Vacation Recap

So, my vacation’s almost over. And a sad thing that is too.

What did I do this vacation, one might ask. Well, apart from the fun, fat wedding attendance in the first week, the second week has been dedicated to one of the things I love but don’t get to do as much as I would like. Sleeping.

In fact, it feels like that all the all-nighters that I did last year and all the anticipated ones will be made up in this one week.

However, before you get the impression that that is all that I have done, let me set you right. In between the bouts of sleeping, I have also been reading. Currently I am reading From the Holy Mountain by William Dalrymple, who is fast becoming one of my favourite authors – fiction or otherwise.

This book has Dalrymple tracing the journey of one John Moschos – a monk who travelled the silk route more than fifteen hundred years ago, in the then Byzantine empire. The journey starts from Mount Sinai, through Turkey and Syria and I am currently in a war-ravaged Lebanon in 1994 with Dalrymple.

Cover of From the Holy Mountain
Courtesy: Flipkart.com

What I find fascinating about Dalrymple’s style is that it is a beautiful and not-at-all simple blend of humour, knowledge, love and insight. So, while he is travelling though borders patrolled by militia, cities being shelled constantly, looking for places of archaeological interest, resurrecting glimpses of life from many centuries ago, he is also telling me, to what extent all the beautiful history is in the danger of being soon forgotten. The book is also supplemented with some heart-rending pictures – of the only survivor of an Oriental Christian faith, of the ruins of temples and shrines that once teemed with devotees and saints – both real and fake. The bazaars that would have been the envy of the richest businessmen today. All gone into the gaping maws of greed and intolerance. The essence of the book is summed up in the words of Pere Abbe Marcel abi-Khalil, a Christian priest that Dalrymple runs into unexpectedly in Chouf, Lebanon: “In this part of the world, for all our difficulties, religion has not just torn people apart. It has often brought them together. It is important to remember that.”

To temper the slightly heavy content of From the Holy Mountain, I am also reading some light-hearted romances in between and Bullfinch’s Age of Fable. The latter is a retelling of Greek myths, both popular and obscure. Reading through both Dalrymple’s book and Bullfinch’s compilation reminds me of how much I loved studying literature and how fascinating history can be.

I also managed to make time for a couple of movies – The Hunger Games (not as good as the book, too slow and tedious in parts) and The Amazing Spiderman. The second movie was good timepass. Andrew Garfield suffused the character of Peter Parker with a nervous, shy energy stirred with an innocent sense of wonder at his new power. And as Spiderman, he was wry, humorous, chivalrous and responsible. He admits to his failures and owns responsibility for them. Emma Stone as Gwen Stacey was adequate and way better than Kirsten Dunst as Mary Jane. I just could not stand Dunst.

Am religiously following the new Masterchef season but it’s too early for me to get a sense of the contestants yet. I truly hope that Emma does not turn out to be whiner like Dani in the last season.

So, that brings me almost to the looming end of my vacation. Excuse me, while I observe two minutes' silence for its demise.

Until next time, ciao.

The Ordinary Offspring - Prologue & Chapter 1

Here's the beginning of something I attempted to write in college. Am trying to revise and edit it and you, my dear readers, should you choose to be, are going to be my beta audience. Please feel free to share all your thoughts on "The Ordinary Offspring"

Prologue

The marriage of a reigning beauty queen is generally of some interest in the media. So, it was natural that when Angela Cromwell, Miss Universe, decided to get married immediately after fulfilling her year long contractual obligations, it created quite a stir. The stir turned into a media frenzy when the name of the groom was discovered - Daniel Woods.

A child prodigy, Daniel had performed his first surgery two months shy of his sixteenth birthday. His feats evinced even greater interest when some reporter discovered that his parents never went to college. He was the kind of son who made his parents not just proud but also famous. That he was good looking and photogenic made his courtship to Angela look more and more like a fairytale.

The marriage ceremony managed to remain private despite some very innovative paparazzi.

Angela continued modelling for several years, taking breaks to give birth to her three children. When it became clear that her film career was not likely to ever really take off, she gracefully withdrew from the world of glamour and settled in the small town of Paraliena with Daniel and their children.

The three Woods’ children were born at a gap of almost one year each.

Chris, the oldest, turned out to be the replica of his father and the more he grew, the more striking the resemblance became. He had the same shade of brown hair and a pair of deep brown eyes, same as his father’s. He too turned out to be a child prodigy and by the time he was sixteen, he was working alongside his brilliant father. He had a very good idea of how extraordinary his own achievements were. Impatient with those not equally gifted, Chris quickly earned a reputation of being arrogant and insensitive.

Bertha, the middle child, inherited her mother’s beauty and her father’s prodigious talent – the proverbial ‘beauty with brains’. Her gorgeous blue eyes sparkled with wit and humour, Bertha was an ardent believer in the philosophy of Carpe Diem. Life was an endless party to her. Not irresponsible but not responsible either, Bertha lived only for today and couldn’t care less for what was to come.

Cheryl, the youngest, always saw herself as standing a little apart from the lovely tableau that her parents and siblings presented. Sometimes, she wondered if this was her real family. Not because she was not loved. Not because she saw herself as the ill-treated Cinderella. Simply because she was so different from them. And they were as aware of it as she herself. She was pretty, not glamorously beautiful. She was intelligent but not a student extraordinaire. She was special in a way that everyone is – just not like her family. She was different from them because she was like everyone else. She was ordinary.

By the time Cheryl turned eighteen, Chris had been a practising surgeon for more than three years and the nineteen year old Bertha Woods was already a supermodel. Cheryl’s siblings always had the spotlight trained on them. She never tried to attract attention herself for the fear of being found lacking, but she became an object of interest by default. Her being a Woods was enough. And she hated being dissected in public, being an object of curiosity. Nobody ever said it outright yet it was always implied whenever her siblings were discussed in media. When would Cheryl Woods shows signs of genius or turn into a great beauty or may be both? After all she did have superior genes – the best, some claimed. How could she remain ordinary all her life?

Cheryl grew to despise the intense scrutiny that surrounded her family and the limelight that spilled over to her. She only waited to escape.

Chapter 1

Cheryl was happy – no, not happy – but relieved. The papers were still there. She could feel their outline through the thin material of her handbag. She smiled and walked into her parents’ kitchen. Her parents were having coffee at the kitchen table.

She stopped for a moment and watched her parents. Her mother was relaying the latest wardrobe malfunction that had happened in one of Bertha’s shows. “I keep telling Bertha that modelling should be classy. Clothes slipping off on the catwalk, when they should be on, is definitely not classy. Not even hot. I am just glad it has not happened with Bertha. Yet.”

Daniel listened with a smile. Interested but amused, Cheryl was sure. She walked up to them.

“Hey, Mom. Hi Dad.”

“Hi sweetheart”. Daniel pulled her down for a kiss.

“Where have you been the whole day?” Angela asked.

Cheryl slid into a chair next to her father. “At the university. They have accepted my application.” She smiled. And waited.

“Congratulations, darling. I am happy for you” Angela hugged her daughter.

“Me too”, Daniel said smilingly. “The lab at the university is one of the best in this part of the world.”

Here goes, Cheryl thought. “I am sure. I would not be seeing too much of it, though. Actually not at all.”

“Of course you would”, Daniel assured her, though he was faintly puzzled. “All students with science subjects do.”

“True. But I do not have any science subjects.” Cheryl closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. “I am taking up English Literature as my major with History and Philosophy as my minors.”

“Did we”, Angela responded, “not decide that you would pursue Science with the option of choosing a branch of your interest for specialization later? That is what…”

“That’s right, Mom. That’s what you decided. Not me. I do not want to study Science. I like reading. And I would like to write someday. Be published.” She turned to her father. Desperately hoping that he would understand. That the fleeting expression of disappointment she had seen only a moment ago in his now inscrutable eyes, was not real.

Daniel put a hand over Angela’s. “When do your classes start?” he asked.

“In September. Dad, Mom, I know that you…”

Daniel raised his hand to interrupt. “You do not have to explain yourself, Cher. We only want you to be happy. So, if this is what you choose, then this is what we want for you.” He got up, smiled, kissed her and walked towards the living room.

“There’s one more thing,” Cheryl said. Daniel stopped in his tracks and turned to look at her. “I will be moving to the university hostel.” She rushed on. “I know since it is only an hour’s drive away, you wanted me to stay here with you. But it would suit my schedule to stay there. And it’s time I moved out anyway.”

“Cher. It’s okay. Relax. You are welcome here if you change your mind. Anytime.” Angela opened her arms and hugged her daughter.

Cheryl saw her father slip out of the room. She burrowed her face in her mother’s arms.

Big and Fat Indian Weddings

Having oodles of fun, I have come to realize, is quite draining physically. I wonder why? Regardless, I had a family wedding last week and now that the euphoria has died down, I can barely keep myself from sleeping at the drop of a hat!

Indian weddings are generally believed to be big and fat. They range from the lush opulence seen at the uber-rich households to your neighbourhood marriage. While not all of them spends seemingly endless pots of moolah, ala Karan Joharesque style of movies, they undoubtedly are big and fat, religion, caste and financial status notwithstanding.

Bollywood actor Vivek Oberoi at his big, fat wedding

So, what makes Indian wedding celebrations big and fat. Primarily the fact that they are a celebration – of togetherness, love, promises and commitment. They are meant to be shared with all the loved ones , from the immediate to extended families.

Of course, the bright and new clothes along with the delightful spread of food makes the occasion even more delicious. There are double entendres that you can get away with as they make the bride and even the groom blush. There is endless and silly posing for photos. And then there’s the dancing!

I, for one, love the no holds barred dancing at family weddings. Who cares whether the steps are in sync or not? Who cares that all the careful makeup is coming undone? It is purely about jiving to the beat and screaming yourselves hoarse in sheer abandonment. Last week, at the family wedding, we were so high on the music, that the guests had turned their chairs towards the dance-floor, and watched the madness there rather than the bride and groom!

But like I said at the start, having fun is tiring business. So, this post is going to end here.

Until next time, ciao.

The Curious Case of Indian President

My Dad loves  watching news. His idea of in-home entertainment is flipping between all 1001 news channels – English, Hindi, Regional – all the time he is at home.

There are some obvious fall-outs of this. The most important one being that I just cannot stand most of the news channels and my idea of watching news is just to catch the headlines. The endless post-mortems, the speeches and horror of horrors – the political debate mediated by an anchor – are not my cup of tea.

For past couple of weeks, the hottest topic on news channels is who is going to be India’s next President. Now for a post which is supposed to be apolitical, there is a lot of politics going on and the news channels are cashing in on it. All day long, we get minute by minute updates of what Sonia Gandhi has said, what Mamta Banerjee’s riposte is, what is Mulayam’s opinion. It is the great Indian political tamasha.

Inevitably, we have debates among political experts, politicians (theirs is more of a monologue nobody else is quite interested in) and news anchors trying to coax out of them the juiciest bits that can be milked through replays for at least 24 hours.

The post of President, if my memory of Civics serves me right, is supposed to be held by someone not in active politics and while she has limited powers, the First Citizen of the country can force major rethinks. A case in point if the tenure of APJ Abdul Kalaam, regarded by many (including yours truly) perhaps the best President we have ever had.

Regardless, if nothing else, I have always seen the President’s post as emblematic of dignity and poise, albeit with limited uses. The Presidential election in India is very different from USA, where the President holds all the power. But this time around, the entire process has been stripped of all grace and everything that is not crass – something which is quite the trademark of Indian politics these days. The taint of politics has never been more pronounced.

And where is the common man in this? Where are we? As a layperson, I am not sure that Pranab Mukherjee, whose tenure as Finance Minister, has seen one of the worst growth rates for the country is the right person for the post, like Sonia Gandhi insists. Some in India Inc. have taken it as a good sign, hoping that at least it would get rid of him and his financial policies. Mamta Banerjee thought that she had delivered a coup de grace when she named the PM as her choice, for the same reasons as India Inc. for cheering Mukherjee. And now her first choice is Kalam – the same Kalaam who all these politicos had dismissed when the topic of his second term had come up five years ago.

So, I think it should be understandable if most of us have least interest in who our next President is going to be? Unless, we enjoy political dramedy.

Until next time, ciao.

Storms!

A storm hit my city today. The wind screamed and howled. The parched trees swayed like dervishes in ecstasy. The listless earth came to life with fragrances that no perfume can ever replicate.

Wise men say that storms are destructive. They uproot all that is good, built with hard work and love. They can make people homeless. Or worse, they can take away the means of livelihood.

True. All true. But sometimes – nay, at all times – they are a thing of beauty too. Not the gentle loveliness of a summer breeze. The beauty of storms is ferocious. Like fire. Like the fiercest and proudest beasts of the jungle. The lions and the tigers.

And sometimes, they bring intense joy. Like today. And I freaking love them. They make me feel fierce and wild and happy. For no reason. For just being. Sometimes, they make me dream of bigger things. Of grand moments and passions. Of adventures and epics.

They make me want to dance in sheer happiness. They make me want to blend my voice with the wind. They make me want to shed inhibitions and glory in all things impractical. To dance in the rain on the rooftop. To spread my arms and let the driving gale blow me away.

Is it any wonder then, that I love storms?

Idiocy of Intolerance

B R Ambedkar cartoon in NCERT's STD XI Political Science text book.

As an Indian, one of the things I am most proud of is how diverse and tolerant my country is. Sure, we have our zealots. And the fundamentalists. We have had some of the most bloody riots in the history of mankind. We have had people killing each other over places of worship, as if God cared about where we go to worship Him.

Yet. Yet, we also have a vast majority which is kind and humane. We feel. We love. We live. And we can vent. Our anger. Our frustration. Our angst. And in same measure as the good things.

That is why it saddens me when for the last couple of months, the news has often been about cartoons and the unfunny reactions that they have provoked. And who do they offend? A bunch of stuck-up, selfish, narrow-minded, vote-bank oriented politicians.

Leading the band is Ms. Mamta Banerjee. When she won the elections in Bengal last year with a whopping majority, after more than 30 years of communist rule, I thought that she is the change. Sure, she would stumble but let’s give her a chance. She has done some things right but it’s her paranoia that is her trademark these days. She sees a conspiracy everywhere. A woman get raped in Park Street and complains. It’s a conspiracy. A professor forwards a cartoon about her. Of course, it’s a conspiracy and he has to be arrested. Seriously, Ms. Banerjee? Please do not ask her any questions which might offend her. She is a daughter of the soil. So, she understands the poor man’s pain if the rail fares go up after a decade. Marginally, may I add. The railway minister was from her party and he dared make a budget without her approval. Sacrilege! Off with his head!  screamed the Red Queen. And ain’t that ironic that the woman who felled the red bastion has turned into Wonderland’s Red Queen.

Then we have a bunch of politicians who have been offended by a cartoon decades old. They protest that it mocks Dr. Ambedkar, Father of Indian constitution and other constitution makers. Really? Do you think he would have been as intolerant as these half-literate, tunnel-visioned leaders?  This cartoon was to be a part of NCERT text books but not anymore. Our Education Minister actually apologised for it. And what is the cartoon about? it is about how the process was proceeding at a snail’s pace. Quite like all the development work in our country, I dare say.

So, yeah. All this makes me wonder. Do we really have time for all this unfunny business? Time that could have been better spent. I think not.

Until next time, ciao.

From a Train

There is something about train journeys. Takes me back to childhood. The long, long summer commencing with the yearly trip to my nani’s  place in Agra. The city of Tajmahal to most of the world. And to me, the place where I spent a glorious month, playing, fighting, dreaming, escaping and being the children that we could not be the rest of the year.

Today as I bring to you these words from a train coach en route to Agra, I feel suddenly nostalgic. No, this is not a long vacation. No, these are not school holidays. And we are not a bunch of half a dozen kids counting the miles to the annual reunion.

These are precious four days stolen from under the wings of time. From killing schedules and unreasonable professions. To attend a wedding that my grandma would miss. And she would want me there.

So, here I am. On another train journey to the shrine of my childhood. It is a journey that our kids would not really know in this jet setting age. And though the feeling would not last, in this moment, I feel almost sorry for them.