Book Review: Call Me By Your Name (Andre Aciman)

This is one of those books that completely passed me by when it first came out. The publication and subsequent awards weren’t even a blip on my radar.

And then in 2018, the film based on the book came out and while I wouldn’t say I was first in line at the theater, I was quite eager to watch it after the almost uniformly glowing reviews. The few that were critical seem to have made arguments implying that it was too happy and that there weren’t enough exposed genitalia and some such. I thought at the time (and still do) that this was really a level of nit picking that borders on the ridiculous.

On February 14 this year I decided that the book would be my reading for the day. I got myself a Kindle version and settled in.

Aciman’s words immediately drew me in. I was plunged without preamble into Elio’s obsessive crush on Oliver. The conflict within is clear and unambiguous. There is nowhere for the reader to run and hide from the young man’s immediate infatuation and inner turmoil. The object of his affection meanwhile seems cold, distant, somehow above it all, and thoughtless even. I was immediately sucked into Elio’s inner world. And through it all is the languid northern Italian countryside simmering in the summer heat, watching the two.  

There is something elemental about the attraction. I don’t know if it was intentional on the author’s part but as a reader, I found the role of nature through the story incredibly powerful. This also probably has something to do with my own temperament. I have never been blessed as so many seem to be to remain sanguine through weather changes.

The most obvious difference between the movie and the book is that while the film looks at the two men and the genesis and consummation of their relationship through rose-tinted glasses all aglow in soft-focus gold/sepia tones and the beauty of the two protagonists, the book goes beyond the surface beauty.

Aciman does not spare the reader the messiness of love and sex. Emotional and physical messiness. And let’s face it, no matter how good the act, there is a level of messiness involved which may not always make for comfortable reading or even experiencing. But the very rawness that Aciman brings to this most intimate component of the human experience is what made this book such a compelling read for me.

And of course, in the book Aciman goes much further than where we leave Elio and Oliver in the film. He examines their lives after that hazy tumultuous summer from Elio’s perspective. Oliver is a distant figure (perhaps he always was) who is just out of reach as they both go about their lives. The ravages of time and life accumulate. Life moves on. There are other lovers. There are other experiences. But Oliver will always be the one.

I thought this was a story that captured something that people never talk about when they talk about love. That this often logic-defying experience while being universal is also something that neither the lover nor the beloved will ever be able to explain fully to other people. The object of affection perhaps has it slightly easier in some ways especially in those instances of unrequited love. Despite what Auden said, being the more loving one can be harrowing. Moreover, it is often the one who loves who is asked to ‘get over’ things. While this advice may be given with the best of intentions, it fails to understand that some things are not meant to be got over.  Love in its truest form (without expectation or resolution) changes us fundamentally. For better or for worse. I agree with Elio’s father when he says that we are in such a hurry to get over things, to move on that we end up feeling nothing in order to not feel anything and that is a waste. Why trample and stamp out these beautiful human parts of us.  Is it any wonder that we lose so much of ourselves and get so brittle?

I say instead that we submit to the feeling. Let it wash over us and wound us and make us whole again because some part of us will always be parts of those we loved well and loved best.

The trail of scents- a journey through time

This is an attempt to remember the trail of scents in my life. I’ve been trying to go as far back as I can remember. There are six scents that seem to overlap in my oldest memory. Old Spice, Brut, Yardley Red Rose and Lavender, Jannat-ul-Firdaus attar, and frankincense.

Growing up Old Spice bottles were always around the house. A sign of my father’s presence. In that sense it’s a sepia colored scent. Spicy and woody and daddy. On occasion it was also used to disinfect childhood scrapes—scraped knees, bloody toes, scratches of unknown origin. The word ‘lotion’ struck terror in my heart through those years. It always meant the inevitable sting and burn when the Old Spice was poured on the latest bruise. Loud sobs and tears announced to the world my latest misadventures.

Brut was one of those Gulf non-resident Indian (NRI) classics. Every suitcase returning to India for the holidays would have a couple of the emerald green long-necked bottles to be liberally sprayed on the self and to be distributed among favorites or those ready to bestow favors. I can vaguely recall the citrusy, astringent smell but I don’t remember it on mom or dad. But I am pretty sure they must have used it.

Yardley Red Rose and Lavender-scented soaps were a favorite of my paternal grandmother’s. She hoarded them in her closely-guarded steel trunk. And no matter how many she had, more was always welcome. For the longest time, I wondered if England smelled of lavender and red roses. As I was to discover years later, it didn’t. But that’s a story for another post.

Jannat-ul-Firdaus attar was a favorite of my paternal grandfather’s. He would soak small balls of cotton wool with the dark moss green attar and place them in his ears, dressed in his pristine white shirt and dhoti, on his way to the local mosque where he was muezzin. The attar was another favorite among Gulf NRIs to give as gifts. Everything about the attar was opulence to my young mind. The red box with the white silk lining, the ornate stopper. The ads of a princess being rescued by a prince on his white horse or horse-drawn carriage (I no longer remember, correctly), presumably both of them doused in epic quantities of the attar giving them the courage to gallop blindly into an unknown but heavenly future. I don’t know if I can trust my smell memory when it comes to this perfume, but I think it was a strange mix of wood, and citrus and jasmine. I can almost smell it even as I think of it. I can see my grandfather in my mind’s eye clearer than I have seen him in years.

And then there’s the ever present frankincense. How could it be otherwise having grown up in Oman. Frankincense to scent homes, to scent clothes, to scent the body, to greet guests and loved ones. Woodsy, heady, resinous, creamy, with a hint of something resembling lemons…something clean-- guaranteed to put you in a calm state of mind, a smile on the face. Mixed in with the scent of qahwa or Arabic coffee, strong and scented with cardamom and saffron accompanied by the sweetest dates and saffron-scented, rosewater-soaked Omani halwa. These were days for long chats, reclining against pillows in carpeted rooms shaded from the bright desert heat. Gatherings of women. Gatherings of men. Children crossing over.

And then later…

The first French perfume I remember on my parents’ dresser was YSL’s Opium. I have a vivid memory of the box in which the bottle came. Deep, rust red with gold leaves and gold lettering. The perfume deliciously opulent, spicy, oriental. I learned later that it was born the same year I was. And then mummy had a large container of the same deliciously scented body cream. It sat on her dresser for years. I remember opening it every now and then to inhale the scent deeply.

This was also around the time a neighbor, an Arab lady became a friend of the family. I remember so vividly her dark bedroom and the giant dresser with what seemed like a million perfume bottles. All sorts of perfumes. Attars, oils, sprays, colognes. It would have been a perfumer’s dream, I imagine. Fatima aunty’s perfumes were spoken of forever afterwards in tones of great fascination.

Along with the frankincense, the other scent that ran through my childhood was the scent of the roses from the Mussanah farm. Pink, blowsy, richly perfumed growing out in the desert somewhere.

My mother’s home in Malappuram will always be the smell of the jasmine by the front door whose buds unfurled at 7 in the evening just as the train went by the Kuttipuram station. My cousins first alerted me to this punctual flowering bush.  That and the smell of my grandmother’s fish curry that forever hung around the kitchen.  

The scents of adulthood are a different story for another post.

In memory of the roses at Mussanah

I hope someone saved the roses...

There was a garden in my childhood. Out in the desert and not far from the sea. Lime trees grew there. And ber and date palms and sapota. And somewhere far out in the middle of a sandy, rocky stretch, there grew roses. Big, blowsy, pink roses. Their fragrance fit for the houris. It's the roses that stay with me wherever I go.

We would collect them or have them send out to us in the city. We would place the blooms in the refrigerator. For days after, each time we opened the fridge, the fragrance would waft out. It was the kind of scent that would overtake your senses and fill you with pure happiness. Or at least for those fractions of seconds make you forget everything else, good or bad.

I have been trying to recapture that fragrance ever since without much success. We tried growing roses that we thought may have similar scents. We came close but not close enough. This was perhaps a trick of memory...

My perfume shopping expeditions are always aimed at some day finding a potion that has managed to bottle that scent. I'm still searching.

The memories of those roses are so vivid that if I close my eyes, I can see the rose patch. I can see the inside door of the refrigerator. I can even see the dull yellow inside light. I can see the sea breeze scented flat we lived in by the sea in those days. I can see Hassan uncle and his four-wheel drive. I can almost feel the sandy soil where the roses grew. I also have a vivid memory of a star-strewn night sky above it. But I have no idea where that comes from. Did I once visit it at night?

I have no clear memory of what time of year the roses would bloom. I have no clear memory of when those roses first came into our lives. But I have a clear memory of large and abundant petals. Those memories are also somehow entangled with memories of the matriarch of the family that owned the business my dad worked for. An old, elegant woman who gave us gifts of cloth and jewelry- earrings and bangles and bracelets. Her face is no longer clear. But she was from an older, genteel time. All softness and light and leisurely teas and lounging around.

The garden no longer exists. The flat by the sea no longer exists. The old lady is long gone.

I hope someone saved those roses...

The dust from Angkor and the shift inside

My shoes still have the dust from Angkor on them.

January 2019. Morning. Siem Reap. 10 minutes to sunrise. A veritable Tower of Babel all around. French, German, Arabic, Russian. A few I didn’t recognize.

A quarter moon hanging in the inky blue-black sky. Two stars. A dim outline of looming structures against the dark sky. What mysteries were about to be revealed to me I wondered.

My day began at 3.15 that morning. A cold shower. A warm croissant. Some water. At around 4.30 am, as promised a smiling Mr. Phal (pronounced Paul) along with minivan and driver presented themselves at the hotel entrance. The other mostly silent, half-asleep occupants of the van included a young East European man (Hungarian, I think), a young couple- she, Serbian, he, Swiss. A group of three French-Canadians. Along the way we picked up an Irish couple. We proceeded to the ticketing center, which is about 4 Kms from the actual Angkor Archaeological Park. I thought this was a superb idea guaranteed to avoid chaos at the actual site.

Ticketed and armed with water and coffee and bananas we got back in the van and proceeded to Angkor. The roads at that time of day were unlit. I could make out some trees on both sides and not much else. There were locals (farmers I assume) walking along the side of the road. I had noticed that this was a country where people rose early. I assume because it is an agricultural country. I did wonder too if the choice to not have too much street lighting along the way was a deliberate one. It did add to the mystery of it all.

Soon we were at the main ticketing checkpoint. We didn’t even have to get out of the van. Two young women came to the vehicle and checked all of our passes, thanked us and send us on our way. While this was happening, I noticed a well-dressed Chinese couple sitting on chairs at the checkpoint while a balding man was trying to sell them on a seemingly ridiculously priced private tour of what I’m not exactly sure.

And then we drove on for what seemed like less than a minute. The vehicle stopped and Phal asked us to get off. We started walking. There were other people in front of our little group. It was pitch black save for the headlights of some vehicles and once those fell behind us, people started turning on their mobile flashlights.  We went up a wooden incline and then down the other side. And then we started walking on what felt like floating plastic barrels. A temporary bridge while the actual bridge was being restored.

The famed moat around Angkor Wat stretched out on either side. Dark and silky ripples. Not for protection, Phal said. This is the cosmic ocean.

We were crossing over to the other side of the cosmic ocean. The moment was rich with symbolism. All of us from around the world together crossing the cosmic ocean. Some of us silent, and others, perhaps unsettled by the dark embracing us, spoke in hushed tones.

And then we were on the other side. The crunch of sandy soil underfoot. A cool, gentle pre-dawn breeze. Phal stops and tells us that we could now do as we wished. Find a spot to sit or to stand and wait. We were literally going to spend the next 20 minutes or so waiting for the sun to come up. He would meet us back at the same spot at 6.20 am he said.

We wandered off. In groups, pairs, alone. I stood still for some time. Absorbing the atmosphere of the place. Gazing up at the bright piece of moon hanging above me. The reflecting pool near which we were standing was almost dry. January is the dry season in Cambodia. Off to the right was a copse of palm trees. A path disappearing into the woods nearby. From somewhere in the distance I could hear the soft beating of drums and a vague music I couldn’t identify. I’m still not entirely sure where this was coming from.

I wandered away from the people gathering to watch the sunrise. I wanted to be at a vantage point from which to take it all in. To observe the observers as well as the magnificence we had all come to look at. And most of all to be as alone as I could be when I first saw it.

The sky slowly began to lighten. For one breathless moment before the light was bright enough to discern everything around me, it could have been any century. A time when all of this was still resplendent and glorious. When kings who could bring the gods to earth, still wandered these spaces.

Let me tell you that nothing will prepare you for the view as the sky gets ever lighter and more and more details are revealed. At one point I turned around and looked behind me and there were smaller structures and one of them had a group of people stretched out and just gazing at the Wat. Not a phone or camera in sight. Just looking. They looked like they were tripping. But I'm guessing they were just blissed out at the magnitude of what was in front of them. 

I think by now the whole world has seen photographs of this place. And a little time on Google will tell you all you need to know about the facts of the place. But I cannot see how anyone could fail to be impressed by how such a place as this came to be.

Human ingenuity, strength, and imagination coming together at a time when technology as we know it now didn’t exist. This was magnificent and awesome in the very essence of that word.

It shifts something inside. Opens you up in profound ways.

It’s been a week and more. The ordinary has rushed in to take over but…

I still have the dust from Angkor on my shoes…

Victorian weekends

So, I've spent the better part of  Friday evening and this (Saturday) morning watching BBC adaptations of Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South and Wives and Daughters. I'm tired but so happy. It was a wonderful opportunity to escape into that Victorian world of restrained but passionate love and quiet social revolutions and simpler but more complex lives. I often think I would have liked to have been part of that world in some ways. No, things were not easy , in fact quite the opposite, dangerous even. But the good things were so good, don't you think?

Source: Here

Gaskell feels so much like an English Edith Wharton but with a wider range. Among her many novels and short stories I'd only read North and South, and that too ages ago. I'd watched the Cranford mini-series. But these two mini-series were a revelation. It may even be blasphemy to say it, but I think I may even prefer her over Austen. Okay, okay, maybe that is going too far. But really, I suppose it's also because the subject matter is so intimate, I suppose in some way. I even heard someone describe Wives and Daughters as a Victorian 'soap opera'. And I suppose in some sense it is. But a soap opera with greater depth and sense of adventure you will not find.

Elizabeth Gaskell (Source: Here)

As for North and South, I suppose the character of John Thornton has always been one of fascination comparable perhaps only to Mr Darcy- but more tender and vulnerable I think. Richard Armitage brings a wonderful stern, yet vulnerable muted sexiness to the role. The man's acting is wonderful and I suppose I even have a slight crush on John Thornton as portrayed by Armitage. Watch it and I dare you to come away NOT feeling that little something. In any case, the heroine of the story , Margret Hale, is timeless, in her courage, willfulness and almost unnerving ability to take life on. She is beautifully portrayed by Daniela Denby-Ashe.

So,all in all, it's been a wonderful day. It also got me thinking about whether I'd ever be satisfied with my current world. I suppose there is a part of me longing for the kind of adventures portrayed in these stories- a longing to break down barriers and live more fully and love more fully...
I wonder what's in store...  

Source: Here

Mangoes and blooms

The hot weather continues here broken occasionally with cool breezes when it rains in Kerala or in the Western Ghats. We have our own thunder showers but these are far too few. The best thing though about this city at this time of year are the profusion of flowers. The jacarandas, the queen's wreath, the tabebuia are in full bloom and provide much needed visual relief.

The sky before a recent thunderstorm

A queen's wreath in full bloom

Badamis and avocados

And of course the heat also means the sweetest mangoes. I've been trying quite a few varieties this year. So far I've sampled the bangenapllis, the raspuris and this week , the badamis. The latter my research tells me are the local cousins of the famed Alphonsos. These I have found make the best smoothies with avocados.

I just finished reading an interesting crime thriller called Layover in Dubai by Dan Fesperman. I found it particularly interesting because it was set in Dubai, not a city one associates with crime thrillers. Fesperman has managed to capture some of the essence of the place. He's done a decent job of capturing the conflicts even if in broad strokes. A good read and I definitely recommend it.

Source:here

At the moment I'm also reading a book called Grave Secrets in Goa by Kathleen McCaul. It has started out well. But I find it exceedingly irritating that no one seems to have bothered to edit the book or proof read it. Among the many irritating mistakes are the usual 'Your' becomes 'you're' kinds and vice versa.  In any case, the mystery seems to be well-plotted. But it's still early days.









I'm continuing with the Laurent Gayer and Christophe Jaffrelot edited Muslims in Indian Cities. This is a much needed collection of empirical studies on the state of the community in India. Each chapter provides a snapshot of a community seemingly under siege. It is clear though that much more research needs to go into figuring out exactly what's going on. But this is definitely a good start.

Source: Here

Books and other beautiful things...

So, my first post of the year is being written well into the strange new year. April is almost ending and the world is as uncertain as it has been at any time. Bombings, earthquakes, the deaths of thousands of innocents, economic uncertainties, all continue unabated. But there have been some changes in my attitude toward these. I wouldn't call it detachment but it comes close. Life must go on. And we must find beauty where we can I think. The world is what it is and the troubles are what they are. My engagement with it must be a considered one if I can be of any use at all. Knee jerk reactions are all very well, but they are just that.

In the meantime, I have been reading some beautiful books. A couple deserve special mention. Empires of the Indus was one. Alice Albinia's breathtaking adventures following the Indus from the mouth to the source is a soulful, courageous journey that will captivate you from page one. Where this young woman found the physical courage to accomplish her journey is beyond me. The book is a record of the history of one of the

Source: Here

oldest rivers in the world. It is also a historical record of one of the most volatile regions of the world. Empires is essential reading for anyone wanting to understand this constantly changing corner of the world and also perhaps as a cautionary tale about what we are doing to the beautiful world around us.

The other book that I came to admittedly quite late is White Mughals by William Dalrymple. I have no idea why I waited so long to read this. But books must come to you when they will I believe. The book of course deals with those issues that don't ever seem to leave us and perhaps never will- assimilation, globalization, the

Source: Here

people who fall through the cracks , very often tragically. Dalrymple's true genius lies in the seemingly effortless telling of a complex tale mostly lost in the mists of time. The story of course broke my heart and I was left ever so devastated for a few days afterwards. But it was certainly well worth it.

Other than that, I've begun practicing yoga, after a long time. It's been good , if a bit achy. Summer's here and it's almost unbearably hot but the mangoes are good as are the gulmohars. Saturday morning was spent admiring these beautiful blooms. I'll leave you with a photograph of these beauties.Until next time...

Gulmohar Dreams