Desicritics Section: Culture

Dancing on the Streets, World Literature Festival Oslo, September 2008

Amitabh Mitra — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 11:55:02 EST

How do I start describing the World Literary Festival at Oslo in September this year?

Shall we talk about trams first? Yes, Trams, the same trams that rumbles down on busy thoroughfares of Kolkata. Trams are reminiscent of the British Raj in India and therefore boarding a tram from the Oslo dockyard with its familiar gongs at intervals was an experience lingering that I think of putting down hastily on the paper. Trams and Poets have a common link. The best of love poetry started off inevitably in trams as I see couples clinging on to each other. Love poetry sat on such a tram one day and it built itself up as streets and ancient buildings ran around it, people dropped by and parted till the conductor announced brusquely, ‘This is the last Stop’

The tram stopped and we got down. That was Adam Donaldson Powell, the moderator and key organiser of the Festival, Professor Santosh Kumar an academic from Allahabad, India, his son Karunesh, the owner of the well known publishing house, ‘Cyberwit’ in India, Barbara, a poet / artist from Canada and obviously me. We are at the Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo. The park contains 192 sculptures with more than 600 figures, all modelled in full size by Gustav Vigeland without the assistance of pupils or other artists. Vigeland also designed the architectural setting and the layout of the grounds.

The park is the most beautiful ecological marvel keeping in pace with modern sculpture in a world where space and greenery is becoming increasingly rare. They harmoniously blend on to each other. Among all the sculptures that show human beings in its majestic forms, popping muscles, I mentioned to Professor Santosh, ‘ Gustav Vigelland knew the human anatomy well’; is this towering phallic column known as the Monolith. The column, 14.12 meters (46 feet) high carved out of a single block of stone, consists of 121 figures. Modeled by Vigeland in the years 1924-25, it took three stone carvers from 1929 to 1943 to complete the Monolith, just shortly before Vigeland died. The column is completely covered by human figures in relief, singly or in groups. At the bottom there are seemingly inert bodies. Above them figures ascend in a spiral, the movement halting midway and then rising at a fast pace towards the summit which is covered by small children. Various interpretations of the Monolith have been suggested: Man's resurrection, the struggle for existence, Man's yearning for spiritual spheres, the transcendence of everyday life and cyclic repetition.

I ate my favourite ‘Parle Crackjack’ biscuits from India which Karunesh generously gave me at the foot of the monolith and we made sure that we don’t drop the crumbs. Adam informed us that this park remains a favourite haunt of all lovers even in severe winters. The Pier from where we had started our journey had a number of boats with sails docked there. They reminded me of traditional Arabic boats or Dhows of Dubai. I thought of the mighty Viking ships that use to traverse all the way to Ireland from Norwegian coasts. I asked Adam about the dogs that the Vikings use to take with them during such plunders. I had suddenly remembered about the dogs in the company of Vikings in my favourite cartoon strip, ‘Asterix and Obelix’. Adam remained unsure although he has a dog that definitely doesn’t have a Viking lineage.

Frankfurt Airport, A suspicious official takes a long look at my passport, my long hair and my tattered Levis. Who am I he asks inquisitively

A Poet, pop came the answer

Going to….

Oslo, I answered

Business?

No,Poetry reading at the Poetry Festival

Your profession?

I am a Poet, I had told u earlier

U mean You make money by writing poetry, he asked quizzically

Yes, Sir

I left a very unhappy man at the airport.

I have arrived at Oslo sans baggage. I am perturbed knowing that the suitcase with all published books, journals and lecture notes is still at Johannesburg Airport. Nasra Omar Ali is a god sent angel. She finds me at the airport at a time when I was visibly disturbed. She took over from me all the decisions of my further movements via the train and the walk to the downtown hotel. During that period I came to know that she is a Somali born in Oslo. I told her about the Somali refugees in South Africa, their determination to resist xenophobia and many ways they have prospered in Madantsane, the place where I practice medicine.

Oslo down town looks like a beautiful woman in its festivity best. Cobbled streets, flower beds, people cycling, which would be a long lasting impression of Oslo. The World Literature Festival is happening right at the centre of the town. There is a huge white tent that has been erected and all around it are streets on which I found that there were impromptu mini festivals of music, dance and theatre that were happening all the time. Oslo is definitely the cultural capital of Europe.

I talked on Contemporary trends in South African Poetry quoting extensively from the poetry of Kobus Moolman and Phillippa Yaa de Villiers, two poets whose books I have taken all around the world. Post Apartheid South African Poetry, its versatility is something that we all South Africans are proud of. Professor Santosh Kumar who interviewed me also felt that South African contemporary poetry is still in a transitional stage in a young democracy. A far more mature form would evolve in the years to come.

At a debate on Current and Future Trends in Electronic Publishing, I concluded that apart from all other aspects, I personally feel that while electronic publishing is here to stay in a major way, traditional book publishing will not vanish, at least for the next two centuries. The reasons are: Humans are just too used to romancing paper. There is something wholesome and good about paper that makes us buy hallmark cards even though it's easier and far cheaper to send attractive e-cards; Complete books are too long to be read solely on the computer. Besides the computer is not portable enough, despite laptops and smart phones - which carry bite size stories, popular in Japan, and the famous sms language, these days you even have sms poetry competitions and calls for phone fiction! Down loadable books in PDF paid for via paypal and ready to print out in your home printer is a very good option, but humans are not honest enough, and many will find ways to beat the nominal price asked for. My friend and colleague, Victoria Valentine’s views were read out by me. She writes –As a small press publisher since 2001, and being someone who is very passionate and dedicated to the promotion of new and established writers, I have become quite disillusioned and disheartened with the entire publishing industry, distribution and sales markets. I have weathered extreme difficulties both financially and physically to publish books on a regular basis for the purpose of placing print materials into the marketplace—not for profit, but solely to further the struggling efforts of new authors.

Regardless of dauntless work hours of writers and small press, many print and online publications die daily because of the surmounting challenges that face us. Even in the face of disappointment and adversity, we hang in there and forge ahead, regardless of the hurdles we have to jump—in the hope that someday we’ll find our niche and realize our dreams—find success and recognition for our hard work, and be rewarded for what we all strive for.

Our ambitious project of publishing a poetry collection of international repute to be launched during the festival had started about a year back. Tonight, An Anthology of World Love Poetry was launched with a lot of fanfare and its first copy gifted to Adam Donaldson Powell, one of Norway’s most popular poet. I talked on the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish, the renowned Palestinian poet who had passed away recently, respected by Palestinians and Israelis for his efforts in peace and understanding. A one minute silence was maintained at my request by poets from all over the world at the festival.

Geoff Jackson arrived from Denmark. He had told me in advance about his arrival and I had communicated to the organisers about it. We both belong to a Yahoo poetry group called Glorioustimes in India. We were meeting for the first time as much as most of the poets there whom I had known only on the internet till then. It was like ‘Mr. Livingstone, I presume’ and after that followed all encompassing bear hugs and more laughter. Got a little back ache after that trying to lift so many obese poets.

The festival was coming to an end but not the enthusiasm of participating poets. Eli Borchgrevink, the convenor and organiser is a ballet dancer. She tells me about dance forms that can be integrated with poetry. I screened clips from my poetry film which brought visual arts, poetry and music in a documentary shot by me. Poetry is a massive movement featuring unknown poets where trends change every other day and geographical boundaries are erased in such festivals and beyond.

I remember Rafael Prado Gutierrez from Santiago de Cuba and his foot tapping Cuban music enmeshed with Caribbean rhythms. I was entranced with the music of Becawe Aw of Mauritania. He sang and played African blues guitar with the beautiful Unni Lovid about nomadic living and longings. He was pleased to meet another African so far from home. Trouble is brewing at his home. The President Sidi Mohamed Ould Cheikh Abdallahi was ousted by a military junta and kept under house arrest.

Its midnight in Oslo. I look out from my hotel window and see groups of people walking down the street below. Somewhere somebody is playing the blues. I rush out and mingle with the crowd. Dancing on the streets with some friendly Norwegians was never so good. There is music everywhere and a spring on the steps of everybody. Guzzling beer and dancing is all I did till I reached the early hours of the morning to my hotel where I danced my way to my room to the utter amazement of the receptionists.

Poessay: Rosary 18 - burning blazing fire rages

temporal — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 00:54:01 EST

credit tanay behera

burning blazing fire rages
combusting, charring fire rages
kehti hay
jalo, jalao,
jalo aur jalao

fire bowing to clay, we're told
created conflagration
that continues to blaze in clay's belly
the satans of fire twirl their moustaches
and smile diabolically at the lost ones
(can the lost and wandering be misled?)

this is not the fire of old
nor the fluid fire
that left noah dry

beware for He is father
of all fires, fury and furor
merciful, compassionate, graceful

maloom hay humaiN
yeh aag nahiN bajooz oos aag kay
jo kisi aanay walay lumhay maiN
sub aalamouN ko chupa laigi
apnay shikanja e zeest maiN
(laikin maiN yeh bhee souchta hooN
kay ger tu paida kernay wala hay
tou hum tabah kernay walay kum nahiN
yeh da'wa nahiN khudai ka
taqaza hay t'ray ak's ka)
tum jalatay raho, thako mut
hum jaltay rahaiNgay bila thakawat

a glimpse of the promised inferno
an ending, another big bang
and yet another beginning
your rage is creative, consuming
and enraged we can only bow down
and continue the destructive forays

burning blazing fire rages
combusting, charring fire rages
kehti hay
jalo, jalao,
jalo aur jalao

Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi
Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree

Fitness, A Way Of Life

Deepti Lamba — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 00:21:48 EST

"Two minutes, please? I cannot take it anymore!"

Six days a week I sound like a petulant child when I visit the gym. The trainer gives a patient smile and replies "Ma'am, two more minutes."

My two minutes are about taking a breather from the rigorous machine and his two minutes are to egg me on. I sweat, cuss, swelter and look my worst. The mirrors show me people of all sizes - some like me, some bigger than me and some so fit that I want to make cardboard cuts of them and peg them to my bedroom door to remind myself that this is what I want to be like.

But would I have the same body structure like them? Probably not. Most of the bodies I admire belong to men. The admiration isn't lecherous (rolling my eyes) but its about the seemingly unending stamina, the perfect abs and most of all the discipline that gives a perfect body.

There is a gentleman about 74 year old who comes to the gym regularly. He runs on the treadmill, works on the elliptical machine and does heavy weights. He calls me 'Ma'am' and I call him 'Sir'. We smile at each other but conversation between us tends to be abrupt since my instructor keeps me more or less breathless and shaking the muscles that ache and demand less workouts.

Initially I used to work out in the evening but past two days I moved to the morning shift. The music at the gym during the mornings is better and the place more crowded.

The addiction is setting in. I am quite possessive about my workout and my diet. No chocolates, no pizzas, no sugar and definitely no potatoes.

Most people at the gym watch their diet. Talking to them makes my resolution firmer and easier to carry forward. Exercising may soon become a way of life for me. Clothes fit better, inches and weight are falling off, my skin has become better and most of all I am in a much better mood.

It took me a while to realize that taking care of myself didn't merely mean having time to feed my brain but also ensure I took care of my body the right way.

Temporary Mates

Deepti Lamba — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 00:54:23 EST

When kittens get affectionate with their human surrogate mother, it's time to give them away. Zoey's kittens are nearly two months old. They emerged from under my cupboard a week ago and decided the entire house was their playground and I was their second mama.

They followed Zoey's example to become self sufficient. They litter trained themselves, took to food on their own and decided I was a safe mate as well.

I tried my best not to fall in love with them. I knew a day will come when we will bid them adieu and get back to having two cats. But those fluff balls began to hunt me down systematically.

They continue to greet me by pouncing on my feet, meow plaintively or snuggle up against me while I watch television in the living room and recently they have taken up to sleeping on me at night if I doze off in the living room.

Zoey watches their antics with gentle benevolence. Kensei shows fatherly affection and keeps them in line. Its a perfect family that reflects innocence and forwards unconditional love.

The problem is, I make an unwilling member in that feline circle of affection. I am the Judas who will bring turbulence in their tiny lives, push them out of their secure haven and into a world that may not treat them kindly.

Part of me feels apprehensive even for those kittens I know for sure will go to loving homes. Its a motherly anxiety that I am trying to dampen.

One of our friends will be coming over to take one of the kittens. He is quite excited about adopting a fluff ball but i still feel twinges of unfounded concern. I want to make the transition as comfortable as possible for the little one. Give advice and worse of all I want to visit his home once the kitten has settled in to see how the kitten is doing.

Obviously, I will apply restrain over my irrational fears, turn my heart into a stone when Zoey calls out to her given away kittens and put away the home made kitten toys.

I will miss those pesky little brats.

Fiction: A Few Reasons to Return Home

Vinod Joseph — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 00:47:28 EST

Sreejit's face has a look of intense concentration as his fat index finger glides over his Blackberry's scroller. No, Tim hasn't replied to his angry email yet. To be honest, Sreejit isn't expecting a reply from that bastard. Tim's last email had made it clear that the next round of discussions would take place only after three months.

The man sitting to Sreejit's left has a respectful look on his face. A Blackberry is not a very common sight in Kerala, not even in the first class waiting room at the Ernakulam Junction railway station. The man wants to tell Sreejit something, but Sreejit refuses to make eye contact. Instead, he opens old emails and reads them, his eyes focussing on the screen intensely as if he is reading something very important, as if they are unread emails.

An announcement is made over the loudspeaker. 'The Netravati express is 'shortly expected to arrive on platform number 3.' Sreejit rolls his eyes in exasperation and puts the Blackberry into the travel pouch around his waist. 'I don't believe this,' he says loud enough for his neighbour to hear.

Sreejit's neighbour does not let go of the opportunity. 'This train is always late. Today it is late by only forty minutes. Usually it is late by at least four hours.'

Sreejit exhales and tells his neighbour, 'before leaving for the station, I called up Railway Enquiries and asked them if this train was on time. And they said it was.'

'IST stands for Indian Stretchable Time. Forty minutes late ... that's not late at all!' the neighbour guffaws. 'Once this Netravati Express was twenty four hours late. It came exactly on time, the next day!'

'I guess I've got used to seeing things done in a different way. I've been away from all this for almost five years now.'

The opening is not wasted. 'Are you from the States?'

'No, from the UK. I mean, things are not perfect over there. Trains do run late once in a while. But, this ...' here Sreejit stops for emphasis. 'This is incredible. They don't even apologise for the train being late. And of course, there is no need to explain to us why the train is late.'

Sreejit's neighbour becomes an apologist for Indian Railways. 'Netravati is coming all the way from Bombay. A journey of over 24 hours. So it can be a little bit late.'

'I ought to have taken a taxi to Trivandrum. I was told the train will be more comfortable. Now I'm not too sure.'

'My name is Babu. What's your good name?'

Sreejit is trapped. As a rule, he does not talk to strangers when travelling on trains. A habit inculcated over five years cannot be ignored. But he does not have a choice. He is forced to admit that he answers to Sreejit.

The train enters the station majestically. There is a rush of activity. People rush to the doors and mill around. Some people start getting inside even before the passengers have got off the train. Sreejit and Babu are travelling first class and so they don't have to fight their way into the train. They settle in a section of the compartment which has only two other people, an old man sleeping in a corner and a woman in her thirties.

The first class seats are reasonably comfortable, but there's dirt on the windows. Sreejit takes care to ensure that he doesn't touch the window sill.

The train has been at the station for fourteen minutes now. Sreejit looks at his watch and gives Babu an enquiring look. Why not? Babu is more than happy to explain matters. 'This train has come all the way from Bombay. At this stage, it won't be very punctual.'

'Makes a lot of sense to me. It's a 28 hour journey to Trivandrum, isn't it? Why be punctual for the last leg from Ernakulam?' Sreejit does not hide his scorn.

'It's scheduled to stop for ten minutes. Since it is late...'

'Since it is running late, I would expect it to leave as early as possible. It's been here for almost fifteen minutes now.'

Babu changes the topic. 'Are trains very punctual in England?'

Sreejit sighs and gives Babu a happy smile. He takes his time in replying. 'You know, I have a rather long commute to my place of work. I live in Reigate, that's in Surrey and I catch a train to London Bridge from Reigate everyday. Once every ten days or so, a train will be late, by a couple of minutes. And once a month or so, a train will be held up for say, ten minutes.'

'Is that all? In India we are used to trains running late all the time....'

'When a train is late by a few minutes, we start cribbing. In the UK, people complain about minor things. Out here people are passive. People don't care if the trains run late.'

'There's not much point in cribbing in India. We have too many people and not enough ...'

'I don't think so. It's also a question of attitude. If a train is late, there will be an announcement every few minutes explaining the reason for the absence. They'll tell us the train is held up at such and such a place due to such and such a reason.'

'You must find it so difficult here after living in England.'

'I hate to say this, but after living in the UK, it's so difficult to adjust to the way things are done here.'

The train moves off and Sreejit heaves a sigh of relief. 'Finally,' he exhales. Babu sighs in relief as well, as if he is too embarrassed at having been let down by Indian Railways in front of a foreigner.

Sreejit decides to re-read the email he received from Tim a few days before he went on leave. It doesn't matter how many times he has read it before, Sreejit feels a fresh pang of rejection each time. Tim's email was very blunt and to the point. As discussed at the review meeting held the previous day, Sreejit's performance was not satisfactory. They didn't think he was capable of fulfilling the requirements of his role. They realised that Sreejit had a demanding role, but if Sreejit could not improve his performance and meet the five objective parameters set out below in the next three months, they would ask him to leave.

A vendor arrives with lunch boxes - there's chicken biriyani, sambhar rice, curd rice, fish curry rice etc. Sreejit buys a chicken biriyani while Babu settles for some curd rice. They start eating.

'I heard that food in England is very bad. Is that true?'

'Not at all. It is very hygienic and clean. You won't fall ill if you eat food from a vendor on a train.'

'Oh! Do you have people selling food items like this?'

'No, but each train, especially the long distance ones, will have a buffet trolley with an assortment of sandwiches and beverages.'

'Sandwiches! Is that all you get? It must be very difficult to live on such things?'

'I am used to that now. Actually, these days, I don't like spicy food. Come to think of it, why add spices to food? They don't have any nutritional value. In fact, they deflect the real taste of food. If you eat spicy food all your life, your taste buds will slowly die. You won't be able to appreciate subtle flavours. In fact, Indian food doesn't have subtle flavours.'

They go back to their foil packed food. Sreejit chuckles to himself. At the pub the day before he went on leave, he had nicknamed Tim Dr. No and everyone had laughed. Hopefully the name would stick. Tim had a habit of starting every sentence with a No. They all hated Tim and his joke had made him very popular. But Sreejit was the first of Tim's victims. Why had Tim picked on Sreejit?

Sreejit finishes his lunch first, because he doesn't eat half of it. He looks around for a bin to dump his foil pack, but doesn't find one. 'Just throw it out of the window,' Babu tells him. Sreejit is disgusted beyond words, but he reluctantly opens a window and throws out the wrapper. He then goes to the end of the compartment to wash his fingers in the tap. When he comes back, Babu is the process of disposing his lunch wrapper through the window.

'I just don't understand why there can't be a few bins in every compartment? Labour is cheap in this country. It won't cost too much to have the bins emptied at every other station!'

'We are used to all this,' Babu put in mildly.

'I guess I shouldn't be shocked, but I am. Each time I return to India, I get a jolt when I see the way things are done here.'

They are silent for a while. The train reaches Allepey, but no one enters the first class compartment.

Sreejit opens Tim's email once again. He goes through the five parameters they have set for him. They appear objective but they are not. His technical knowledge apparently is not good enough. How the heck can such an allegation be called objective? Before Tim arrived on the scene with a mandate to 'trim' the company, no one had complained about his technical knowledge. If at the end of three months, Tim 'objectively' decides that his technical knowledge is still not good enough, they can fire him and there is precious little he can do about it. He has consulted an employment lawyer. His company is entitled to fire him as long as it follows all the procedures, he has been told. He can take his company to the employment tribunal claiming unfair dismissal, but unless he can prove that his termination is on account of race or religion, he is unlikely to win. No, he can prove nothing of that sort. All his colleagues are polite to him outwardly. No one has assailed him on account of his religion or skin colour. He isn't a homosexual or anything is he? his lawyer had asked him wistfully. If he is and is being harassed about it by his boss, he might sustain a claim that he is being terminated on account of his sexual orientation. No, I am not gay, Sreejit had politely replied though he wanted to scream at the lawyer who charged him 300 pounds an hour.

It is actually the last of the five parameters which hurts the most. He can live with an allegation of inadequate technical knowledge since he knows that it is a lie. But he cannot live down the allegation that his client handling skills need to be improved. He has been asked to work on his verbal skills so that clients can understand him better. It was the last parameter which forced him to shoot off an angry reply to Tim just before he caught the flight to India. Yes, I do speak with an accent. However, I've never had trouble communicating with anyone. That idiot who complained about my accent last month is prejudiced. He is biased. He is a racist. You don't have to believe him. Surely you know me better than that. I have been in the UK for 5 years now and my accent had always been legible. It was not as if I spend all my time talking to clients. Not more than ten percent of my time is spent with clients. I have been with the company for three years now and there had been only one complaint so far.

He knows that Tim won't reply to his email. The Human Resources department has prepared Tim's email and any response will also be prepared by HR. They have done it many times before. The UK has some of the most employee friendly laws in the world, but if an employer wants to fire an employee, he can do so, provided he is patient and is willing to pay lip service to all the rules.

'So you don't see yourself ever returning to India, do you?' Babu asks him.

'Actually, I might. There are so many things about India I don't like, but India is still home. I will come back to Kerala one day and settle down here.'

'Really! That's very good. I thought you are....' Babu hesitates and then continues, '..you are one of those who hate India so much that they will never return.'

'Ha! Ha! Of course not! I have gained so much from my experience in the UK and when I return, I will have a lot to contribute.'

'I'm sure of that. When are you likely to return for good? Anytime soon?'

'I don't know. I may come back in a year's time, I may return after ten years. It all depends.'

Babu is too polite to ask what it depends on and merely gives Sreejit a smile as he goes back to his Blackberry.

Poetry: kodak minutes - 1:22-1:42

temporal — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 00:42:57 EST

the bus windows are foggy
it has been raining
correction - light drizzle
falling leaves that drift
are now stuck to the pavement
in a primordial flaming carpet
cars line up by the drive-in window
a sign on the curb declares
                                   upto 90% off
                                   saturday 2-5
inside on desi tv
an earnest young man i knew once
now gray haired and assertive
is painting a scenario with words
while the host paces
                                   and a lady MP
and another investigative journalist
whom i admire from a distance
and frequently quote on baithak
are waiting their turns
the young audience
scrubbed, full of idealism
                                   and yet untouched
by the incessant slaps of realism
listen attentively

m tells me caringly
                                    to go to sleep
i'll i'll i say unconvincingly
last night i got up
from slumber and could not sleep
                                    and ended up
watching india and england
                                    and later
palkistan and west indies
before going to work

the eyes were scanning the field
but the mind was wandering
over blatant injustices
and more blatant displays of intolerance
on this desi microcosm

people who have nothing to say
and say that every chance they get
                                       on every board
others who repeat
the same thing over and over

when dust and ashes meet
what will they talk about?

Poem: The African Poet

Kashkin — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 01:25:17 EST

There sits a man, in the corner,
There sits a book, here with me
Woven in words, built by hands of labor
All in there, as the verses begin to bind
The human hears, the old souls

Colors of creation from sweat and blood
Travel they like caravans of the night
Language that once had riders, facing sun
Now in repose, in silence,
For others to see
Its effects, as the journey begins
To emerge from the long dusty roads

There sits my friend, an old friend,
In the distance, in shadows,
As Africa unveils
Its beauty and its splendor,
Through words and fields of joy
Built in me, built by you
Of old language, that once conquered
The world, the huge civilization

Rode they like warriors with passion
From one land to another,
There sits a man, from his journey
Of old days, from the poets corner
As the rivers empty the burden, into an ocean
The old story of humans and their makings
The trails of our adventures in its elation
There sits a man, in the corner
There sits a book, with me, in silence!

Book Review: A Soul of Steel by Carole Nelson Douglas

Fleiger — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 12:49:12 EST

If asked which one person we would have liked to see again, true Holmesians would vote for Irene Norton née Adler with a huge majority, if not by an unanimous vote. "A Soul of Steel" by Carole Nelson Douglas is a novel from her Irene Adler series which tries to fulfill that fantasy.

Irene and her husband Godfrey Norton are spending their “posthumous” lives with their friend cum housekeeper Miss Penelope Huxleigh in Paris, when a man from Nell Huxleigh’s past is thrust in their lives.

Capt. Emerson Quentin Stanhope, presumed dead in Afghanistan has found that, a decade later, somebody is trying to silence him because of the secrets he holds about battle of Maiwand. And by association, the life of the doctor who saved him in battlefield is also in danger. When he is found, sick and dying, by Irene and her friends, they decide to help him find and warn the Dr. Watson. But, helping Quentin makes them a target for an extremely dangerous hunter, and they have to knock on the doors at 221B, Baker Street to bring the mystery to a safe conclusion.

Chronologically, the story does take a few liberties with Holmes canon. Taking place some time after “Scandal in Bohemia”, during and after “Naval Treaty” (possibly placing it back by some time), it introduces a major character before it appears in canon (If we go by timeline according to this novel, there are some serious questions about Watson’s memory re: people trying to kill him). Although, that’s just the Holmesian in me cribbing.

Characters-wise, Godfrey Norton is your Standard English Gentleman, a good friend and a honourable man. He and Irene are completely in love with each other (though their married life sounds a bit more 20th century American than 19th century English) and are equal partners in their adventures. And of course, he is understandably jealous of The Man his wife remains fascinated by.

Miss “Nell” Huxleigh is the typical vicar’s daughter, governess in a respectable family kind of girl. She is Watson to Irene’s Holmes (although she will not approve of that comparison). Loyal to the fault and having lived a sheltered life before sharing in Irene’s adventures, Nell is the voice of common sense in the household. And that explains her feelings towards Holmes.

Irene on the other hand is portrayed as the equal and opposite of Holmes. They both share liking for adventure, the ennui coming out of commonplace existence, the flair for drama, as well as the immovable sense of justice. But where Holmes is an analytical machine, Irene the Prima Donna is impulsive and emotional (in short, dare I say, a woman); jumping into whatever catches her fancy without a thought for dangers involved.

This is before Watson’s stories start getting published, and hence Holmes to Irene’s friends is a just paid agent trying to swindle Irene out of her only means of danger. Since this is a story from “the other side”, that was the only reason I could read the portrayal of Holmes for most part. Given that tone of the novel, I was worried about the eventual meeting between Holmes and Irene, but a careful reading dispelled my doubts.

In short, if you can’t get enough of the world of Holmes, or (like somebody said,) you can’t get enough of The Woman who got better of Holmes, this is for you. For me, continuing the series would depend on how they talk about The Man.

Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree

temporal — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 10:29:50 EST

the hemashree whose hand
i held in palliative care
was not the one with golden body
and infectious laughter
though i could see the wrinkles
where smiles danced once
around her eyes and mouth

she was skeletal, taut skin
throaty almost shrill voice

everything is for sale babuji
some you buy with money
others you can barter
or purchase with promises
there is no person or object
that is without a price tag

ghungh'roo ho ya mangalsutra
sub kay sub hee bikao haiN ji*
said hemashree, unread, street-smart

* everyone has a price on their head

Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi

Survival of the Creative Fittest

Suresh Naig — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 06:41:46 EST

It was just 4 years since I was married; the euphoria of love marriage had drained for my wife, which was replaced by other weighty and worldly things. Her warmth and compassion towards me had seen several ups and downs, putting even the Sensex to shame.

Whatever she had admired and loved in me during our courtship, she felt, had turned against her. She liked my openness and friendly nature, which had ensured a large friends’ circle for me. The same friends, whom she felt, I earned due to my humorous and witty nature, had become hindrances in her opinion, prying on our privacy.

She was very creative; even till date she continues to be one, she started focusing her creativity in turning my friends into foes. It was the age old tactics, which she adopted. Comparing my inadequacy with their positive side, so much so she had the knack in picking up only the positive side of each of my friends, and pitted it against my negative sides.

She had compared me with a friend of mine, who was very considerate in helping his wife in domestic chores, but he being a “Harry Potter” did not bother her. His name is Hari and who was fond of “pot”, the fact which she conveniently forgot, and never took it up for comparison. Or for that matter with another friend, who never missed an opportunity in gifting his wife, at times for as flimsy a reason as cooking palatable food, yet he being a “Birbal” didn’t bother her. My wife knew he had earned the nick name, for his unbridled love for ale, turning his tummy to the shape of a beer barrel, which was never taken up for comparison.

All her tactics failed to evoke the desired effect and it never impacted me, for two reasons. The day I decided to get married, I had resolved not to get provoked, a euphemism for thick skin. Another reason for her failure was, my creativity being a shade better than her. I told her, ‘if you want me to imbibe all good things from all my friends, soon you may feel that you are sleeping with a stranger than me. I am what I am, and others are what they are’. Still it failed to cut ice with her.

Eventually I told her to put all the things she didn’t like about me on a paper and I would do the same thing about her. She agreed readily, for she was confident that my paper would be blank, but I proved her wrong.

She could manage only two sheets of paper and 30 minutes, but I went with more than six sheets of paper, and well past an hour. I was enjoying her discomfort and anxiety to look into what I was writing, but I refused to show her. We had neatly put our papers into separate envelopes, pasted and as agreed, the waiting started. We had agreed earlier to open it only in bedroom in the night. I was not at all anxious to look into what she had written, as I knew it verbatim, having listened to it for long. I could also predict the reaction of my wife, on witnessing my scribbling.

And it was as I expected. Tears welling up in her eyes she started punching me, followed by a tight hug, whispering in my ear, ‘you dirty sweet scoundrel, I love you too, though you don’t deserve’.

All the six sheets of paper contained only one line, repeated like an imposition writing, as we did in our school. And it was,

“I love you, for what you are, and not you will”.