Obama: A Letter from a Father to his Daughters

The part that resonated with me the most was this:

When I was a young man, I thought life was all about me—about how I'd make my way in the world, become successful, and get the things I want. But then the two of you came into my world with all your curiosity and mischief and those smiles that never fail to fill my heart and light up my day. And suddenly, all my big plans for myself didn't seem so important anymore. I soon found that the greatest joy in my life was the joy I saw in yours. And I realized that my own life wouldn't count for much unless I was able to ensure that you had every opportunity for happiness and fulfillment in yours.

But then the paragraph ends with this:

In the end, girls, that's why I ran for President: because of what I want for you and for every child in this nation.

Of course, it doesn't occur to everyone to run for President to make their own children's lives better. The rest of the letter is a wee bit more impersonal than it would have been, perhaps, had he written a private one.

And I do hope he has written and will continue to write private letters to his daughters. What a treasure they would be to open up when the girls are parents themselves, to peep into their father's thoughts and to relive these times through his eyes.

The text of the entire letter is here.

Art and the Masses

As a fresh-behind-the-ears college student, I had my fingers in myriad pies at the same time. There was quizzing, theater, freelancing at the radio station, debates (at which I sucked), intra-mural competitions, that club, this club ... anything, basically, to get away from classes and have a legitimate reason.

One of those causes happened to be this guy whose movement of the moment was, he said, "to bring art down to the masses." His "office" was miles away from our end of town and it had taken my friend and I a good few hours to get there and back by auto in the Bangalore of old.

Thrilled at the concept (Wow! Bringing art down to the masses! So cool!), we went back home and I reported to my mother the details of this new mission of mine. If she was worried about how far I had gone and how often I had to go there, she did not show it.

She patiently listened to my excited chatter and asked, "Why bring art down to the masses? Why not bring the masses up to art?"

As a practical matter, perhaps the same program might have accomplished both, but to me, my mother's simple query laid bare the snootiness contained in the idea of "bringing art down to the masses". As if art could not remain where it was, but had to be dumbed down so the masses could appreciate it.

She never told me not to get involved, but rather prodded me to think about the issues I was putting my energies into. Something she said today reminded me of this episode from long ago. The more I think about it, the more I realize that she is the exponent of smart parenting (and now grandparenting), while I subscribe to the tenets of stubborn, bone-headed parenting.

Sankraanthiya Shubhaashayagalu (Happy Sankraanthi)!

Pictures from one Pongal/Sankraanthi past.

We were driving to my mom's home for Sankraanthi celebrations. My car window was rolled down as I tried to get pics of the marketplace brimming with sugarcane and avarekaayi. These two boys saw me with a camera in my hand and promptly grabbed the sugarcane and hammed.

Avarekaayi, sweet potato, peanuts and sugarcane.

Pongal, just about done cooking. Yum, yum.

The vessel in which my mom makes pongal every year.

The Famous Five for a new generation

A recent article mentioned a new Famous Five animated series in which the original five are older and George is married to an Indian character named Ravi.

Too many fond memories of curling up with Enid Blyton books during summer holidays, so had to go find out.



Here's the low down:

Producers say the animated tales remain faithful to the themes of storytelling, mystery and adventure central to the original books but add a contemporary twist.

They feature 12-year-old Anglo-Indian Jo, short for Jyoti - a Hindi word meaning light - who, like her mother George, is a tomboy and the group's team leader.

Other characters include Allie, a 12-year-old Californian "shopaholic" who enjoys going out and getting "glammed up" but is packed off to the British countryside to live with her cousins.

Her mother was Anne in the Famous Five, a reluctant adventurer who has now become a successful art dealer. The team is completed by adventure junkie Max, who is 13-year-old Julian's son; Dylan, the 11-year-old son of Dick, and dog Timmy.

The entire article is here, more coverage here, and here's a video clip from the animated series. There's also a plan afoot for bringing back the original characters in a new series of novels.

About a year ago, I went looking here for these and other Enid Blyton novels for C, but I had no luck. Our local library had one title and I found some obscure Enid Blyton book on Amazon for the ridiculously expensive price of $90. Now his grandparents and aunt just send them over from India.

Illustration from telegraph.co.uk.

Bangalore: Seminar on Modern British Theater Practice

Via e-mail, this announcement:

British Library 10.00 A.M. to 1.00 P.M. on Saturday, 24 January

A life on the stage is many a life's dream. A show on London's WestEnd is many a tourist's dream destination. But what is the real substance of these dreams? What are the possibilities, the entry requirements? The career prospects? The working conditions? Ask these and any other questions and get the answers from professionals in British theatre on Saturday, 24 January, 10.00 to 1.00 at the BritishLibrary, 23 Kasturba Road Cross.

All are welcome but there is room for only 30 of you, so rush your registrations to art@jagrititheatre.com with MODERN BRITISH THEATRE in the subject line. Be there!

Response to Writing Prompt #2 - Embarrassing Moment

I drained the last drop of tea as I looked out of the sliding glass doors onto the grassy expanse that ran along the back of the apartment buildings. Only it was grassy no longer. White, fluffy snow caked everything in sight, the cars on the parking lot to the left, the steps leading down from the street onto the open space behind our apartment, the wooden fence on the other side of the evergreens, the evergreens. Icicles hung from the branches, from the bottoms of the cars and they held on for dear life to the balcony railing. From my cozy family room, all was right with the world. It was January of 1993 and my first winter in the US and my very first winter of any consequence.

I just wanted to touch the snow. Was it as I imagined it to be? Smooth, soft, squishy? Would it stay in my hand or would it crumble? Could I make a snowball? Would it make my hands cold and wet?

I grabbed a jacket from the coat closet and ran out to the front steps. Delight! Snow, within reach! Except for one set of footsteps on one side of the steps and in the middle of the footpath, the snow was unblemished. I decided to make my way to the bush to the side of the steps. The snow formed a mound over the bush. It seemed a good place to start as any, a good place to begin my acquaintance with snow. Without thinking or not wanting to disturb the snow, I can't remember now, I put my feet, one after the other, in the exact same spaces as the previous set of feet. I made my down the steps and reached a bit longer to fit my foot into the foot on the sidewalk.

In a flash I found myself on my butt, acquiring a whole new perspective of the underside of a very dirty car. Too embarrassed to even look around to see who might have been witness, I got up hurriedly and went right back in.

It's 10 pm on a cold, dark night

C finishes all his work, has dinner, wrangles a Wii game out of his grandfather, reads, and, finally, straggles into bed.

C: Mom, what am I having for breakfast tomorrow? Let's discuss it right now.

Me: I don't know. What do you want to eat?

C: Well, I can't eat pancakes. The syrup we have is not good. It's too sweet.

Me: I bought new syrup today.

C: Which one? Aunt enema?

Me: ROTFL

Did you ever wonder if...

George from Enid Blyton's Famous Five series was gay? If you did, here's some insight:

Tricky. As one of the two girls in the Famous Five stories, George wore boy's
clothes, had boy's hair and wandered around saying “I want to be a boy”. Still,
any sort of subsequent homosexual or transgender adulthood seems unlikely. For
one thing, in the 2008 television series Famous 5: On the Case the adult George
is happily married to a car mechanic called Ravi. For another, this is Enid
Blyton we are talking about, and she was about as socially progressive as
Bernard Manning.

A car mechanic called Ravi? Does anyone know anything about this series?

Via The Daily Dish, which points to the main article titled "Of course Tintin's gay. Ask Snowy."

Digging dirt in politics

The Washington Post deploys its investigative reporting resources to delving into the etymology of a hyphenated word that is creeping into Obama's statements - shovel-ready.

The phrase doesn't appear in Merriam-Webster's online dictionary. Dictionary.com is stumped, but suggests an alternative spelling: "shovelhead." The Oxford English Dictionary, final arbiter of all word arguments that it is, offers no shovel-ready listing, either.

Could this be a made-up word? If so, who made it up, and how did it end up in the mouth of the next leader of the free world?

Deeper digging is required.

Read more and dig deeper yourself.

Speaking of made-up words, blogpourri is one too!

Rome

We ride into Rome on one of Treinitalia's high-speed lines from Naples. Rome's Termini station is large, swanky and user-friendly. It's drizzling outside but our hotel is only a short distance away, so we walk. By the time we get settled, the sun is peeking through the clouds and we head out.

We are warned to stay away from Rome's bus route no. 64. That route hits all the popular tourist destinations and is therefore a favorite among pickpockets. We dutifully follow the suggestion and decide to take the train instead.

The Colosseum is the first destination on our list.

Even in its dilapidated state, even with resplendent visions of Gladiator floating in our minds, even with Russell Crowe nowhere in sight, the Colosseum does not disappoint. Running our hands down the pock-marked walls and feeling history at our finger tips is a sensation we indulge in time and again on this trip, first in Pompeii and now in Rome.

We take a slow walk around as much of the inside perimeter as we can, before we are stopped by barricades set up for maintenance work. Even from two stories high, the dungeons seem foreboding.

From the dungeons to the top of the Palatine Hill that showcases a Rome whose ancient splendors can now only be imagined, the ruins of the hubris of an empire lie bare.

A view of the Temple of Vesta and The House of the Vestals

from Palatine Hill (two photos above)

A stadium on the grounds of the ancient palace on Palatine Hill

I must confess we have never heard of Palatine Hill until we purchase tickets for its guided tour along with that of the Colosseum. Our guides are young students from the U.S., spending semesters in Rome, one of them pursuing a PhD in Roman History. They are smart, articulate and funny. We follow them mesmerized, as the point to the archway through which Caesar's body was brought into the Forum and talk about vestal virgins and high priests and prefectures, their vocabulary straight out of some ancient history textbook.

By the time we come to the end of the tour, we have been walking or climbing (with our one-year-old in a stroller) for a good 30 minutes. We've been on the go since the morning and decide to return to our hotel for the night.

The subway is convenient and quick so we head right back to the underground.

It's a mostly professional crowd headed home in the evening rush hour, but four women stand out in the packed compartment. Grubby jeans and tee shirts, rotten teeth, greasy hair slicked back into buns and large cloth bags slung over shoulders in a sea of business suits, sharp ties, cell phones plugged to ears and smart briefcases. They are hard to miss, particularly because one of the four is pregnant, her belly spilling out from underneath her tight-fitting tee.

But, I would have completely missed the dirty fingernails had I not caught five of them at the end of a slender hand slithering - ever so gingerly - into my husband's pant pocket. "That woman's hand is in your pocket," I say to my husband surprising myself with my matter-of-factness. His hands fly to the sides of his legs. Startled, the woman recoils. Then, to my utter amazement, she turns to one of her accomplices and shakes her sad face, as if to say she did not succeed and she was sorry. She receives a comforting nod and wave of the hand in return.

Needless to say, our senses are on hyper-alert the rest of the journey back to the hotel and for the duration of our stay in Rome.

The next morning (after a change of hotel - we moved closer to the center of the city when we realized that our first choice near the train station was not as spiffy as an agent had made it appear) and the day after, we explore Rome on foot, by metro and by bus. We discover Rome's multiple personalities – the Rome of Hollywood, of history, politics, religion and blockbuster novels.

Spanish Steps (if you actually see any of the steps, good for you!)

The dome of St. Peter's Cathedral

A religious procession headed to St. Peter's Cathedral

A guard at the entrance to the Vatican

Artwork on the facade of a building depicts the legend of the wolf raising Romulus and Remus

A beautifully constructed spiral staircase at the Vatican Museum

At the entrance to the Vatican Museum (visiting which was one of the best decisions we made during our stay in Rome), our hearts sink at the long, winding lines. We make our way to the main doorway, wondering whether to try again the next day or strike it off of our itinerary. A guard spies us, with a young son and a toddler in a stroller and he waves us in along with other families with members in wheelchairs. We flash him a grateful smile and head in.

The next two hours are spent gaping - at the walls, at the ceilings, at the statues, at the paintings, at the treasures encased in glass cases. Room after room after room, the splendour of color, form and design is a treat for the eyes.

A couple of scenes from the Vatican Museum (above and below)

Nowhere is the ancient splendor of Rome better preserved than at the Pantheon.

A standing testament to the triumph of geometry over gravity, the temple to the gods of ancient Rome has found use one way or the other ever since it was built early in second century A.D. We make our way through the crowds teeming in the Piazza della Rotonda and walk in through a porch lined with massive pillars to find a Catholic service in progress.

Our heads immediately look upward, following the large dome as it soars toward the sky, its vast circular sweep unblemished by supporting pillars or beams. Daylight streams in from a circular opening above, the oculus.

Even in the midst of the crowds, the hall feels intimate yet open to the universe. Wiser minds than mine have wondered the "how" of it all. We're just content to stand and gawk at its beauty.

In the three days we spend in Rome, we're never disappointed with the food, no matter whether we eat in a tiny pizzeria or in a deli. But the restaurant our concierge recommends to us on our last night in Rome (Taverna Flavia on Via Flavia) turns out to be a fine way to top off our Italy trip. The staff is welcoming, the food is great, the atmosphere is relaxed. The walls are lined with photographs of famous actors who frequent the restaurant. After a couple of days of imagining Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck on the Spanish Steps, Russell Crowe in the pits of the Collosseum, Charlton Heston at the Circus Maximus, Rex Harrison and Elizabeth Taylor on Palatine Hill, and now with celebrities beaming at us from the walls, you will forgive me for what transpires next.

A few minutes after we settle in, an elderly lady and a younger woman are seated at a two-seat table across from us. Both of them sound British. They are engrossed in an animated conversation, but the mother (we assume) looks over at our kids once in a while, an indulgent expression on her face. She has a longish face and grey hair combed neatly in a bob. Emboldened by her pleasant expression and with the thought that I was probably never going to see these people ever again, I venture, "Hello, are you Vanessa Redgrave by any chance?" Her smile widens for a brief second before she shakes her head, "Oh no, dear. I'm not."

OK, a year and a half later I can still feel my face going hot at the memory. Maybe I'll laugh at it in a couple more years.

Response to Writing Prompt #1

Write about a sleepover, a slumber party or the time you stayed somewhere overnight.

It is 6 o' clock. The driver hasn't shown up yet. The grown-ups don't seem to care. They are laughing, having fun. We are all gathered at my uncle's house. We've been here since the morning. We've had breakfast and lunch here. We're getting ready to have dinner here too.

After dinner, I really want to go home. I want my own bed, the smells of my own home. It's looking like it might not happen. I'm desperate. "Dad, where is he?" I ask, poking him in the shoulder. "Be patient, he'll show up," Dad says.

An hour later, I imagine what it's like to sleep on a hard, prickly, old mattress with sheets that are not my own, on a pillow that doesn't know the shape and weight of my head.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't like strange beds. It's just that the beds in my uncle's house are not strange enough. They are just that little bit familiar. Enough for any excitement to drain away at the thought of having to spend any time on them.

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Updated to add the prompt on top of the post a link to the previous post that provides background.

Writing Prompt #1

Before you read the prompt, make sure you will have 10 minutes of uninterrupted time to write and please do time yourself. Once you've written it, please leave a link here so we can come over and read it. Here goes:

Write about a sleepover, a slumber party or the time you stayed somewhere overnight.

I will post my take on this prompt tomorrow.

If you have no idea what any of this means, this post from a couple of days ago will give you background and context. If you'd like to join in, hop on aboard, but please leave link here so we can read your take on the prompt.

Is it worth...

writing a book review or a movie review if it contains spoilers?

Movie Review: Doubt

Note: Contains spoilers!

Father Flynn (Philip Seymour Hoffman) utters the first real line in the movie. While delivering his sermon at Sunday mass he asks, channelling Oprah, "What are you sure about?". That Sunday, his sermon is about 'doubt'; how, like 'despair' which brings people together in their moments of loss, 'doubt' could also be a unifying force.

The rest of the nearly two-hour movie is a lesson in how doubt does no such thing; how it more thoroughly accomplishes the exact opposite; how it roils emotions, tears people apart and disintegrates relationships.

The movie begins on a dreary Autumn day in New York. Dry, dead leaves blanket the streets, the trees are bare, the sky is overcast, a persistent wind whips up stray pieces of litter - an apt metaphor for what is about to transpire within the walls of the church and the parochial school attached to it.

In the inner recesses of the church, Donald Miller, an 8th-grader at the school and an altar boy, is trying to hold together his life, strewn asunder by many factors - he's the only black student in a school serving a predominantly Irish and Italian parish in 1964; he thinks he might be fat; he's clearly looking for acceptance and affection. That much we know. As the story unfolds, the plot peels back a few more layers, laying bare the insecurities of a boy with more stuff on his plate than the your typical troubled teen.

In Father Flynn he finds a smiling face, a generous heart, a fun disposition and a willing ear. Precisely all the things that are seemingly revolting to Sister Aloysius (Meryl Streep), head nun and Principal of the school.

Epitome of discipline, guardian of all things virtuous, firm in her convictions and strict follower of dictum and decorum, she rules over her school with an iron hand and a steely glare. She has an intimate understanding of the limitations of her position within the church's hierarchy and so is well aware that Father Flynn orbits outside the sphere of her control. It is also this knowledge of the church's rules that informs her about the myriad ways in which to bend them to achieve her objectives, to make things right in her eyes.

In this quest, she employs her underlings to do her bidding. Sister James (Amy Adams), fresh-faced, naive, trusting, gentle and - most importantly from Sister Aloysius' point of view - eager to please, finds herself in the vortex created by the opposing forces of Sister Aloysius and Father Flynn.

Bidden to keep an eye out for anything suspicious involving Father Flynn, Sister James comes into what she clearly feels is disturbing information. First, Father Flynn interrupts class to call Donald Miller into his office for a private meeting. Then there is alcohol breath, there's a misplaced undershirt. Finally, a seemingly disturbed Donald Miller returns to class. They each have seemingly innocuous reasons and explanations, but put together with Sister Aloysius' admonishment, the implications are ominous.

Sister James heads straight to Sister Aloysius and sets in motion a juggernaut that, try as she might, she is powerless to stop.

What motivates Sister James to go to Sister Aloysius? Is it her concern for Donald Miller or is it her desire to please Sister Aloysius? What motivates Sister Aloysius to try to tear down Father Flynn? Is she being protective of Donald Miller or does she resent how easily Father Flynn seems to relate to the students? What motivates Father Flynn? Does he want to be the father-figure that Donald Miller seems to need or is he seeking something more from the lonely boy?

Into this swirling pot of questions, the movie drops Donald Miller's mother (Viola Davis) and her own incentives. Does she know what is going on with her son at school? She's obviously heard a lot from him about Father Flynn and seems to have a rosy picture about the Father's intentions. Is she right? Even when confronted with Sister Aloysius' suspicions, she brushes them away. Her focus is on her son graduating and getting into a good high school and then on to college. Anything that might stand in the way - anything - is just a distraction.

Four or five scenes where nothing happens other than people talking to each other, lobbying for their point of view, make the film. It's a testament to the excellent portrayals of each of these parts that my own views rocked back and forth between Father Flynn's innocence and guilt, while making me increasingly frustrated with both Sister James' naivete and Sister Aloysius' certitude.

There a some awkward moments when the camera lingers a tad longer than it should have or when the actors seem to be waiting for some cue before starting their scenes. The final scene involving Sister James and Sister Aloysius seems contrived to tie it to Father Flynn's first sermon. I wish that loose end had remained loose for a selfish reason, I admit. In the moments before that final scene, I was convinced I knew what had happened.

Doubt (trailer) is 104 minutes long and is rated PG-13 in the US for "thematic material".

20 Minutes

I made it to my first meeting of the writer's group I signed up with three months ago. Finally! I got to meet some cool women, listened to their work as they read it out to the group, and got a sense for some of the issues they were dealing with as they tried to shepherd their writing towards publishing.

I also got 20 minutes. Of pure silence. On a weekend. In the middle of the day. To write.

That alone made my scrambling to get to the meeting, and dragging myself in late, worthwhile. Each one of us wrote to one writing prompt for 10 minutes and passed the prompt on to the person to our left and wrote another 10 minutes on the second prompt.

This was the first time I'd done anything like that. It was fun as it was revealing. I was surprised at the little nuggets of memories that popped into my head in that short duration. It was fun to read how differently we'd all reacted to the same prompts. And it was amazing to see how much work can get done in 20 minutes with no distractions.