to her tummy, but now her left hand was stuck underneath her chest. After a further few days she figured out how to pull her hand out.
The amazing thing is that none of this is learned, obviously. Each time she tried to turn to her side it was as if something beyond her control compelled her to do it. The same is the case with flipping on to back from her tummy which she mastered a few days ago. Now it's a constant flip-flop - on to her tummy, then promptly on to her back.
There is a fair amount of frustration involved. During the time she did not know how to get off her tummy, her neck got tired from keeping her head up and she'd let her head fall forward on the mattress, rest for a few minutes and then lift her head again. Even this got tiring after a few minutes and not knowing how to move from her position, she would start whimpering and looking around for someone to help her out. But none of this prevented her from promptly getting on her tummy the minute I turned her on to her back, her demeanor approximating that of someone working seriously on an important task intent on accomplishing it.
Now that she is able to get on her back by herself the next item on her agenda is to figure out how to move forward while on her tummy. For the present she's stuck in reverse gear.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Weblog Awards 2006: Desicritics in the Top 10!
Desicritics has been nominated for the Weblog 2006 Best Asian Blog Award.
Voting is underway now and will go on until December 15th. Voting is restricted to one vote per computer in a 24-hour cycle. So if you've visted Desicritics and you like what you see, please vote. And if you haven't visited Desicritics at all, now is a good time as any to do so. Mosey on over, mate!
Voting is underway now and will go on until December 15th. Voting is restricted to one vote per computer in a 24-hour cycle. So if you've visted Desicritics and you like what you see, please vote. And if you haven't visited Desicritics at all, now is a good time as any to do so. Mosey on over, mate!
Monday, November 06, 2006
Red eyes from swimming or is it the computer?
Voices against my working on the computer all day began in a trickle, but have now joined together to form a raging river. First it was V, then Big N, then my parents, now even B, the lady who helps me around the house.
I came back from swimming today with bloodshot eyes. My eyes bother me every time I go swimming, but today was particlarly horrid. B took one look and said I had too much heat in my body and moved on promptly to blame the hours I spend in front of the computer.
I came back from swimming today with bloodshot eyes. My eyes bother me every time I go swimming, but today was particlarly horrid. B took one look and said I had too much heat in my body and moved on promptly to blame the hours I spend in front of the computer.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Watching The Chronicles of Narnia on Christmas Day
Christmas Day 2005 dawned grey and drizzly in Virginia. All hopes for a white Christmas melted away in the unseasonably warm temperatures. As is the case every year, the question of what we would do the rest of the day was hanging in the air. Most of our Christian friends were busy with church and family and Christmas lunches and dinners. Most of our friends who were in the same boat as us (i.e., were not busy with Christmas) had gone away to visit family during the holidays or lived in Maryland and we did not feel like driving all the way up and around the beltway to meet them.
During past Christmases, we had ended up going to the temple and to the free performances on the Millenium stage at the Kennedy Center before going out to dinner at any restaurant that was open (usually an Indian restaurant).
This time around we were at home in Virginia for three weeks on a "home" visit from Bangalore where we currently live. It was good to be back again, back among shops (Trader Joe's, Whole Foods Market), restaurants (Big Bowl, Panera Bread, Chipotle, Romano's), streets and landmarks that were sorely missed for over a year. How good it felt to drive around in the car (without the need for a driver) and tune on the radio to listen to NPR or Eliot in the Morning on DC 101 (someone said he was gone, hope it's not true!).
Best of all, it was good to be home, be able to bake in my oven (my son was probably happier about that), to be able to cook the dishes I couldn't in India without going into a whole lot of trouble (penne pasta with that chicken sausage from Trader Joe's) and to just sit on the sofa wrapped in a fleece blanket and watch the snow flurries settle on the deck and the tall trees in the backyard.
We'd been home about a week and a half by then and had just begun to get over the jet lag, a particularly ferocious one this time around which had us crashing by five in the evening and waking up every morning at two am. Although the weather was inhospitable, we did not particularly feel like staying cooped up indoors. So after breakfast, we hatched a plan to watch a movie. We had wanted to see Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe even since we got there and we decided to try our luck. Were movie theatres open on Christmas Day? We could not remember, but we were going to find out.
In our absence from Virginia, a brand new theater had opened up about ten minutes away from our house. We decided to head out there. By this time, it was pouring. We piled into the car and drove to the movie theater. Aside from church parking lots, all the roads leading up to the theater were deserted as was the theater itself. It was around 11:30 am by this time and we resigned ourselves to not being able to watch a movie that day.
Just then, a car pulled up behind us, a man got out of the car, pulled his jacket up over his head and ran towards the ticket counter. A young girl in the movie theater uniform came out of the building and got into the ticket kiosk. Hurray! There's going to be a movie after all! So I went in as well and found out that Narnia was playing at 1:30 pm.
The good news was that there was a movie; the bad news, we had two hours to kill. We decided to make a quick trip to Washington, DC. There was no traffic to speak of, so it would take us hardly 15 minutes to reach downtown. We hand't gone into the city at all since we arrived and it would be good to see all the monuments, museums and yes, even the federal buildings.
After a whirlwind tour of DC and a viewing of all the watery, hazy monuments that flowed down our windows onto little rivultes on the streets, we headed right back. Lunch had to be taken care of. We headed to a Thai restaurant, the only one that was open in the mall across from the multiplex. The only other guests in the restaurant were a family of four, decked in all their Christmas finery. They must have just finished Christmas church services.
Lunch was the usual green curry/yellow curry items with a dish of Phad Thai thrown in. It was delicious. We had a view of the ticket counter from the restaurant and we could see a crowd building. It was time to go.
Once inside the movie theater, we headed for the last row of seats and pretty soon there were enough movie goers for families to have to split up and sit rows away from each other. Right next to us was a Middle-eastern family and most of the other audience members looked like they did not have anywhere else to go on Christmas Day either.
As the movie progressed the irony of this situation was not lost upon us. Here we were, in this temple of entertainment, gathered together to watch a tale of the triumph of good over evil, of sacrifice, forgiveness and of the savior rising from the dead.
During past Christmases, we had ended up going to the temple and to the free performances on the Millenium stage at the Kennedy Center before going out to dinner at any restaurant that was open (usually an Indian restaurant).
This time around we were at home in Virginia for three weeks on a "home" visit from Bangalore where we currently live. It was good to be back again, back among shops (Trader Joe's, Whole Foods Market), restaurants (Big Bowl, Panera Bread, Chipotle, Romano's), streets and landmarks that were sorely missed for over a year. How good it felt to drive around in the car (without the need for a driver) and tune on the radio to listen to NPR or Eliot in the Morning on DC 101 (someone said he was gone, hope it's not true!).
Best of all, it was good to be home, be able to bake in my oven (my son was probably happier about that), to be able to cook the dishes I couldn't in India without going into a whole lot of trouble (penne pasta with that chicken sausage from Trader Joe's) and to just sit on the sofa wrapped in a fleece blanket and watch the snow flurries settle on the deck and the tall trees in the backyard.
We'd been home about a week and a half by then and had just begun to get over the jet lag, a particularly ferocious one this time around which had us crashing by five in the evening and waking up every morning at two am. Although the weather was inhospitable, we did not particularly feel like staying cooped up indoors. So after breakfast, we hatched a plan to watch a movie. We had wanted to see Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe even since we got there and we decided to try our luck. Were movie theatres open on Christmas Day? We could not remember, but we were going to find out.
In our absence from Virginia, a brand new theater had opened up about ten minutes away from our house. We decided to head out there. By this time, it was pouring. We piled into the car and drove to the movie theater. Aside from church parking lots, all the roads leading up to the theater were deserted as was the theater itself. It was around 11:30 am by this time and we resigned ourselves to not being able to watch a movie that day.
Just then, a car pulled up behind us, a man got out of the car, pulled his jacket up over his head and ran towards the ticket counter. A young girl in the movie theater uniform came out of the building and got into the ticket kiosk. Hurray! There's going to be a movie after all! So I went in as well and found out that Narnia was playing at 1:30 pm.
The good news was that there was a movie; the bad news, we had two hours to kill. We decided to make a quick trip to Washington, DC. There was no traffic to speak of, so it would take us hardly 15 minutes to reach downtown. We hand't gone into the city at all since we arrived and it would be good to see all the monuments, museums and yes, even the federal buildings.
After a whirlwind tour of DC and a viewing of all the watery, hazy monuments that flowed down our windows onto little rivultes on the streets, we headed right back. Lunch had to be taken care of. We headed to a Thai restaurant, the only one that was open in the mall across from the multiplex. The only other guests in the restaurant were a family of four, decked in all their Christmas finery. They must have just finished Christmas church services.
Lunch was the usual green curry/yellow curry items with a dish of Phad Thai thrown in. It was delicious. We had a view of the ticket counter from the restaurant and we could see a crowd building. It was time to go.
Once inside the movie theater, we headed for the last row of seats and pretty soon there were enough movie goers for families to have to split up and sit rows away from each other. Right next to us was a Middle-eastern family and most of the other audience members looked like they did not have anywhere else to go on Christmas Day either.
As the movie progressed the irony of this situation was not lost upon us. Here we were, in this temple of entertainment, gathered together to watch a tale of the triumph of good over evil, of sacrifice, forgiveness and of the savior rising from the dead.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
What is a sad dream?
Big N woke up this morning and said he had a really tough time falling asleep last night. Finally, he fell asleep around midnight (a bit of an exaggeration) after he'd had a sad dream.
What was the dream, I asked.
It was about a monster who could not scare anyone, he said.
What was the dream, I asked.
It was about a monster who could not scare anyone, he said.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Crying at the Movies
It was pitch dark in the small Odeon Theater in Washington, DC. The movie had ended, the screen had gone black, but there was none of the creaking of seats, the quiet conversations or shuffling that usually marks the end of a movie. Everyone was rooted to their seats. The only sound audible was the sniffling of a hundred noses punctuated by a few sobs here and there.
Finally, as the movie theater staff came in to clean up the popcorn cartons and the soda cans and bottles, people slowly rose out of their seats and filed out quietly, many still sniffling and sobbing.
The movie was Life is Beautiful (the much more mellifluous La Vita e Bella in Italian). We had all laughed, shook our heads in wry understanding and become tense as the father, played very endearingly by Roberto Benigni, desperately tried to save his own life and that of his young son and tried even harder to save his son's innocence in a Nazi concentration camp. Benigni's antics had kept our spirits up and at the edge of our seats for much of movie. Even his character's death towards the end had evoked shock, may be a little bit of sadness, but not the kind to bring forth tears.
It was only when - after the allied forces had liberated the camp - the young boy suddenly came upon his mother on the road to their town and had fallen into her outstretched arms screaming in joy at having found her at last that tears started pricking the back of my eyes. As mother and son hugged and fell on the ground laughing and crying at the same time, we had all cried, our tension released at this sudden, surprising and happy development.
The reasons why I'm lachrymose at movies are various. Sometimes it's because the character whose voice speaks to me the most loudly and clearly is going through an intensely sad experience; sometimes it's just the connection at a very basic level between two characters - where one shows an act of kindness towards the other, for example; at other times the tears are brought on by an intense feeling of relief at the resolution of some conflict.
The movie I cried hardest at was Cinema Paradiso in the scene where Salvatore finds out that the old reel operator (the projectionist) at Cinema Paradiso, a movie theater in a small village, had carefully spliced together all the bits of film lying on the projection room floor and made a reel for him. As a young boy, Salvatore had begged the projectionist to give him the bits of film but the projectionist had steadfastly refused. Salvatore grows up, moves away to the city and loses touch with small town relationships and values.
He comes back to his village one day and discovers that the old man is dead but has left something for him. It turns out to be the reel. As Salvatore watches the reel with tears rolling down his cheeks, you see, through an adult's eyes, how absurd it was to have wanted the bits of film. Spliced together, they make no sense. But the reel is a symbol of the profound emotional connection between an old man and a young boy brought together by their love of movies. With enormous affection and love for the young boy, the old man had taken the trouble to make something that he knew Salvatore, even as a grown man, would appreciate.
Then there was Boys on the Side in which Robin, Mary Louise-Parker's character, is dying of AIDS and Jane, Whoopi Goldberg's character, sings her Roy Orbison's "Anything you want, you got it." Of course, Robin can't have anything she wants because she's dying. The scene is made more poignant because Robin and Jane start out being crabby at each other but then reach the kind of mature understanding that everlasting friendships are made of. Suffice to say I bawled.
Munnabhai M.B.B.S. is another one of those bawl-worthy movies. The movie had me in stitches for the most part, but certain scenes suddenly brought on tears, such as the one in which Munnabhai impulsively hugs a janitor who's been having a bad day.
Father of the Bride evoked a rivulet of tears when the father, after several desperate attempts, is unable to connect with his daughter before she goes off on her honeymoon; Veer Zara, when Veer pulls out Zara's anklet from his pocket and Zara pulls up her skirt just that little bit to show she's been wearing the other one by itself for all of the years they've been apart.
The thing is I never cried at movies, and would stare, fascinated, at any one who did. As a teenager, I couldn't understand why any one would cry at movies. Didn't they know that movies were not real? That so-and-so is not really dying?
I really couldn't tell you why all that changed or exactly when. Perhaps, as you grow older, your repertoire of emotions grows and you are more able to appreciate, understand and identify with a broader range.
Whatever the reason, my tear glands are getting a lot of use these days.
Finally, as the movie theater staff came in to clean up the popcorn cartons and the soda cans and bottles, people slowly rose out of their seats and filed out quietly, many still sniffling and sobbing.
The movie was Life is Beautiful (the much more mellifluous La Vita e Bella in Italian). We had all laughed, shook our heads in wry understanding and become tense as the father, played very endearingly by Roberto Benigni, desperately tried to save his own life and that of his young son and tried even harder to save his son's innocence in a Nazi concentration camp. Benigni's antics had kept our spirits up and at the edge of our seats for much of movie. Even his character's death towards the end had evoked shock, may be a little bit of sadness, but not the kind to bring forth tears.
It was only when - after the allied forces had liberated the camp - the young boy suddenly came upon his mother on the road to their town and had fallen into her outstretched arms screaming in joy at having found her at last that tears started pricking the back of my eyes. As mother and son hugged and fell on the ground laughing and crying at the same time, we had all cried, our tension released at this sudden, surprising and happy development.
The reasons why I'm lachrymose at movies are various. Sometimes it's because the character whose voice speaks to me the most loudly and clearly is going through an intensely sad experience; sometimes it's just the connection at a very basic level between two characters - where one shows an act of kindness towards the other, for example; at other times the tears are brought on by an intense feeling of relief at the resolution of some conflict.
The movie I cried hardest at was Cinema Paradiso in the scene where Salvatore finds out that the old reel operator (the projectionist) at Cinema Paradiso, a movie theater in a small village, had carefully spliced together all the bits of film lying on the projection room floor and made a reel for him. As a young boy, Salvatore had begged the projectionist to give him the bits of film but the projectionist had steadfastly refused. Salvatore grows up, moves away to the city and loses touch with small town relationships and values.
He comes back to his village one day and discovers that the old man is dead but has left something for him. It turns out to be the reel. As Salvatore watches the reel with tears rolling down his cheeks, you see, through an adult's eyes, how absurd it was to have wanted the bits of film. Spliced together, they make no sense. But the reel is a symbol of the profound emotional connection between an old man and a young boy brought together by their love of movies. With enormous affection and love for the young boy, the old man had taken the trouble to make something that he knew Salvatore, even as a grown man, would appreciate.
Then there was Boys on the Side in which Robin, Mary Louise-Parker's character, is dying of AIDS and Jane, Whoopi Goldberg's character, sings her Roy Orbison's "Anything you want, you got it." Of course, Robin can't have anything she wants because she's dying. The scene is made more poignant because Robin and Jane start out being crabby at each other but then reach the kind of mature understanding that everlasting friendships are made of. Suffice to say I bawled.
Munnabhai M.B.B.S. is another one of those bawl-worthy movies. The movie had me in stitches for the most part, but certain scenes suddenly brought on tears, such as the one in which Munnabhai impulsively hugs a janitor who's been having a bad day.
Father of the Bride evoked a rivulet of tears when the father, after several desperate attempts, is unable to connect with his daughter before she goes off on her honeymoon; Veer Zara, when Veer pulls out Zara's anklet from his pocket and Zara pulls up her skirt just that little bit to show she's been wearing the other one by itself for all of the years they've been apart.
The thing is I never cried at movies, and would stare, fascinated, at any one who did. As a teenager, I couldn't understand why any one would cry at movies. Didn't they know that movies were not real? That so-and-so is not really dying?
I really couldn't tell you why all that changed or exactly when. Perhaps, as you grow older, your repertoire of emotions grows and you are more able to appreciate, understand and identify with a broader range.
Whatever the reason, my tear glands are getting a lot of use these days.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
T + L launches T + L South Asia
Travel + Leisure, one of my favorite magazines, launched its South Asia edition this month.
According to the Editor's Note, "Sophisticated and experienced travellers from Karachi to Kathmandu and Colombo to Chennai now have their very own edition to bring them the best new destinations, travel trends and up-to-date news.... You can look forward to seeing fresh and unexpected itineraries in the region and abroad, a selection of luxurious and unique travel experiences and the most user-friendly information to help you plan your adventures."
The glossy travel magazine filled with exquisite photographs is a sight for sore eyes, but I wonder, Why launch an issue with a South Asia focus? Is the focus on South Asian destinations or is the focus a South Asia clientele?
The first issue contains a cover story on Goa, "Exploring Goa, Its Heart, Soul and History", by blogger, novelist and journalist, Sonia Faleiro, a story on Kochi, "Jewel of India", by Tad Friend, a story on the latest "designer dens in Delhi", by Monalika Namchoom, a story on fashion accessories available in India, and Anindita Ghosh's piece on The Imperial in New Delhi. Other than these, small items in the Reports section on Paparazzi, a new restaurant in Bangalore, a Salvatore Ferragamo store in Mumbai, a heritage hotel in Kathmandu, a luxury yacht in Male and accessories from Mauritius, a roundup of four spas (in Uttaranchal, Chennai, Mumbai and Udaipur) round out the first issue's coverage of South Asia.
The rest of the magazine is given over to other international destinations such as Africa, China, Hong Kong, Thailand, Armenia, Paris, London, Orlando, Rome, Middle East markets, etc. that you might find in a Travel + Leisure magazine if you picked one up in the US.
I'm sure the American or Australian readership of T+L magazine will be as or perhaps more interested in Faleiro's nicely done story on Goa accompanied by warm and loving photographs by Prabuddha Das Gupta and will equally enjoy Friend's wonderful commentary and Overgaard's scintillating photography (check out the one of coconuts laid out to dry to be crushed for coconut oil) in the Kochi article.
At Rs. 150 per copy, the South Asia version is as expensive as its American counterpart (in terms of exchange rates), but a tad more exclusive in that it is a tiny part of the vast and populous South Asian market that can afford the price. If there is even a little doubt as to the magazine's intended audience, it is banished the moment you turn to the page on the fashion accessories - there is a Louis Vuitton scarf for Rs. 12,500, Louis Vuitton sandals for Rs. 34,000, a straw hat for Rs. 1,790. You get my drift.
The magazine's initial print order is apparently 80,000 strong and judging by the ads in the magazine (around a quarter of the 160 page magazine is filled with ads for high end products, including quite a few pages advertising T+L magazine itself), many advertisers have reposed faith in the reach of the magazine.
As you make your way through the issue, you conclude that the intended reader is a South Asian resident, the one with a lot of disposable income and an appetite for high-end consumables. And such a reader will not rest satisfied with traipsing around his own backyard, now, will he? Hence the alluring descriptions of a Byron Bay in Australia and that tiny vineyard in Provence.
One hopes, however, that having the luxury of producing an entire magazine focused on South Asia will prompt the publishers to look beyond the clichéd South Asian destinations and overrun hotspots. It would be a great pleasure indeed to open the magazine, flip through the pages and never have to read about Bali.
According to the Editor's Note, "Sophisticated and experienced travellers from Karachi to Kathmandu and Colombo to Chennai now have their very own edition to bring them the best new destinations, travel trends and up-to-date news.... You can look forward to seeing fresh and unexpected itineraries in the region and abroad, a selection of luxurious and unique travel experiences and the most user-friendly information to help you plan your adventures."
The glossy travel magazine filled with exquisite photographs is a sight for sore eyes, but I wonder, Why launch an issue with a South Asia focus? Is the focus on South Asian destinations or is the focus a South Asia clientele?
The first issue contains a cover story on Goa, "Exploring Goa, Its Heart, Soul and History", by blogger, novelist and journalist, Sonia Faleiro, a story on Kochi, "Jewel of India", by Tad Friend, a story on the latest "designer dens in Delhi", by Monalika Namchoom, a story on fashion accessories available in India, and Anindita Ghosh's piece on The Imperial in New Delhi. Other than these, small items in the Reports section on Paparazzi, a new restaurant in Bangalore, a Salvatore Ferragamo store in Mumbai, a heritage hotel in Kathmandu, a luxury yacht in Male and accessories from Mauritius, a roundup of four spas (in Uttaranchal, Chennai, Mumbai and Udaipur) round out the first issue's coverage of South Asia.
The rest of the magazine is given over to other international destinations such as Africa, China, Hong Kong, Thailand, Armenia, Paris, London, Orlando, Rome, Middle East markets, etc. that you might find in a Travel + Leisure magazine if you picked one up in the US.
I'm sure the American or Australian readership of T+L magazine will be as or perhaps more interested in Faleiro's nicely done story on Goa accompanied by warm and loving photographs by Prabuddha Das Gupta and will equally enjoy Friend's wonderful commentary and Overgaard's scintillating photography (check out the one of coconuts laid out to dry to be crushed for coconut oil) in the Kochi article.
At Rs. 150 per copy, the South Asia version is as expensive as its American counterpart (in terms of exchange rates), but a tad more exclusive in that it is a tiny part of the vast and populous South Asian market that can afford the price. If there is even a little doubt as to the magazine's intended audience, it is banished the moment you turn to the page on the fashion accessories - there is a Louis Vuitton scarf for Rs. 12,500, Louis Vuitton sandals for Rs. 34,000, a straw hat for Rs. 1,790. You get my drift.
The magazine's initial print order is apparently 80,000 strong and judging by the ads in the magazine (around a quarter of the 160 page magazine is filled with ads for high end products, including quite a few pages advertising T+L magazine itself), many advertisers have reposed faith in the reach of the magazine.
As you make your way through the issue, you conclude that the intended reader is a South Asian resident, the one with a lot of disposable income and an appetite for high-end consumables. And such a reader will not rest satisfied with traipsing around his own backyard, now, will he? Hence the alluring descriptions of a Byron Bay in Australia and that tiny vineyard in Provence.
One hopes, however, that having the luxury of producing an entire magazine focused on South Asia will prompt the publishers to look beyond the clichéd South Asian destinations and overrun hotspots. It would be a great pleasure indeed to open the magazine, flip through the pages and never have to read about Bali.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
You Really Should Not Read Bill Bryson in Public Places
I had ignored the warning on the cover of Bill Bryson's Notes From a Small Island. "Not a book that should be read in public, for fear of emitting loud snorts", said a blurb from the The Times' review.
I was reading it not in any ol' public place, but in one of the very busy lounges at the Frankfurt international airport. There was not a chair to spare as far as the eye could see. Passengers were milling about, the chairs, stacked closed to each other, did not even lose their warmth as one passenger left and another took his place, there was a steady buzz in the area from many conversations - in short, it was as public as a public place could get.
I had started reading the book a couple of days earlier and was now almost at the end, trying desperately to subdue a snort that had started at the pit of my heaving stomach from exploding out of my nose.
I really should have heeded the warning because I am, very famously, given to snorting when laughing.
I had valiantly suppressed a rather long stretch of giggles until then, only the gentle shaking of my body, the swishing noises coming out of my mouth and tears running down my face betraying my helpless condition. In the end, it was no use. The snort exploded any way. Before I could recover from that one, another one followed and then another.
I put my head down, resting my forehead in my palms. That was no help at all. I stole a quick glance around my immediate vicinity. There was a Scottish woman talking in earnest to my husband about her trip, her lilting Scottish accent only slightly eroded by years of living in Canada. That was it. I couldn't take it any more. I slapped the book shut and rushed to the bathroom to compose myself. Five minutes and repeated washing of my face later, I made my way back to my seat and picked up the book. I wasn't done yet.
I picked up where I left off, with some trepidation, but I could not stop myself.
Bryson's trip around Britain is coming to a close in Glasgow, Scotland. As he is wont to do in all of his trips at the end of a long day traipsing around town and wandering in museums, Bryson fancies himself a drink and a sitdown at a pub. What follows is entirely to blame for the snort fest.
He enters the bar, which he describes as dark and battered and spies two "larcenous" looking men sitting together and drinking in silence. He waits at the other end of the bar to be served but no one comes out for a long time. He does all the things people do when they're trying to express impatience - he puffs his cheeks, drums his fingers on the bar, and "makes assorted puckery shapes" with his lips. Then follows some brilliant-as-usual introspection on why we do the things we do when we're waiting for someone. He adds cleaning-of-nails-with-thumb-nail to his routine, but still no one comes.
You might say that this passage is the written version of slapstick, and I might agree, but it is also a sterling illustration of why Bryson's books exist in that rarefied atmosphere reserved for wildly successful and popular writers of travel memoirs. I am certain that this is not a faithful rendition of what transpired in that bar, but, as he says, his writings are faithful to his memory and perceptions of that day, and give the reader a wonderful sense of a place - which is what I'm looking for when I crack open a travel memoir. If I want straight facts and a report of what a city is all about, I'd reach for a travel guide.
Bryson's books are a heady combination of many factors, each one of which, on its own, is praise-worthy.
He conveys facts in terms that help you grasp them instantly (for example, in Down Under (also published as In a Sunburned Country), while rendering facts to illustrate how scantily populated Australia is with its population of 19 million, he compares it to the fact that China grows by more than that amount each year). He approaches all the things he sets out to see with an endearing sense of wonder - he might end up being disappointed in them, but he will hardly hesitate to tell you that.
He leaves himself wide open to all experiences, pleasant or unpleasant. His enthusiasm and appetite for travel - which after a while can approximate the daily grind - are nothing short of infectious. His books are filled with passages resulting from insight into and introspection about the human condition, a virtue we could all do with a little bit more of. To top it all, all this is conveyed with a remarkable sense of humor and comic timing.
I'll leave you with this passage from Down Under. Bryson is listening to cricket commentary on his car radio on a lonely drive from Canberra to Adelaide on Sturt Highway. Ironically, you will need to understand cricket to enjoy the point of view of a man who was born and grew up in a non-playing country.
After two whole pages of some rather insightful thoughts on cricket ("there's nothing wrong with the game that the introduction of golf carts wouldn't fix in a hurry", "I don't wish to denigrate a sport that is enjoyed by millions, some of them awake and facing the right way", "It actually helps not to know quite what's going on. In such a rarefied world of contentment and inactivity, comprehension would become a distration" and many such gems), including a passage in which he compares cricket to baseball for all his American readers, he carries on.
I was reading it not in any ol' public place, but in one of the very busy lounges at the Frankfurt international airport. There was not a chair to spare as far as the eye could see. Passengers were milling about, the chairs, stacked closed to each other, did not even lose their warmth as one passenger left and another took his place, there was a steady buzz in the area from many conversations - in short, it was as public as a public place could get.
I had started reading the book a couple of days earlier and was now almost at the end, trying desperately to subdue a snort that had started at the pit of my heaving stomach from exploding out of my nose.
I really should have heeded the warning because I am, very famously, given to snorting when laughing.
I had valiantly suppressed a rather long stretch of giggles until then, only the gentle shaking of my body, the swishing noises coming out of my mouth and tears running down my face betraying my helpless condition. In the end, it was no use. The snort exploded any way. Before I could recover from that one, another one followed and then another.
I put my head down, resting my forehead in my palms. That was no help at all. I stole a quick glance around my immediate vicinity. There was a Scottish woman talking in earnest to my husband about her trip, her lilting Scottish accent only slightly eroded by years of living in Canada. That was it. I couldn't take it any more. I slapped the book shut and rushed to the bathroom to compose myself. Five minutes and repeated washing of my face later, I made my way back to my seat and picked up the book. I wasn't done yet.
I picked up where I left off, with some trepidation, but I could not stop myself.
Bryson's trip around Britain is coming to a close in Glasgow, Scotland. As he is wont to do in all of his trips at the end of a long day traipsing around town and wandering in museums, Bryson fancies himself a drink and a sitdown at a pub. What follows is entirely to blame for the snort fest.
He enters the bar, which he describes as dark and battered and spies two "larcenous" looking men sitting together and drinking in silence. He waits at the other end of the bar to be served but no one comes out for a long time. He does all the things people do when they're trying to express impatience - he puffs his cheeks, drums his fingers on the bar, and "makes assorted puckery shapes" with his lips. Then follows some brilliant-as-usual introspection on why we do the things we do when we're waiting for someone. He adds cleaning-of-nails-with-thumb-nail to his routine, but still no one comes.
Eventually I noticed one of the men at the bar eyeing me.Then the bar man comes out and he's in a foul mood.
"Hae ya nae hook ma dooky?" he said.
"I'm sorry?" I replied.
"He'll nay be doon a mooning." He hoiked his head in the direction of a back room.
"Oh, ah," I said and nodded sagely, as if that explained it.
I noticed that they were both still looking at me.
"D'ye hae a hoo and a poo?" said the first man to me.
"I'm sorry?" I said.
"D'ye hae a hoo and a poo?" he repeated. It appeared that he was a trifle intoxicated.
I gave a small apologetic smile and explained that I came from the English-speaking world.
"D'ye nae hae in May?" the man went on. "If ye dinna dock ma donny."
"Doon in Troon they croon in June," said his mate then added: "Wi' a spoon."
"Oh, ah." I nodded thoughtfully again, pushing my lower lip out slightly, was if it was all very nearly clear to me now.
"Fucking muckle fucket in the gucking muckle," he said to the two men, and then to me in a weary voice: "Ah hae the noo." I couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement."Interpreter" was where I had sunk my forehead into my palms.
"A pint of Tennent's please," I said hopefully.
He made an impatient noise, as if I were avoiding his question. "Hae ya nae hook ma dooky?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Ah hae the noo," said the first customer, who apparently saw himself as my interpreter.
You might say that this passage is the written version of slapstick, and I might agree, but it is also a sterling illustration of why Bryson's books exist in that rarefied atmosphere reserved for wildly successful and popular writers of travel memoirs. I am certain that this is not a faithful rendition of what transpired in that bar, but, as he says, his writings are faithful to his memory and perceptions of that day, and give the reader a wonderful sense of a place - which is what I'm looking for when I crack open a travel memoir. If I want straight facts and a report of what a city is all about, I'd reach for a travel guide.
Bryson's books are a heady combination of many factors, each one of which, on its own, is praise-worthy.
He conveys facts in terms that help you grasp them instantly (for example, in Down Under (also published as In a Sunburned Country), while rendering facts to illustrate how scantily populated Australia is with its population of 19 million, he compares it to the fact that China grows by more than that amount each year). He approaches all the things he sets out to see with an endearing sense of wonder - he might end up being disappointed in them, but he will hardly hesitate to tell you that.
He leaves himself wide open to all experiences, pleasant or unpleasant. His enthusiasm and appetite for travel - which after a while can approximate the daily grind - are nothing short of infectious. His books are filled with passages resulting from insight into and introspection about the human condition, a virtue we could all do with a little bit more of. To top it all, all this is conveyed with a remarkable sense of humor and comic timing.
I'll leave you with this passage from Down Under. Bryson is listening to cricket commentary on his car radio on a lonely drive from Canberra to Adelaide on Sturt Highway. Ironically, you will need to understand cricket to enjoy the point of view of a man who was born and grew up in a non-playing country.
After two whole pages of some rather insightful thoughts on cricket ("there's nothing wrong with the game that the introduction of golf carts wouldn't fix in a hurry", "I don't wish to denigrate a sport that is enjoyed by millions, some of them awake and facing the right way", "It actually helps not to know quite what's going on. In such a rarefied world of contentment and inactivity, comprehension would become a distration" and many such gems), including a passage in which he compares cricket to baseball for all his American readers, he carries on.
Neasden, it appeared, was turning in a solid performance at square bowel, while Packet had been a stalwart in the dribbles, though even these exemplary performances paled when set beside the outstanding play of young Hugh Twain-Buttocks at middle nipple. The commentators were in calm agreement that they had not seen anyone caught behind with such panache since Tandoori took Rogan Josh for a stiffy at Vindaloo in '61. [A sentence which conveys Bryson's perception that the bowling run up is long.] This was repeated four times more over the next two hours and then one of the commentators pronounced: 'So as we break for second luncheon, and with 11,200 balls remaining, Australia are 962 for two not half and England are four for a duck and hoping for rain.'Indeed.
I may not have all the terminology exactly right, but I believe I have caught the flavor of it.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Call for Papers: Book Titled "Women: Balancing Home and Profession"
If you are interested in writing an article for a book titled "Women: Balancing Home and Profession" to be published by ICFAI University Press, please contact Sukhvinder at the following address at the earliest for details:
sukhvinderUNDERSCOREmATyahooDOTcom
sukhvinderUNDERSCOREmATyahooDOTcom
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Some Memories Haunt You
Growing up, our radio occupied the pride of place in the family rooms of the various houses in which we lived. The radio was a wide, rectangular, wood-paneled Phillips model with gray serrated knobs for dials and square, off-white, push down buttons for the different wavelengths. Ameen Sayani's voice filled our home with his dulcet tones and simple commentary introducing beloved songs from Hindi cinema.
My aunt (my paternal uncle's wife) was a gold medalist at the state level in Carnatic music. My maternal grandmother played and taught the veena and the harmonium. My father and another of my paternal uncles broke into "Lambodara, Lakumikara" at the drop of a hat.
So there was no way I was going to escape from having to take music lessons.
Being the first grandchild on my mother's side, everyone was in awe (rarely justified, I will confess) of my supposed abilities at numerous activities. Singing was one of them.
My mother found a Carnatic music teacher for me when I was in fourth grade. We lived in Tumkur then (we moved every two years to a different town going wherever my father's work with a bank took us). My classes were in the evening, after school.
The teacher's house was about ten minutes away from our house by walk. His house itself was very modest. My teacher's family owned two cows and they supplemented their family income by selling the milk. The cows were tethered to the right side of the front door.
Inside, in the main room of the house (the "hall"), they had a large wooden vessel sitting on the redoxide floor and a long wooden stick resting in the vessel for churning butter out of buttermilk. The wooden stick was tethered to a pole loosely near the top and about three quarters of the way down, and in the center, it had a rope that had two large knots on either end.
The process of churning the buttermilk with this contraption is really simple and if you did not have to do it every single day, even fun.
You stand with your feet planted firmly against the vessel and hold on to the rope with both hands with the knots serving to hold your grip. Then you pull on each end of the rope alternatively. The wooden pole spins clockwise and anti-clockwise repeatedly and churns the buttermilk. After a while, you see chunks of butter floating to the top.
If I went in early and if my teacher was not ready to take my class yet, I churned butter while waiting. Dipping your fingers in and popping a fingerful of freshly churned butter into your mouth is everything it's chalked up to be, I assure you.
The room in which my teacher taught me singing was on the first floor, up a very narrow and steep flight of stairs at the back of the house.
One day, as my teacher and I were climbing up the stairs, I spied the moon between the trees. It was a spectacular full moon, creamy against the starless, velvety sky."The moon is so beautiful! You've got to see it!" I burst out.
A long, awkward silence followed at the end of which my teacher just cleared his throat. As he reached the top of the stairs, he ran his left hand along the wall, reached the door to the room on the left and slowly ran his hand along the door till he found the light switch.
He turned on the light. It was for my benefit alone because it was of no use to him. He knelt down and felt around the floor under the switch for the mats. He handed me one, spread one out for himself, sat down with his back against the wall and asked me where we had stopped last.
The class began. But it was a life lesson I learned that day.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Romanies: The Forgotten Victims of the Holocaust
Hegel once said: "what history teaches us is that men have never learned anything from it". One lesson we must learn from the Porrajmos (the devouring), as the Romanies described their fate at the hands of the Nazis, is that there is one holocaust as the ashes of the Romanies mingled with the others in the ovens of the death camps. We lose our humanity when we arrogate to ourselves the exclusivity of suffering while diminishing the suffering of others.C.R. Sridhar's very interesting and informative post on the Romanies killed in equal proportions to the Jews by the Nazis.
[...]
By the act of denying or ignoring other holocausts, we rob history of its meaning and commit the folly of not learning from it.
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