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.