So. How *you* doin’?

2012 flashed by, ending in a lot of soul searching, outrage, and above it all, determination. Determination that we will no longer be cowed down, that this incident will not push us off the streets, that we will work to give our daughters a safer country.

So for 2013, my resolution is not to be a pushover. I try varieties of this resolution every year but it doesn’t work too well. One of the things I’ll grant the OA and I, is that we’re easy going parents where schedules are concerned. I’m strict on manners/behaviour and screen time, but those are the only two battles I fight. The rest I choose to let go.

Which is why when we’d make plans with friends and someone said they couldn’t go out at X time because their kids were busy doing something, I’d shrug and agree to change the time, even if it meant altering a plan I’d made for myself or my kids. So it was my lunch being skipped to suit someone else’s shopping plan. My kids’ naptime missed because another’s kids napped earlier or later and this suited them. Always, always, always us changing, shifting, altering, making way, being fluid.

I didn’t mind really. That’s what friends do. And being flexible and easy going is who we are. People flowing in and out of our house, laughter, chatter, an exchange of ideas, we love it. The kids have no stranger anxiety (unfortunately that is not always a good thing!), they’re curious and they have learnt to count in Spanish, take a map of Australia and put names to faces to places and say a few phrases in a number of languages. Of course they pick it up today and forget it tomorrow but it’s there and for this simple reason I’d not change the way we live. The only other person I know whose life is equally mad, is Aneela. Sometimes I think I am too trusting, but then as a friend said recently, this is a package deal. I am like this only.

Anyhow, the last year or two have given me plenty of time to introspect and I feel I’ve just been too easy going. It makes me an easy person to take advantage of. If a plan is to be made and it inconveniences anyone, that someone is usually me. I began to realise that my life was in a constant state of chaos mainly because I was always changing a plan laid well in advance, simply to suit someone else. Chaos is something I’m used to – but not something I’m willing to take on for those who don’t earn it. Not anymore.

For the last 4 years everyone I am even vaguely acquainted with, knows I have a knee problem. Most people know I moved out of my last home because of the stairs. I ask absolute strangers for advice because I am so desperate to heal faster. Yet, I have people who will not think twice before asking me to do something that requires stair climbing. No, I am not vain enough to imagine that everyone remembers my knee, which is why I’m quick to point out that it still hurts. Even then I have people telling me, eh, suck it up and climb for once. The point is, it’s never once. Today it’s your house, tomorrow it is the next person and day-after it is someone else’s party at a pub on the 4th floor. I have only one right knee and another 30 years to get through on it, even if my estimate is conservative. I don’t understand this sort of lack of consideration. Maybe it is because most people my age do not have this sort of an injury and have no idea how much it affects the quality of my life. I’ve had to move house, quit my job, stop carrying my precious babies, restrict my movement, go through a gazillion tests, do physiotherapy, let go of a number of heavy household chores and much more. This is my life. I live it without complaint because it is far better than many, many others’ and I am well aware of the privileges I have. But if friends won’t accommodate you, who will? If friends won’t say – hey, lets sit on the ground floor even if the AC isn’t working, then who will?

And this is just me. I’ve gone on holidays where the plans to sightsee are entirely suited to someone else’s kids’ schedule and diet. Mine have just gone along, eaten anything and slept anywhere. I say this not to praise them but because it’s not a big deal. We’ve all done it as kids – but parents now are madly anal about their kids’ schedules. What the hell are they doing traveling with them in a group, then? My kids will go to a home and take off their shoes at the door if required because you honor the hosts’ houserules. Of course after 4 hours of walking on the cold floor in only thin socks they both get sore throats and then the cycle begins. To say nothing of wet bathroom floors and mess on the kitchen floor. There are people who won’t bother with me for days on end and then ask me for a favour because I have a large network on FB.

Sometime last year I realised that I couldn’t tell the Brat to be more assertive in his dealings if I didn’t lead by example. And so I began to put my foot down. No, we would not be able to attend if the party was at X time because my kids were going for a playdate and I refused to cancel their plan to suit another. No, we wouldn’t be coming up for a quick drink before the movie because I was not willing to take the steps up and down for a 15 minute chat. If my kids don’t get along well with yours, I will only meet you sans kids. Our friendship will not be affected, but I’m not forcing my children to meet kids they don’t enjoy playing with. And if you have a no-shoes in the house rule, I’m not visiting in winter – my kids’ health comes first. If you insist on giving the kids junk every time they visit and cannot be bothered to make something healthy when you invite them, then they’re not being sent for a play date. No, it won’t kill them to eat Maggi yet again – but would it kill you to cook something decent when you’re inviting? A simple sandwich?

Here I will put in a disclaimer. I am willing to bend for an occasion like a birthday or an anniversary. Other than that I preserve the little strength I have left and don’t do general dinners if they require too much climbing of stairs. On the other hand I am willing to climb 15 flights for a friend who would do the same for me even just to say hi. I have finite time, patience, energy and health and no desire to extend myself for people who are rigid and don’t extend me the same courtesy. When I put in place this rule for myself, I resigned myself to losing a few of my more inflexible friends.

Strangely, all it did was open me up to relationships I didn’t realise were so good and give me a lot more time and energy to spend on the people who appreciate it and return it. I’ve often spoken about entitlement and kids. I seem to have missed that many adults have the same sense of entitlement. They feel entitled to re-organising your day, to expecting you to cancel a prior commitment, to dropping everything and rushing over just because they are free to do something but never returning that informality, to wanting everything done their way, almost like a 4 year old with poor social skills.

But I’m getting there, I’m reaching the point where I am finally learning to say NO. I used to believe that this was a skill you either had or you didn’t. But I seem to have been pushed into using it. I’ve begun to use my voice in the most random places now.

A few days ago we were shopping for utensils and the Brat and Bean were told to sit in a corner (and NOT TALK TO STRANGERS) because I was terrified they’d knock over something breakable. Apparently other parents didn’t seem to have that fear. One couple gave their kids a non-stick pan and egg beater each and sat them down on the floor. The din made me look up. Bang, bang, bang, screeeeech. The sound was ghastly and I lost my patience. Looking up and down the aisles I saw the kids. Of course I didn’t have the courage to take on someone else’s kids so I looked at the OA. He walked up to the kids firmly, bent down to their level and told them nicely, ‘Don’t do that beta. It belongs to the shop and will get spoilt’. One of them stopped and stared. The other defiantly went up a decibel level, bang, bang, bang.

I looked around and caught hold of a uniformed flunkey who was looking at us warily. Go find their parents, I suggested. It seemed like a good idea so he ran with it. The parents who as it turned out were standing a few feet away glared at us when the flunkey pointed at us. I might have melted away if it weren’t for the OA who looked at them and said politely but firmly, ‘Your children are spoiling the utensils. No one’s going to buy a nonstick pan with scratches.’ That’s all. And I nodded. By this time more sales staff walked up and the kids nervously handed back the utensils. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but in a country like ours where people seem to have no civic sense or concern for property other than their own, it seems to be the only option.

A few days later I saw a couple enjoying a meal at a food court while their kid happily yanked Christmas decorations off and smashed them. A listless maid stood by, looking around bored, not stopping him. I had the courage to tell her to stop him, ask the guard standing by to do his job and not let the mall get denuded and finally ask the parents who were sitting there ignoring all this, to keep an eye over and above the maid since she clearly had no idea of what was acceptable public behaviour. I might have come across as a nosy parker but I don’t care. It seems like people just stand by and let things go wrong, be it something as small as spoiling public property or an injustice taking place and an autowala getting beaten up.

Maybe I’m getting old and tired and cranky but I don’t understand why people can’t wait for the people inside a lift to exit before they force their way in. How do they expect the people inside to get out, if they’re standing in the door? I find it offensive to have to push past people and with my new found assertiveness I now stop right in the door, look people in the eye and say firmly, ‘Please let people inside the lift get out; only then will there be place for you to get in.’ One doesn’t have to be rude, one just has to state the obvious. It’s amazing how sheepish people look in the face of common sense.

But it’s been liberating. I feel less of a fraud for telling my son to assert himself now that I am doing it too. I hope he’s absorbing it and will find the strength to do it one day. I like giving of myself to people who make allowances for my eccentricities too. I love sharing my children with those who appreciate them and return their frank affection. I am still friends with everyone else, I’m just more reserved. I don’t know how long this will last, but it feels good right now and I’m in a happy place.

How’s your year going and what did last year give you? What lessons did you learn? What would you like to achieve this year?

I won’t cry tonight!

This is the second of my last 6 posts about live music acts. That says something about the neglected state of my blog and about decent big acts coming to India (No thank you, we don’t want the Bieber).

We booked our GnR tickets ages ago. When no one else had. It wouldn’t be the same of course, no Slash, no Izzy, no Duff. But after the Metallica fiasco we’re not being too choosy. We’ll take anything they throw our way. So we had the date marked on our calendar, babysitter organised, played every GnR album for days and sang Patience and Don’t cry as lullabies to the kids.

I’d like to be hipster about this but the truth is, no matter what you are listening to today, GnR is what a lot of us grew up on. To me GnR is not just a big act, it’s long afternoons in a dark old rambling house smelling of khus, American music banging out of tinny stereo systems and a bunch of desi kids sitting around on the floor rocking like their lives depended on it. It is my brother playing the lead to Sweet Child of Mine behind his back. Not an easy task when you realise an electric guitar is heavy and he was a young boy and always built slim. Not easy when you realise he had to reverse the position of his fingers and play the opposite of what he played when it was the right way up. He and his band would practice on our verandah, out in the heat and the blinding sun, wires everywhere, the frenetic drumming keeping my old great grandaunt awake. It was amazing fun to have awestruck kids bang on our gate and ask the boys for autographs. It was cool to be the only jobless one lighting cigarettes, untangling wires and holding down shaky plugs. And through this all we had a background score. Of GnR, Metallica, Iron Maiden, Anthrax, Sepultura, Alice in Chains and what not. We didn’t allow ourselves the luxury of dreaming that we’d ever get to see them. Until a few months ago.

About four days before the show I dislocated my navel (anyone who has heard of this ailment and knows a cure/ good doctor?).  Yes, apparently these things only happen to me. It first happened when I was 12 and turning cartwheels. My stomach crunches up and I stay curled in that foetal position for days. I can’t retain any food because all the internal organs are pushed out of place. It’s pure agony and the only flip side is I get a complete system detoxification. Okay, I jest. It’s a shit experience ( excuse the pun) and there are days I believe I will die of the pain. No amount of allopathy makes a difference, the diarrhea continues and only an experienced dai can massage it to relieve the knot or whatever my intestines have gone into. The only thing that worked wonders is when I was home and an old retainer would light a diya on my navel, upturn a cup on it and then once the diya burned out, yank it off. He called it a totka; I now realise the vacuum  it created yanked the navel back into place.

After the birth of the kids my stomach muscles have becomes more lax and now like all dislocations, the frequency has increased and it happens every 6 months or so. As luck would have it, this time it picked the day before GnR. I was literally writhing in pain. I spent the entire morning popping pills to stop the back door trot, but there was nothing I could do about the pain. I starved myself until I was dehydrated so that I didn’t need to use the toilet, but I could barely straighten up, so tightly knotted were my muscles/innards? The OA came home from work, took one look at me and said we’d either go together or not. I’d told myself that it wasn’t the end of the world if I missed it but I wasn’t able to buy my own story. And I didn’t want the OA to miss it, heck, I didn’t want to miss it myself. So we planned it such as to get there as soon as the opening act had finished. And as we parked and walked towards the lights arcing across the sky I forgot the navel and began to feel the butterflies.

A crowd of 20,000 and a live wire atmosphere. At this point I must be a snob and say I wish junta wouldn’t show up for an event if all they can do is name two songs. I saw loads of people who couldn’t sing along because they didn’t know any of the music. The reason behind the snobbishness really is that we would have a little more place to move if less wannabe types had shown up! Yes, yes, selfish! But that’s how it is. Everyone wants to say they listened to GnR growing up but won’t be able to name even two albums. Why then pack up the place for real old fans? Rant over.

My stomach ached but just knowing that I was listening to Estranged live, kept me on my feet. That and the crowd holding me upright long after my knees had given up the job.When you’re my height your impression of a rock show is loud music, the smell of weed mixed with sweat and that tall guy’s dreadlocks getting in your nose and mouth. This one was no different.

The OA of course towers above general junta and kept looking down in concern. Did I want to go home? Bathroom? Was I okay? Should he carry me? No, no, no. Carry me, I repeated in mock horror and genuine embarrassment. Yes, of course he said, looking offended. Did I think he couldn’t? Err.. no, I hastened to assure him. It wasn’t his capabilities I was doubting – it was my weight that would be a problem. What nonsense, he said – you’re just the right size for me. Erm. That is sweet, but no.

My earliest memories of how true love manifests itself at a rock show are from a college fest. Every batch has its first couple and my favourite was this petite girl with a riot of curls and a navel ring, and her very cute boyfriend who towered over her. The rock show during our college fest was on and she was hopping from foot to foot trying to catch a glimpse of the stage. And then he hefted her up with ease and plonked her down on his shoulders. Villager that I was, I stared, slack-jawed. What? In public? In college? And then I changed my tune to, how cute! Me next! Even though I was a mere 43 kilos, the then boyfriend couldn’t have been more than 53 kilos, almost a foot taller than me though he was – so I thought better of suggesting that he lift me up. Plus I have a huge dread of public displays of affection and I liked it fine down there, holding hands and staring at a back in front of me, imagining what the stage looked like.

So the OA’s offer was a dream come true, just 17 years too late. But there was no way I was climbing up on his shoulders and making a spectacle of myself. I had a gazillion friends in the crowd and a reputation to maintain, as a 34 year old mother of two. Until Sweet Child of Mine came and all sane thought vanished. I threw my jacket at an unsuspecting friend, tapped the OA on the shoulder and hopped on without a thought for his well being or my dignity. I saw the stage for the first time and I screamed like a banshee and waved. The crowd screamed louder, surged, waved, lighters came out (don’t ask me how they got them in) and in general I felt like a 16 year old. And the 16 year old me got closure in so many ways. Here I was, sitting on my better half’s shoulders watching GnR  - and he hadn’t keeled over under my weight and died yet, pushing 40 though he is! The man doesn’t do poetry, roses, chocolates or diamonds. But what he does for these old bones, I don’t know any other man who will.

When he took me down I was so content, I could have gone home right then. But not quite. I had to see the piano being rolled out for November Rain. THEN I could die. By the time it came to an end I was on cloud # 9 and ready to push through the crowds to get closer. The band was throwing plectrums into the crowd and I didn’t see them come, let alone see where they went. And so at the end, on a stranger’s encouragement I went down on my knees and dug around in the dirt. And I was rewarded.

Now I am back in bed, dying. But at least I can go in peace. :p

Books galore

No, I’m not abandoning you. While I’m away on holiday, here’s a list of books you can pick up. Each one has touched me deeply.

The Village – Nikita Lalwani

Ray Bhullar is of Indian origin and lives in England. She works with the BBC and comes with a team to film an open prison in India. The people live together like a village. Prisoners are allowed to go out of the camp to work and the condition for living in this open prison is that you must bring your family to live with you and earn your living. The idea is to rehabilitate as well as give trust to beget trust. The host of the show is Nathan, an ex-con who will bring in nuance, since he has done time too.

It’s an interesting concept and I’m quite ashamed to admit that I was unaware of the existence of nearly 30 open jails in India. The story is interesting and I loved the choice of topic. So unusual. Viewing an Indian prison sometimes through firangi eyes and at other times through the NRIs eyes.

If I have any complaint, it is that I found the pace a little slow. Perhaps the idea was to build atmosphere, but it didn’t work. It took what could have been done in half the number of pages and dragged it on until I was begging for it to end. I know that is not high praise, but I don’t mean it that way. Definitely a story worth reading to show you how manipulative the human race is.

Awake – Elizabeth Graver

Anna Simon’s son Max has a strange and rare disease that doesn’t allow him out in the sun. The entire family, including her other son, Adam and her husband, need to restructure their lives to work with his condition and it’s not very easy. They live like creatures of the night; windows blacked out, a sign at the door that tells people not to push it open and suddenly let light in, sleeping in the day and waking at night, finding night time activities to do and so on. So night is day and day is night and they live a completely inverted life. Holidays and trips are out of course, until one day they hear of Camp Luna. A camp for children just like Max, set up by a father whose daughter has the same problem. Everything here is carried out at night; games, picnics, parties. For once, Max is normal and everyone else is out of place.  It is here under cover of darkness that things begin to unravel.

This book reminded me of Jodi Picoult’s My Sister’s Keeper. One can’t help but feel very very sorry for the siblings of children with disabilities. They suffer a strange sort of neglect. So do spouses. Here is yet another obsessive mother, working hard to give her son what life didn’t. And in the bargain, alienating everyone else. But she comes to Camp Luna and it inspires her to go back to the artist and person she was. An interesting book with none of the moral dilemma that Picoult offers. Simply an observation and commentary on life. Very nice.

Silk – Alessandro Baricco

I fell in love with the name when I saw this book on the rack. So simple. Silk. Reminded me of the chocolate. It is set in 1861 (yes, yes, you know me and my love for the past) and a French merchant of silkworms, Herve Joncour travels across the world in search of their eggs. His travels bring him to Japan at a time when strangers were treated with distrust and suspicion. And there Joncour meets a woman – a woman he can never have. They don’t even speak or touch, but she feels the same way about him. I’m always intrigued by these stories. She gets a note across to him and he can’t read it until he gets back to his own country and gets someone to translate. And once he reads it, there is no turning back.

Does this happen? Is there a stranger who crossed your path, one you’ve never forgotten? Can you fall so deeply in love with someone you’ve never even spoken to? Is that love? He goes back for her and well, I’ll leave you to read the rest.

Nothing grips me like a love story. I believe they are only stories worth telling. The only thing you can change is the setting. And considering how common love stories are, finding an unusual setting is not easy. This was an interesting one. The 1800s, a Frenchman, a Japanese woman he has never spoken to. I am always fascinated by how good authors can pick a time and a place and a couple you’ve never met before. The same holds true for the next book in this list. A Canadian woman, a Cambodian man, Canada and Cambodia in the 70s, so much music…

The Disappeared – Kim Echlin

I must be growing old and senile, because I could swear I wrote a post on this book. I did a search on my blog and couldn’t find it so I’m just going to do it anyway. If I’ve raved about this book before, bear with me. Anne Greves meets Serey at a blues bar in the early 70s when she is 16. I read that early scene and wished I were her. Who wouldn’t want to meet a long haired musician with a penchant for math (or something else equally geeky), from an exotic country, in a smokey bar?! It’s almost as the hero was created for me. A grouse many readers have is that you don’t see why Anne loves Serey so. Eh? Why does anyone love anyone. We all have our intense loves and I am sure no one looking from the outside in can see why we’re so besotted, why we’re hungering, why we’re crying. I didn’t have that peeve. To me it was rather obvious. There was so much music, so much chemistry, so much.

They fall in love and they live happily … well, not ever after. The borders open up and he returns to Cambodia to hunt for his family. For those who have any desire to learn about the Cambodian genocide and for those who have never even heard of it, this is your chance. It makes you feel dirty to know that you are a part of the human race that is capable of inflicting such pain. Well, that and so much else that history is witness to.

The writing is simply brilliant. It’s poetry. I read it over and over again. Going back and forth between chapters like a maniac just to experience a particular emotion again. Wanting to know that love, be that love. And suddenly, fearing that love. He disappears into the ashes and the blood of the killing fields and she despairs of ever hearing from him. Years go by and then suddenly one day she catches a glimpse of someone who looks just like him, on the news. Full of hope she leaves Canada to plunge into the horror that is the Cambodia of during the Pol Pot time. Does she find him? Let me put you out of your misery and admit that she does. But that is not the end. Oh no, we’re a long way from the end.

People keep dying in this book. Her mother, their still born daughter, and yet you keep reading because you can’t stop yourself. Anne’s love is the kind we all promise our lovers but rarely fulfill. It goes beyond the grave. I can’t tell you more without giving away the story. Suffice to say, if you want to read about love, if you want to read poetry, if you want to know how far violence can go, if you want to know how depraved a human can be, if you want to know how deep an ache can feel, this is where you will find the answers. Like all books that have a soundtrack to them, this one too had me hooked with the first song. Read Kim Echlin’s interview on music here – I have a deep rooted belief that every good writer has a love for music. Whenever I’m asked about a favourite book, I go back to this one. It’s seared into my heart.

The Lady of The Rivers –  Phillipa Gregory

I’m a PG fan. I love her writing, her research, her choice of subjects. If you can keep in mind that she takes liberties with her characters, you’re set. Intrigued by Jacquetta of Luxembourg who makes brief but important appearances in the lives of other major players, Gregory chooses to write about her. Historically you are not learning anything new, but again, to me, this was a love story. The Duchess who lowered herself to marry the blue-eyed squire after she was widowed. It wasn’t easy to remind myself that this was partly fiction.

She takes you through the Lancaster court and introduces you to the main players of the House of York. And all the while, the love story plays on. There must be more to it because I cannot understand Jacquetta and her husband Richard’s loyalty to Queen Margaret, who is clearly manipulative and untrustworthy. An interesting book because once more it brings out magic, chemistry and so much else beyond our ken. A fey twist to history.

The world according to Garp – John Irving

I find myself ill-equipped to talk about this book, but I must find a way to share it with you. I should probably have read it 10 years ago because I seem to have denied myself 10 years of absolute brilliance. Garp is the illegitimate son of Jenny Fields. Who inadvertently becomes a feminist when she writes her autobiography. Garp marries his boxing coach’s daughter Helen Holm and has a strangely open marriage. He writes one bestseller novel and spends a lifetime trying to recreate that success.

There are many mini-stories that make up the book and as I said, I’m a little overwhelmed and unsure of where to begin. There are the Ellen Jamesians, women who are protesting the rape of a little girl whose tongue was cut out to prevent her from identifying the rapists – they’ve all cut their tongues out to show their support. There is the transsexual who was a football player, there is Garp’s own literary success that flows in and out of his narrative. Structurally it is amazing to be able to pull something like this off, because at no point does Irving lose the plot. And its a triumph for the reader to be able to just keep up and admire his skill.

Darkly comic, you come across rape and mutilation in every second chapter and yet, it doesn’t get you down. It is a commentary on the early feminist movement and there is something about the book that mocks anything and anyone who takes themselves too seriously. If I had to draw a parallel, it would be to a Govinda movie where nothing is implausible – and yet it is a classic. Just when you think nothing worse can happen, it does, in the most gruesome way and you find yourself laughing in horror. Raising the absurd to more than an art form, this is a book that should be read every five years. I’m sure it will bring you an entirely different layer each time. I don’t know if I’ve made any sense. Suffice to say – read it. You won’t regret it.

The Sealed Letter – Emma Donoghue

Every time I pick up an Emma Donoghue, I can’t help but be blown away by how each book is so starkly different, such a different voice, such a different time, place, idea. I’m not religious, but these are the kind of writers I’d like to build temples to. This one is based on a real story that shocked Victorian London. Vice Admiral Codrington has just returned from Malta with his much younger wife, Helen and their two daughters. Barely into the book you realise she is having an affair with a younger, dashing Colonel Anderson. The story later reveals that this is not the first of her indiscretions. Encouraged by prudish friends, he files for a divorce. Caught up in this mess is Emily Faithfull aka Fido, an old friend, who eventually drifted away because she was unwittingly forced to bear witness to their frequent quarreling. But Helen is back in her life, demanding her friendship and demanding that she go beyond the call of friendship. From using her living room in the afternoon and letting Fido hear the squeak of the sofa springs going up and down, to eventually living with her when her husband throws her out, Helen uses her friend quite shamelessly. I’m not sure if the book is ungenerous to her or if it is just me, but I felt no compassion for Helen who is so busy conducting her affair that she misses a telegram calling her home to her sick child.

I’m not usually very judgmental about extra marital affairs, specially in books (didn’t I once do a post on that?), but the moment there is a neglected child involved I change sides like a baingan. It’s just unfair for kids to be trapped in a mess. Anyhow, getting back to the book, it’s a fascinating account of divorce in Victorian England, and of the early women’s movement, again. Accusations of rape, hints of lesbianism and a sealed letter that contains… well, only one way for you to find out. Divorce proceedings anyway bring out the worst in people and you’re forced to take a harsher stand than you had any intention of. This sordid affair too, ends up with dirty linen being washed in public and I can’t help but shudder at how easy it is to get into a relationship and how hard to end it.

Once again, Donoghue has a winner. And I’m looking for funding to set up that temple to her. What? If someone like Khushboo *choke* can have a temple, I don’t see why people who really deserve it shouldn’t! And the more I read books of this sort, the harder it becomes to restrain myself from pelting Chetan Bhagat’s house with rotten tomatoes.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society – Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows

I believe the publishers owe me something on this one. I’ve recommended this book to everyone, all the time. It is 1946 and Guernsey is under German occupation. And then one day author Juliet Aston gets a letter from Dawsey Adams who has come into possession of a book that once belonged to her. Their love of reading kicks off a correspondence and soon she gets to know all about life in Guernsey. The authors have used letters as their storytelling device and there is something simple, satisfying and comforting about the story. I’ve yet to have one friend get back to me saying they were unhappy with it. It’s that breath of fresh air from a slower time, that all of us need. A lovely, lazy, feel good holiday read.

Celebrating World Environment Day

It’s World Environment Day today. What have you done? A token gesture like planting a sapling that you will forget to water tomorrow? Or switching off your computer today but leaving it on for 48 hours the next time you switch it on?

Do go here and pledge something today if you can. Something that you mean to carry though. Either, keeping your AC on 25 degrees, or growing a kitchen garden in a window, or cleaning your bathroom without chemicals. Anything that you find sustainable. I find that choosing something you enjoy works best. Personally, I do a lot of these things simply because I enjoy living this way. Even if you don’t, make the effort to do something for Mother Earth.

Here’s something I’d like to share from my own home. We use desert coolers instead of airconditioners until the monsoon months bring humidity. In this case, the waste water from our RO system is going directly into the tank of the desert cooler. And guess what, my maid came up with this! She saw me religiously filling RO water into buckets for swabbing and washing clothes and she figured this was simpler. So right.

For your reading pleasure

I’ve been wanting to write a book post for a while now, but the pile on my bedside table tempts me to read more instead of wasting that time writing. I can’t be selfish any longer though, so I shall share my last couple of reads with you.

One Day – David Nicholls

This one reminded me of Love Story by Erich Segal(is there any other?). The witty dialogue being the least of the reasons. It’s far more contemporary and very Harry Met Sally too. Emma and Dexter meet on the night of their graduation and hook up. And then, because of a number of events, what should have been the perfect match, doesn’t happen. They stay in touch and there are moments when you want to slap one of them and tell them to get their act together. But it’s rather like real life in that sense. So many close shaves. So many moments where something beautiful could come of it, but one of them idiotically effs things up. I read it a second time over for the funny lines and promised myself I’d use them. But of course I’ve already forgotten them again.

The Mine – Arnab Ray

This one is not for the weak stomachs. I was hooked from the beginning and read through the night. I enjoy the Great Bong’s blog and his book lived up to it ( I liked the first book too, but not half as much as this). A mystery set in a secret mining facility in Rajasthan where the miners come up against very provocative carvings. A team of experts comes in to sort out the strange things that this discovery triggers and before you know it they start dying. One by one. Some of the scenes are disturbingly grotesque, but anything less wouldn’t shock. In parts I found the dialogue forced and stilted, but the rest of it held strong. A very thrilling read.

Hood – Emma Donoghue

I became a fan when I read Donoghue’s Room. So the moment I saw Hood, I picked it up without even reading the blurb. I’m glad I did. The story begins with a funeral. Penelope O’Grady’s lover, Cara is dead in a car crash. And the rest of the book reconstructs their love affair. I found the name rather tongue in cheek and well thought of. I have to admit that I have no trouble rattling off a post – it’s the title that I always struggle with and then carelessly fill up some rubbish, just to get it done with. So, getting back to the point – the name of the book itself speaks volumes about the author. I’ve heard it referred to as a ‘lesbian’ love story, but it’s not. It’s just a love story, that happens to be about two women. And it’s been treated as such. Over the next few weeks, as Pen deals with the past and her grief, a lot more comes to light. Donoghue’s writing is compelling but the plot isn’t particularly absorbing. You already know what the story is, but the past slowly opens up to you and lets you in to their little secrets, humiliations and love. I’d suggest you read this on vacation and not while you’re busy with everyday life and likely to put it down and forget it.

A Spot of Bother – Mark Haddon

If you’ve read and enjoyed The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night time, then you will love this. Fifty seven year old George is convinced he is dying of something. This is bad timing because his daughter is getting remarried. His son is gay and wants to bring his partner to the wedding, and that makes him uncomfortable. And his wife is busy having an affair with his colleague. Very bad timing indeed. Family melodrama that is wry, witty and warm. Haddon needs no recommendation from one as insignificant as me, but if you haven’t read him before, this is your chance to see how a really good writer pulls it together. It’s a slice out of any of our lives. We ache, we die, we live, we breathe and we wonder why the world didn’t stop and acknowledge us. This is the story of just yet another life.

Alice Walker – The Colour Purple

This is a Pulitzer Prize winner and told through one of the age old story telling techniques of writing letters. Celie is a young black girl raped by her father and finally married off to a man who already has children. Her sister Nettie, the only port in a storm, is lost to her. The book depressed me because it seemed like Celie just didn’t get a break. I read on, stolidly, chapter after chapter, waiting for her to be saved. And she was. But only after I’d felt my sense of hope trampled upon. The language in the letters Celie writes is authentic but that just made it slow reading for me as I struggled to make sense of her grammar. Petulantly I wished the same story could have been told in plain old English. Yes, I have my bad days. A story about a survivor. A story that could have been written about a woman anywhere in our country. Heart breaking.

Island Beneath the Sea – Isabel Allende

Now if I had to pick one novel out of this list as my favourite, it would be this one. Set in the 18th century, it takes you into the world of slaves and masters, brutality and terror, threat and discrimination. This book took me back to my childhood and my grandmother singing us to sleep with Way down upon the Swanee river. It reminded me once again, that the entire world owes a debt to the people of colour. Each line, each chapter, drives a nail into the heart. Slavery, illegitimate children, women being misused. It is one horror after the other. And yet Allende is the kind of writer that transports you to 1770 in the blink of an eye and into a world that is so real, her writing so visceral, that you feel the heat, the blinding sun under which they slave and the frisson of terror as they try to getaway. I often complain about the kind of writing Indian publishers seem to be encouraging, because this is the sort of book that I wish more people would aspire to write. There is so little we know of the past, of the atrocities, of the lives these people led. Not only is the period she chose compelling, but the way she writes of relationships – so complex, so hard to define, so layered. I’m tempted to buy 30 copies and walk around distributing to them to some of the recent desi authors I’ve read, telling them – THIS is how you write.

The Help – Kathryn Stockett

I read this after The Colour Purple and Island Beneath the Sun. I was just in that space and I couldn’t stop. I’m wondering if it was a good idea because by the time I emerged from this, I was a wreck and burdened with an inexplicable guilt. Guilt for the privileged life I lead and for never knowing their suffering. Apparently sending me on a guilt trip is easier than slipping on a bar of soap. Aibileen is the coloured househelp. And Miss Skeeter is a young journalist who wants to make a difference. Set in the cotton plantations of America in the 1960s, Miss Skeeter and Aibileen, are both crossing lines of class and race, and exposing themselves to untold danger. From not allowing the help to use the same bathroom (something we Indians are very familiar with) to not allowing them to sit at the dining table (sound familiar?) there are many confusing things that little 2 year old white Mae Mobley doesn’t understand. Put that way, you begin to question our own Indian househelp systems. Told in different voices, sometimes Miss Skeeter, sometimes the help, this was yet another book I read through the night. Loved. Now readers, what do you think  - should I risk seeing the movie and ruining the book experience?

Two Fates – Judy Balan

I’m unhappy about putting this on my list here, because I don’t recommend this book at all. To me it exemplifies a lot of what is wrong with publishing today. I’d read a few of Judy Balan’s pieces in the Brunch (was it?) and I enjoyed her writing. So when I got the book I picked it up eagerly. I have to say my first disappointment was in realising it took off from Chetan Bhagat’s Two States. I almost shut it right there and then. A promising writer and then she goes and picks Chetan Bhagat’s rather stale topic. And I call it stale because he did nothing new with the book. My father is Tamilian and my mother part Bengali, part Garhwali and part lots of other stuff. And I am 33 years old. If inter-community marriages were taking place a century ago, I have no interest in reading about them today. Particularly if the writing is not particularly compelling – what is left to recommend it? If you’re not saying anything new, at least say it in an interesting way. Anyway, I began to read Two Fates and lost interest after the first two chapters, the language just didn’t hold up to scrutiny and neither did the plot. In fact, if you want I’ll give you my copy. I’m feeling rather sad because I really enjoyed her articles (and then her blog that I hunted down). I stand by my original hypothesis, which is, that not every blogger should be considered a writer. And not everyone who has a good idea for a post can hold that thought through an entire book, along with your interest.

The Eighth Guest and other Muzaffar Jung mysteries – Madhulika Liddle

I read Madhulika Liddle’s The Englishman’s Cameo and was hooked. I almost cried when the book ended. Set in the Delhi of Shahjahan’s time, the book had every ingredient I needed. My favourite city, historical fiction and a murder mystery. It’s almost as though she made me put down a list and state what I’d love to read about and then incorporated each one into her story. Here’s an Indian writer who doesn’t write stilted conversations and whose English fits like a glove. Perhaps my problem with a lot of Indian writing in English on contemporary situations, is that the language is trying too hard to be hip and cool, too stylistic, trying so hard, that they fail. I’ve never been a short story fan but I hastily clicked buy on Flipkart because I was ready to have nobleman Muzaffar Jung back in any form. I didn’t regret a rupee of the Rs 350 I spent on it. The stories are short and snippy and the period ambience maintained. I love the descriptions of the elephant fights, the jewellery and the clothing – it all comes alive. But my favourite bits are the references to history in the author’s footnotes. Just right to educate someone like me who has no background in the subject and is eager to learn. I wonder if she deliberately keeps away from forming Jung’s character further. Perhaps the idea is to keep the focus on the mysteries and not him?

 How to Be a Woman – Caitlin Moran

“Put your hand in your pants. (a) Do you have a vagina and (b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said yes to both, then congratulations! You’re a feminist.” This line defined the book for me. It’s funny, it’s contemporary feminism and it’s real. She articulates thoughts that have always floated around at the back of one’s head. Niggling and nebulous, like that annoying bit of raw albumen on your fried egg. Caitlin’s book is the one I plan to keep at my bedside and open whenever I doubt myself. Two days ago, it was a hot summer morning, and we were going out someplace. The OA was in shorts and tee, as were the kids. I was just about to wear a short skirt and sleeveless top when I realised my arms were looking flabby, my underarms were not done and neither were my legs. Now I’m not really the sort who stays waxed and polished, but in my defence, I was PMSing, my back was aching, my bad knee was pulsating with pain and I was sweating barely 10 seconds post bath. I lost my temper and got back into bed. It felt like an unfair world where he could walk out with his hairy legs but I must suffer sleeves and full length pants for no fault of my own and definitely a smoother chest than his! Anyway, I digress. The point is, I remembered Moran’s book and the next day I went out in a sleeveless kurta without doing my underarms. I was in no mood to suffer heat, periods and hot wax being poured on my skin. And that, my dear friends, is that. She is that brave, confident, cool, clever, witty girl in college, who everyone wants to be but is too scared to be. And in her absence, we’ll use her book for support. It also answers a million existential questions like, why are women supposed to use botox and get brazilians? Why do people ask a woman when she is going to have a baby and not a man? And much more. This is not my book of the year. It’s the book that is going to sit on my bedside table for many years.

Not Without My Daughter – Betty Mahmoody

Marrying into a community that you know nothing of, and falling in love with a man whose family you have never met, is a leap of faith. The reason this book resonated with me is because the fact that this could have been my life. I married a man whose family I had never met, a very conservative community. Of course this is not 1984 and I am not stuck in Iran, in purdah, but I think you see where I am going with this. I can’t imagine the terror of marrying a nice, sophisticated, urbane, cultured, educated, warm man and then watching him head back to his country and family and turn into some sort of brutish, neanderthal. Betty Mahmoody goes visiting her husband’s family in Iran and once there, realises there is no going back. Her husband lost his job in America and didn’t tell her that he was moving back home permanently. He soon becomes violent with her and eventually she is held hostage, and her four year old daughter taken away from her. She doesn’t give up and eventually finds a way to escape. The only catch, those who are willing to help, are not willing to take a child along. Unwilling to leave her child, Betty starts her hunt from scratch, determined that she will not leave her child behind. In many ways this reminded me of Emma Donoghue’s Room. A mother’s determination to not let her child down. A few days ago I wished mothers on FB a happy mother’s day, saying there is nothing quite like it. A single friend asked me if that made all non-mothers, losers. I was shocked by the question. No, it doesn’t. But I don’t know of any other bond so strong, so ready to sacrifice, so determined, so courageous. Everytime I read a book like this, I realise how deep a mother’s love for a child can be. Thankfully, not all of us are tested this way.

Balancing Act – Meera Godbole Krishnamurthy

I’m ashamed of how late this review comes, considering how long ago I read and loved this book. Tara Mistri is a modern mother, a SAHM who was once an architect. I loved her for the realism with which her character was portrayed. The frustration of knowing that you’d be good if you went back to work, the husband who is always travelling, the two kids who are adorable yet tiring, as all kids are, and the alter ego that reminds her of what she is, deep inside. Soon she begins to work out the kinks in her life by baking bricks with words on them – womb- nursemaid- housewife, and leaving them in public spaces, for the world to find them. I love that bit of quirk. Her way of reaching out to communicate with the world and work out the battle within. All you mothers must read it. Non-mothers too, if not for anything else but the lyrical writing, unlike the stilted English we’re subjected to by many other Indian authors. Not for a moment do you feel that this is not the author’s first language. Each chapter is introduced by a quote and I loved her choice of lines.