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

The Menagerie of Bottles

So, the Girl with the Encyclopedia of Bottles,  has gone and done it again. She's taken the most ordinary little bottles that you and I would probably walk past with nary a second glance and gone and created the most surreal little menagerie.

In this age of recycling and upcycling and generally over- priced 'Eco-friendly'  stuff , it's becoming, sadly, increasingly rare finding imaginatively conceived truly interesting work. This isn't a spiel I promise you.

Animal Farm by Nishi Chauhan (Source: Here)

This menagerie isn't about mere upcycling by the way. Oh no. Flo, Gerry, Peeves, Ellie , Humf and Porky are so much more. Each is a carefully thought out, carefully designed piece that will light up your day - quite literally as it happens.

The best part though- for me- is the confluence of the old and the new. These fantastical creatures born of glass and wood bring together new notions with the timeless craftsmanship that we have long forgotten to appreciate- in this case the skills of the craftsmen at Channapatna in South India.

Animal Farm isn't about putting an old idea in a new bottle as it were. This little farm is about a new idea.It's also about rejuvenating an old art form. This project is about wedding two extraordinary ideas and creating unique, usable pieces that speak to you and me.

Read more about  'Animal Farm' here.

Encounters 2

In December of 2005, I'd been in London about three months. This being my first time spending winter in a place that far north on the globe, the sudden onset of darkness by 4 in the afternoon was still a bit of a novelty and ever so slightly depressing. Christmas was definitely in the air. The weather was wet and oh so cold for my desert bred self.

One evening I was returning by tube from the last class of the term at SOAS. I got off the tube at Belsize Park where I was rooming and started walking up the street. I had gone barely a few meters out of the tube station when I saw an elderly lady wrapped up in a long coat and wool cap walking slowly and painfully up the street. The streets up in Belsize and Hampstead are rather steep.The ground was wet and she looked as if she might be in some pain. I'm not sure why, as I'm usually a bit reserved around strangers but I thought I'd stop and ask her if she needed  help. She immediately held my hand and asked me if she was walking in the right direction toward the Royal Free Hospital. As it happened she was and I was headed in the same direction. The residence I was rooming at was right next door to the Royal Free. And so it was that I offered to drop her off at the hospital.

It took us about 20 minutes to cover a distance that usually takes about 6 minutes and that was enough time for us to exchange stories and what a fascinating story she had. Her name it turns out was Dr. Jutta Singer. Yes, she made sure I knew she was a doctor. Anyway, she lived in Schonfeld Park in North London. She was Jewish and she used to be married to a doctor from Mauritius.Her husband was, she said, a Muslim man who had passed away about 20 years ago by then and she'd come back to London.  Her marriage had apparently not gone down too well with her community but now as a widow she'd been welcomed back. By the time she'd explained all this we'd arrived at the entrance to the Royal Free and we said our goodbyes. But not before she asked me if I'd like to help her sort out her papers and things at her home in Schonfeld Park. She apparently had too many of them and had a small army of students much like myself who occasionally helped her out. I almost immediately said why not. After all, this would give me a chance to learn a bit more about a community I'd long been curious about. Besides, Dr, Singer sounded like she had many more stories. And so began one of the strangest associations of my life.

Over the next four months, twice a week, I'd visit her in Schonfeld Park in the afternoons. Schonfeld Park , named for a rabbi who apparently ran an orphanage or some such ( I don't remember exactly now), was a housing estate in Stoke Newington in North London occupied entirely by Hassidic Jews. It was a world unto itself, as they say. Each time I visited it felt like I was stepping into another world. Dr. Singer's apartment closely resembled a storeroom of sorts. The little flat was overflowing with stacks of papers and books and smelled vaguely like something was boiling on the stove all the time.Most of her needs in terms of food was catered to by her young neighbours. I never did find out what these neighbours did for a living. The young women were all mothers to broods of seemingly extremely well-behaved young children. The men, I'm not sure what the men did really. They all seemed rather scholarly. I really should have been a bit more curious about this I guess. In any case, my days with Dr. Singer usually involved arranging her papers for her, arranging her various Sabbath invites and mostly just listening to her stories. These included stories about her childhood in Austria. It sounded rather idyllic until of course the horrors visited on that country by Hitler. Dr. Singer was shipped off to England before that along with her siblings. The rest of her family sadly perished in one of the labour camps.

Dr. Singer on the other hand was brought up by her relatives in London. She went on to study medicine and eventually specialized in women's health. Then sometime in the 1960's or so, the British government deputed her to go out to Mauritius and set up a family planning clinic. And this is where she met the handsome Dr. Ebrahim. There followed the usual drama that surrounds inter-faith marriages. In any case, they managed to get married and became parents to three bright boys  who all seem to have grown up into high profile careers and good marriages it would seem.

Sadly though at the end of four months, academics and my own life got in the way and I was no longer able to spare the time I'd need to travel up to her. I've always wondered what happened to her. I misplaced her number and wasn't able to get in touch with her before leaving London. I do hope that her sons came to see her. She always seemed rather lonely and they never seemed to be able to make the time. One morning, shortly before I left her  she told me that she wanted to give me a badge that said ' Angel Friend'. It turns out that the lady had a whole network of young people like me that she'd met in circumstances very like the one that we met under and she called them her Angel Friend Network. She told me that they seem to come into her life when she most needed them and they seemed to leave when their role in her life was up. But she was deeply grateful for whatever this plan was that the universe had that was sending her these angels. I suppose that's as good as an explanation as any , don't you think?

Love stories



Source: Here

 I've just finished reading Annie Zaidi's Love  Stories # 1 to 14. And let me tell you one thing- love is messy. In case you hadn't already realized, that is. Love is messy. It's complicated. It's violent- and I don't mean physically. Being in love and loving and being loved are all on some level violent- the violence of the heart is perhaps something one cannot recover from - ever. You get over it, perhaps, but do you ever fully recover?

I remember in some movie one of the characters says " I have loved many people and each of them has taken a little piece of me." Isn't that perhaps the most violent act of all- giving a piece of yourself and taking a piece of someone else and neither of you is ever the same again.The happily ever afters are a dream really- a very unrealistic one. Even the happiest love stories I know of are not happily ever afters. And on some level I think who needs that anyway.

However, I digress. The book that I just finished reading- Zaidi's Love Stories # 1 to 14- is a collection of short stories and each deals with an aspect of love- romantic love. The stories are unexpected and honest. They have that strange quality that's so hard to capture of making one live each of the characters. You cannot help but be involved and wonder and even worry. For me each of these stories contained an 'aha' moment and I'm sure most readers would find this too. The magic of Zaidi's book really lies in the fact that she has somehow managed to capture and express the nuances- the layers- of love if you will. Even the cheesiest isn't necessarily the easiest cheese. They leave you with uncomfortable questions as well. Where does love end and comfort/habit begin? Is all love some kind of mass delusion? What's real? Who decides? When do you decide to trust and why?

A couple of the stories probably could have done with a bit tighter writing or better editing.

In the end though this is probably the best collection of stories coming from the crop of new writers emerging out of India that I have read in a very long time.

Icarus and reflections on a pale blue dot

I've been reading Mona Simpson's A Regular Guy and there's a lovely part in the book where the main character acquires a Matisse. He then gets so attached to it that he cannot stand the thought of it mattering as much as it does and proceeds to give it away. This is the second time that Henri Matisse has entered my life.

Source: Here

The first time was through a friend ( who is no longer a friend, unfortunately) and it was a very specific piece- Icarus. I fell in love with it. I don't know if it's that deep, vibrant blue. Or those exploding yellow stars. Or that wonderful, free falling, almost dancing figure with that beating red heart. There's something so beautiful and tragic about it.

Based on the story of the adventurer who aspired to reach the sun and in trying to attain his dream failed so spectacularly that he must be celebrated. But it's never really failure is it if you dared to dream and dared to defy the gods as it were.Dared to defy your 'humanness'.

Perhaps it meant so much to me then because it came into my life at a time when I was setting out to explore my own life.I was testing the waters.The universe was throwing things my way that were unexpected. It was significant I think in a way that was not yet clear to me and wouldn't be for some time to come. But now, almost a decade later I look at it again and it moves me. The artist who had so much to create that neither pain nor disability would stop him. He found ways to negotiate both. Isn't that what the story of Icarus is anyway? Indeed the story of humanity as a whole in a sense. For all our frailty we must defy the gods. We must - we are compelled - to reach for the stars. We look at the birds and we are compelled to fly. And we have. We have flown and we  have traveled among the stars .We are looking at worlds beyond our gaze. We are not perfect but that which is perfection in us is beyond compare- don't you think?

We no more know why we've been put on this "pale blue dot" " floating along like a smote of dust on a beam of sunlight" , than when we first began wondering about these things. But here we are.

So, there, those are my reflections for a Thursday night. I'll leave you with the following lesson in perspectives from the incomparable Carl Sagan:

Pale Blue Dot (Source: Here)

 We succeeded in taking that picture [from deep space], and, if you look at it, you see a dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever lived, lived out their lives. The aggregate of all our joys and sufferings, thousands of confident religions, ideologies and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilizations, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every hopeful child, every mother and father, every inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every superstar, every supreme leader, every saint and sinner in the history of our species, lived there on a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam.

The earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and in triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of the dot on scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner of the dot. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light.

Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity -- in all this vastness -- there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. It is up to us. It's been said that astronomy is a humbling, and I might add, a character-building experience. To my mind, there is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly and compassionately with one another and to preserve and cherish that pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.

Of feet of clay and a house sparrow named Ben Franklin

I feel I must write something today. But it's all rather random- the thoughts in my head.

Gaza is being pounded mercilessly by Israel. Israel is getting its share of missile attacks from Gaza. But the power balance remains skewed as always. The world remains divided as usual. I'd rather not say anything about a certain Mr Obama and his stance on the whole thing.

 My uncle and a cousin are stuck in Jerusalem. What was a tour of the holy lands has turned into a nightmare. They finally learn that the holy lands are not quite so holy anymore. If they ever were that is. I wish there was some intelligent insight into the mess that I could provide. But I'm fresh out I'm afraid.

The famous Aung San Suu Kyi was in town yesterday and I was given an opportunity to go meet her which I turned down. Her rather crude fence sitting on the whole Rohingya problem has been rather off putting. As a friend said the other day, it's best not to have heroes- they turn out to have feet of clay anyway.

All this is rather depressing. So turning to slightly more cheerful topics- the sparrow on my balcony has been christened Benjamin Franklin by my sister for his rather founding father-ish aspect and demeanour. She also believes he used to be a cat in his previous life going by the long hours he sits in meditation on our window sill. I personally find fascinating his fascination with the washing machine. Benjamin can sit for hours watching the water swirl and the clothes tumble. Watching him definitely makes clear why they're called house

Sparrow love

sparrows. He loves household sounds of all sort be it the clang of vessels in the kitchen, the pounding of pestle in mortar, the sputter of mustard seeds in hot oil, the sizzle of  frying onions, the whistle on the pressure cooker, the blender- anything really. Lunch preparation is his favourite time of day I have noticed. And he loves our flowers... the geraniums are a particular favourite.

Looking forward to a quiet Sunday reading four books simultaneously ( always a thrilling , if not entirely practical, approach). But on the menu are Annie Zaidi's Love Stories, Mona Simpson's A Regular Guy, Agatha Christie's autobiography and Paul Theroux's short stories.

Here's hoping for peace everywhere...

Ruminations on a cold rainy day

So, a cyclone hit nearby Tamil Nadu state yesterday. And as usual, Bangalore must bear part of the consequence. This came in the form of rain that just still hasn't let up. It's Thursday afternoon and the rain hasn't stopped even one little bit in that time. And it's cold. Colder than I have ever felt here I think in these three years.

The mid-week holiday means that I have pretty much spent the day sitting on one sofa or another in front of my laptop and in front of the tv , eating bread and peanut butter and drinking gallons of green tea. The world outside - at least the glimpses of it that I catch when I look out the one open window in the flat- is drenched. My plants are holding on. Their blooms seem to be able to withstand the wind and the incessant drip drip of the rain.

I just finished watching a beautiful Malayalam movie, Adaminte Makan Abu. I hadn't expected to like it. I ended up loving it. On the face of it , it's a movie about a man at the end of his life who hopes to perform the Hajj in Mecca. But it's so much more. It's about human relationships and what it means to lead a life well-lived. It is about faith and what that means to each of us. Faith has got to be the most personal of all human experiences I think. And in an odd way it dictates our relationships. Or maybe not so odd. The protagonist has lived his whole life with the one desire- to go to Mecca. Not just go to Mecca. But go to Mecca on the terms dictated by his faith. No short cuts and no half measures will do. And so as he sets about arranging for this- the most significant journey of his life, it's the relationships that he's built over a lifetime lived faithfully that help him prepare.And in the end when things don't go as expected it's that faith that helps him live as well and find hope.

I found this movie a great comfort.

So, that was the theme of the day- comfort... and faith.

Changes

It's been a while. In that while, the world I grew up in has been changing faster than I can keep up. People gone. Monuments gone. So many things -just gone. Not complaining here. At least not too much. Not all of the change has been bad I must admit. In fact much of it has been for the good. But at least a couple of people who are gone , I wish they'd stuck around for a while longer. Nora Ephron for example. The way she saw the world made it always so much more bearable somehow. I loved the movies she made even before I knew that it was she who'd made them. I loved things that she'd said even before I knew it was she who'd said them.

Reading a book that has much to do with change at the moment. Julia Gregson's East of the Sun. The story's set in India of the 1920's -30's. If I have to categorize it , I'd call it 'Raj era chick lit'. Filled with inaccuracies of all sort. Some good research and fact checking would have helped it much. But the characters are wonderfully compelling and one does get terribly attached to them. The kind of book to be enjoyed with a lovely cup of tea and a plate of butter cookies. Hmm.

A friend also introduced me to the work of Joann Sfar through his graphic novel The Rabbi's Cat. A work of effortless genius. I highly recommend it.

In the meantime, the monsoons here are mighty spotty. Not good. But there are days with lovely weather and these are to be enjoyed when they do occur I suppose.

The fuss about marriage

So, I got an email from my father yesterday and all it said was this :

" Hi Serene, Go thru this profile. Let me know. Take care. Dad".

There followed a profile from a 'matrimonial website' called (believe it or not) "Muslim Matrimony". Now my dad under the best of circumstances isn't the most loquacious man ( unless you put him in front of an audience and then all bets are off), but when it comes to the topic of 'marriage' or in this case ' arranged marriage', the man becomes semi-literate. He'd like to be dictatorial about it and it instead turns into a sputteringly incomprehensible speech that loses steam about half way through with the onset of an acute embarrassment. At other times he tries the emotional blackmail route. This usually begins with " I'm getting older. I'm getting sicker. I'm not long for this world. Get married." That second part by the way is patently untrue. The last visit to the cardiologist proved this. The first part , well, we're all getting older. And somehow my "marriage" is supposed to be the panacea for old age and death. My getting married is also supposed to be the solution to every property dispute in the family ( this is probably true but I still maintain that this isn't anything that's going to be solved by marriage-mine or anyone else's-  let's face it my relatives aren't exactly in the running for the UN).

My mother, by the way, just goes for full on emotional blackmail. She has threatened me with various scenarios of lonely death over the years. If I remain a  single woman ,my life always comes to a gruesome end in my mother's mind at the hands of various relatives ( who all want to kill me for whatever reason , but mostly property); it comes to an equally gruesome end in some hospital where I'll lie rotting alone and dying; it comes to an end eaten by cats and raped and murdered by unknown assailants; my sister and all my friends will have their own lives to lead and men to marry and children to take care of and I'll be alone and dying in a corner forgotten and thrown to the side. Ladies and gentlemen, these are my poor mother's worst case scenarios if I continue to live my life in blessed singledom- what must be it like to be her I wonder.

And a combination of these strategies has been going on for well nigh 14 years now. Technically it started when I hit puberty but I thought I'd give them a little slack for the early years because my extended family were much more involved than my parents at that time.

Anyway, so coming back to last night. A combination of curiosity, exasperation and boredom made me open up the profile. This was the information that the profile contained - the gentleman was all of 37 years, unmarried, 6ft tall, living in Kuwait and working as an engineer (not software) and earns 12,000 Kuwaiti Dinars per annum. His 'partner preference' could be summed up in one word 'Any'. So, 'Anyman' here, basically didn't care what he married ( I'm glad in a way that he specified 'female' or maybe that too was an assumption on my part- things are a bit unclear at this point). So, based on this 'profile' , my father ( an otherwise intelligent man albeit an extremely , and proven, bad judge of people) wanted me to make a decision on whether this should be 'taken further'.

Now , tell me dear reader, how was I supposed to respond?  Was I supposed to say, " yes please, dad, let us take this further because I see so much potential." After all this man put up his own profile on a website meant to attract future partners and clearly he was so interested in attracting the best of the best that he simply couldn't take the time out to fill in what sort of a partner he would like to see himself with. This is exactly what I want to do with the rest of my very short life- spend it with a man who can't be bothered.

What I really wanted to say was " Are you kidding me???? What is WRONG with you???" But then that would lead to sulking and more arguments and frankly I don't have the energy. Not even a little bit. So, I took the path of least resistance and simply ignored the mail and shut down the computer. But I did take a look see at the various trolls who'd "expressed interest" in my profile, kindly provided by my dear parents ( and reads like it was written by two barely literate people!! What happens to two educated and extremely well-read people when it comes to this topic is something for another post). There was , believe it or not, a 58 year old pervert who's trolling for a second go at marriage. His claim to fame? He's a doctor in Saudi Arabia with a brood of kids. I mean ,what the hell! The past months on this particular website has in fact washed up the very bottom of the barrel. It's soul-crushing I tell you.

The reason is of course painfully clear. In my society ( and even more specifically, in my religious community ) once a woman is well into her 30's and unmarried, it is immediately assumed that (a) there is something physically or mentally wrong with her (b) she has a bad character ( read: she's no longer a virgin and this is THE WORST thing) (c) she's so butt ugly she'll settle for anything that comes along because she's just so desperate to jump into bed with anything ,and (d) in a late breaking development they assume you're lesbian. So, "profiles" of women my age on these websites always , and I mean ALWAYS, attract the oldest, most pathetic losers on whom other women have already given up. I mean these are men who have been dumped or have dumped others. It wouldn't matter to them that I have more degrees than they can count in subjects that is way beyond the comprehension of their puny little minds. Oh no! To them I'm still fair game because I'm in my 30's and that means my parents and I are desperate. 

And what about men my age from the same community you ask? Well, this is what happens. They put down their profiles with their most 'dashing' photos and demand brides of 29 and below. Yes, they must have prime  ( and untouched) meat don't you know? Now that they have "sowed their wild oats" they must settle down with " a young woman who understands their needs". Double standards anyone?

What do my parents have to say about this? Well to be fair, my mother suggested that I advertise for a younger man. My dad  of course has maintained his sphinx-like silent disapproval and carries on sending me 'profiles'.

Source: Here

Now, what do I think of marriage you may wonder dear reader. I think it's an extremely flawed institution and in many ways it's sick. But as institutions go it does have its advantages.But for something that began as a way of preserving property I wonder when it became so emotionally overwrought. What was the need to have made it so? Why couldn't people just keep it practical and carried on as usual? But no, everything had to become about sex and emotions and violence and sickly sweet  and frankly disgusting anniversary celebrations ( I mean what is that? Yay! We survived each other these many years and scrubbed toilets and washed underwear without killing each other! Let's cut the cake!). Okay, fine, make it that way. But if it must be that and if one must saddle oneself with this other human who's going to be hovering around every single day, then let it at least be a someone that one can tolerate and with whom one shares more than just human DNA and a few ape-like characteristics.

If I must spend  time in enforced companionship with someone I'd like it to be with a reasonably intelligent human being who will have something to say if I mention ,say, Damien Hurst . I'd like it to be someone funny and who can make me laugh. And I'd like it if the person was reasonably good and had some financial security. I don't have an ideal man in mind. Yes , I have fallen 'in love' before ( whatever that may mean to various people) .But no, I don't expect that to happen again. So, really, is it too much to ask for me to not completely lose myself and my life and my perspective on things. I don't want to meld into another and become one with someone else. I want to be me and I'd like to have someone to be 'me' with. Simple.

I fear though that I may be dreaming for such simplicity in life. These days when I bring up how annoyed I get at the constant pressure that I have been for the past decade and more, the word 'duty' keeps cropping up. Earlier it was just the parents - "It's our duty to find you a suitable boy". Now my sister is in on the act too- "They're just doing their duty." And on most days I'd love to tell everyone where to go place their misplaced sense of duty.

It's fair to say I've given up. Now, I just wish 'they' would.

The Sage of Sanaa mesmerizes -again

Have any of you ever felt that miserable feeling when you've just finished a book? Especially a book that was so engrossing and so nearly surreal that at some point you begin to wonder if it was real ( no matter what it says on the cover!). I've just come to the end of Travels with a Tangerine. 

And I'm miserable! It was such a beautiful account of the author's travels in the footsteps of Ibn Battutah. In an earlier post I'd written about another of his books that I'd read- an account of his travels through India in the footsteps of Battutah- The Hall of a Thousand Columns. The author has portrayed so beautifully and 'surreally' two of the countries that have meant much in my life- Oman and India. And yes, I want to gush endlessly about it. He has managed to capture so beautifully that something quite not captured about Oman in a way that I never could. Although I do disagree strongly with him on his perceptions of Khor Rawri ( which has to be my most favorite spot anywhere on earth) , I couldn't be happier with the rest.

There seems to be a wonderful linguistic alchemy to the author's words that just transports and transforms and you're constantly surprised to find yourself in your everyday surroundings (which will always seem so dull when you do emerge I promise!). And the words he uses- they are mesmerizing and unusual. 

After the sensory assault (almost) that the book was for almost two months ( I tried to read it as slowly as possible), I feel I've been left high and dry.

Once I've re-adjusted though I have a whole pile waiting to claim me. I think I'm going to finally open up the Amitav Ghosh that has been eying me ( and that I've been eying back) these past couple of weeks.