Arundhati Roy - The God of small things
This is like a politician making a true promise to the people. That's how rare is the occasion of me writing a review on a novel. For starters the book is easily the best novel I had read so far. That brings the next question, how many have I read and what are they ? Its countable using fingers and mostly recommended by bibliophiles who recommend them, authentic in person review and not forcible coaxing. This was amn exception though, I picked it up at landmark as I was happily jay walking with my friend during summer 06 in Chennai. You should also know my reading traits. I have read the first 2 chapters at least 15 times, before completing the book. I took 1.5 years to finish the book since it was bought. I like to savor every bit of what's been said. If I ever so feel uncomfortable in while reading, due to the gap between the reading sessions, I start from the beginning. This one unfortunately had many such breaks. Okay, lets get to the book.
The book is about 2 children, Siamese twins, to be precise. Rahel (a she) and Estha (a he) are the characters, who are absolutely adorable in every way, especially their childhood. Arundhati Roy is indeed the GOD of small things. The attention to detail is mind boggling. Not like green door, yellow wall kinda stuff, but in a beautiful way. These are things I like in a book: How succinctly an emotion is presented? The language used, I like it when it defines its own language and keeps it that way through out the book. The book by all means has its own language, quite remarkably different from anything I have read and to say that I have fallen in love with it is an huge understatement. The screenplay is different, in the sense that, in a semi-random way, the story moves back and forth in time. The story telling, which in my view, includes the language, the depiction of emotions, depiction of scenes and the screen play, easily gets it a 6/5.
The story takes place in Ayemenem, a village near Kottayam. Revolves around one incident that changes the lives of the 2 children. The book has its moments, plain embarrassing at places, some would call it gross but I wouldn't. The story as a whole is tragic and to shoot a small surprise it would easily qualify under 'humorous' genre. There are places where its very touching, vicarious emotions (I almost teared up in few places, if not for the masculine shell) and more so frequently funny. Funny as in a wide grin and not as in ROTFL.
The book describes in detail the characters in a way that's very realistic and conceivable. Kochu Maria, Baby Kochamma, Velutha, Ammu, Pillai to name a few. The book touches every aspect of Kerela, from communism to climate to the accented language.
It got the booker prize in 1997, reason behind which becomes obvious at 1/4th of the book. When I reached the end, its a mix of the disappointment of the book being completely read, the nostalgia I felt, the satisfaction of being able to feel and empathize with the characters and their emotions.
If you like this book like I do, then we should make really good friends.
Verdict:
If you read, not to get to the end of the book, but to cherish the reading, you will most probably love it. Arundhati Roy is the real God of small things. If you get to read this book and love it, you will become a Deity.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Marriages are made in heaven?
Recently (read as within a span of 2 days) I have come across incorrigible stories. Three stunning stories, from my Motherland. Alas.
Here goes the first one.
Synopsis:
JALPAIGURI: A 36-year-old man married his teenage daughter and made her pregnant, justifying his perverse act by claiming he had divine sanction for his incestuous lust. What's even more galling is that his wife was the prime witness in the nikah of her daughter to her husband. Full Story.
Damn, is it just me or can somebody perceive what's happening. When I first learned about the concept of homosexuality, I have wondered, how on earth such feelings even existed in some. Now I have come to terms with it, I assume they are genetically different in their brain wiring and its not like Newton's 1st law which everyone can understand and appreciate. But this is beyond blasphemy. For christsake that's his daughter. The guy got released with no charges. She is 15 years old, wasn't that an offense? This is polygamy at its extreme. Killing in the name of god. We have come to terms with it. Polygamy, pedophile and incest in the name of God. Here's a logical question: the kid they are having, how will he/she call the bearded man, dad or grand dad? His wife is now a Aunt as well as a grand mom. These are, usually funny, except that this is an exception.
Here goes the second.
Synopsis:
CHENNAI: Smalin Jenita (23), a seven-month pregnant girl from Tiruchi in Tamil Nadu, is fighting brain injury and multiple fractures in a Chennai hospital after being allegedly pushed out of a moving car in the US. The reason, according to the girl’s father Sebastian Antonysamy, Jenita discovered an incestuous relationship between her husband Christy Danius and his mother Chellam, even as she was being harassed for dowry. Full story.
Sad is an understatement. These type of characters, I thought only existed in mega serials, extremely wicked villains, the ones who walk down the long regale stairs, always well made up with shiny lipstick and grand silk sarees (Sorgam villain). Yet again I'm wrong. To do such a deed, you have to be a psychiatric patient, something like a serial killer. I don't want to talk about other details, that the story touches. I don't have the words nor the courage.
3rd is a funny one.
Synopsis:
MADURAI: A 33-year-old man in Sivaganga district of Tamil Nadu has married a dog in a bid to ward off the ‘curse’ of a canine couple he had killed 15 years ago. Full Story.
They get married. Then they drink the "aphrodisiacal" milk. Then Sit and watch Scooby doo all night?
Wake up and he would say "waadup dawg?" and then break ghost myths. (I would like to get into the shoes of Kushwant Singh, but I wont spoil my blog for it.) This would be a teaser to feminine activists, who fight to protect the ill-treated wives. The guy can call her 'bitch' as often as he wants and feminists cannot even say a word about it. Cost of running the family is less. Just old rusk and some chicken bones. He can have homosapien mistresses and yet 'she' would be loyal to him. The poor thing doesn't even understand what has happened. Someday the dead dog couple would talk to this dog wife, and they would seek revenge. Dr. Dolittle, we need you!
Somebody said marriages are made in heaven. Heaven doesn't seem to be a nice place. God save India. Please!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here goes the first one.
Synopsis:
JALPAIGURI: A 36-year-old man married his teenage daughter and made her pregnant, justifying his perverse act by claiming he had divine sanction for his incestuous lust. What's even more galling is that his wife was the prime witness in the nikah of her daughter to her husband. Full Story.
Damn, is it just me or can somebody perceive what's happening. When I first learned about the concept of homosexuality, I have wondered, how on earth such feelings even existed in some. Now I have come to terms with it, I assume they are genetically different in their brain wiring and its not like Newton's 1st law which everyone can understand and appreciate. But this is beyond blasphemy. For christsake that's his daughter. The guy got released with no charges. She is 15 years old, wasn't that an offense? This is polygamy at its extreme. Killing in the name of god. We have come to terms with it. Polygamy, pedophile and incest in the name of God. Here's a logical question: the kid they are having, how will he/she call the bearded man, dad or grand dad? His wife is now a Aunt as well as a grand mom. These are, usually funny, except that this is an exception.
Here goes the second.
Synopsis:
CHENNAI: Smalin Jenita (23), a seven-month pregnant girl from Tiruchi in Tamil Nadu, is fighting brain injury and multiple fractures in a Chennai hospital after being allegedly pushed out of a moving car in the US. The reason, according to the girl’s father Sebastian Antonysamy, Jenita discovered an incestuous relationship between her husband Christy Danius and his mother Chellam, even as she was being harassed for dowry. Full story.
Sad is an understatement. These type of characters, I thought only existed in mega serials, extremely wicked villains, the ones who walk down the long regale stairs, always well made up with shiny lipstick and grand silk sarees (Sorgam villain). Yet again I'm wrong. To do such a deed, you have to be a psychiatric patient, something like a serial killer. I don't want to talk about other details, that the story touches. I don't have the words nor the courage.
3rd is a funny one.
Synopsis:
MADURAI: A 33-year-old man in Sivaganga district of Tamil Nadu has married a dog in a bid to ward off the ‘curse’ of a canine couple he had killed 15 years ago. Full Story.
They get married. Then they drink the "aphrodisiacal" milk. Then Sit and watch Scooby doo all night?
Wake up and he would say "waadup dawg?" and then break ghost myths. (I would like to get into the shoes of Kushwant Singh, but I wont spoil my blog for it.) This would be a teaser to feminine activists, who fight to protect the ill-treated wives. The guy can call her 'bitch' as often as he wants and feminists cannot even say a word about it. Cost of running the family is less. Just old rusk and some chicken bones. He can have homosapien mistresses and yet 'she' would be loyal to him. The poor thing doesn't even understand what has happened. Someday the dead dog couple would talk to this dog wife, and they would seek revenge. Dr. Dolittle, we need you!
Somebody said marriages are made in heaven. Heaven doesn't seem to be a nice place. God save India. Please!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Perfect Stranger
Walk a busy street, meet a million faces. Some tickle your hormones, some befuddling, some bring sympathy and almost always feeling felt is not apathy. Some, we watch regularly, on a daily basis. But they aren't just there, they sneak in your agenda, your life, without your permission. They not being 'there', transforms your eyebrow into a 'tick'.
I remember million such people, perfect strangers. One such strange old man who used to sit in the platform selling his hand made crafts. Almost for 8 years, he was just there. Just there. All the time. In the night, under a torn motor bike water proof cover, the closest he got to shelter, the only possible private times. But yeah he was there alright. Mind you he was easily in his 70's, very lean, pathologically lean. Diseased.He was shirtless, his bare brown skin, butter papered, un-ironed, white hair wisdomed and hid the phlegmy balloons which expanded noisily to a size which would be surprising to a first year med school anatomy curious student. He sold hand made baskets made of those thin plastic wires, mostly. If I think long and hard, I have seen him once in those 8 years,with a customer. He wasn't in the top ten richest in India, never became one, FYI, this is not an inspirational true story blog post!. If there were 11 humans grouped together and him being one, 99 out of 100 times he wouldn't rank in the top ten richest. In fact he defined poverty. Sadly he isn't quoted for it in the reference section of Indian census.
He had his moments. 1130pm mega serial mami, boasts her philanthropic deed, "neythi kootanjoru"(yesterday's mix vegetable rice) shouting. When a thoughtful stranger gives him a free pair of slippers, which he sold after polishing for 10rs(not to be found in craiglist!). When a small kid walking, pulled too fast by her mom, turns back and smiles at him, and he would smile back as though saying, 'life's like that, fast and un-understanding'. Other wise, his life was focused on that coir basket he was making, meticulous and diligent. He was 'perfect' alright. I never knew him by name and he did neither and hence 'perfect stranger'. tada.
My dad, said he never knew a man who is more dedicated to his work than that old man. A casual statement, heartfelt albeit, but defintely not meant to penetrate my cranium. Probably the best 'good thing' he could have taught me, it just went thru me. After those 'diwali-prostration-money' spent, some remained, as though for a cause. I needed a lunch basket. So the next day morning, I walked by the platform where he would sit, and buy one of those baskets, mostly to appreciate him, help him. He wasn't there. Weirdly he chose the previous night to inspire, retire and expire for good.
He was not to be seen. The cobbler, untidy women who was never sober and was always paan mouthed, who sometimes sits besides him, said 'poitaaru' (he's gone). Blues. He was Martin Luther King's ideal basket maker.
“If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.” - Martin L King
I have always wondered about him. What he thought when he made those plastic baskets ? What motivated him to work like that ? What was his goal ? Did he have any ? May be some people are just born to inspire, by sheer existence. I'm too human to attribute this to 'vicissitudes of life'.
"Yaar yaar Sivam, Nee naan Sivam
Vaazhvey thavam, Anbe Sivam"- vairamuthu
P.S Photo by Pandian, source flickr, one of my favorite pics ever.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
DDiwaalee DDiwaalee
Back in 2000-01, IIT coaching classes were abundant. L.V or L. Venketaraman was the Professor. He seemed like a genius, who did every problem that existed using progression - AP, GP and HP. Me and few other big losers used to attend his classes. It was close to diwali, he persisted that we attend his class regularly. I knew I was no good for IIT, lost hope and was wasting time and money there, warming those benches. So I bunked one, went to buy new attire. Next class he called me up and said "I know why you bunked... you were not ill.. its DDiwaaleee DDiwaalee"
stressing on D and ee. What did I do, smirked, blushed in embarrassment, surprised by his ESP and amused by the way he said DEE- WAAA-LEE twice.
I don't remember clearly what happened that diwali. The usual potato bonda, idli with gatti chutney and of course sweets and savories for breakfast. My moms cherubic smile when she says "sooper" on seeing me in new attire. Crackers then. The usual ritual of going to my aunt's place must have happened. Mostly I would hesitate to go, to stay with friends in neighborhood but the good food and the 100 Rs pocket money I would receive on prostrating in front of my aunt and uncle was irresistible. 12 std was not like your 12 std, were you might have had a hero honda or at least a kinetic honda, well... I just had bonda. My dad thought 'mentally' I never matured. I felt I never matured(be it physical, mental and spiritual). Pocket money was almost nil. He had a reason, he was a doctor. He knew mentally unstable people are not supposed to have cash.
me: Appa, 10 rs....
my dad: edhukku? (for what?)
me: hm.. er... summa (just like that)
my dad: hmmm adhu summa yen purse la irukattum (let it be 'just like that' in my purse)
A whole 50 Rs was like cheese to Jerry, a whole 100 Rs was like soccer world cup victory. So I would eat the amazing food my aunt had cooked, meet the other aunts and uncles, get embarrassed, make other cousins blush in embarrassment. Fight for the hard earned (in 3 seconds of prostration and letting some real estate in my forehead for lease to my aunt and uncle for the viboodhi - sacred ash), elusive money with my dad on our way back to my house...err.. my dad's house in the Auto, sitting on that side bars, with my butt(if any) protruding outside. He wouldn't budge. So did my butt. He would probably give me 20%. Not cheese, not the world cup but some 'eese' n the 'world'.
Then see the Rajini movie on Sun tv (mostly, almost all the time baasha), watch Prakash uncle and his family burst the crackers in our flat/apartments terrace during the news interval. Get back to the movie, come back to terrace to see the Chugani family burst some crackers as their diwali just started and continued until the next day night. Go back home and sleep. Every diwali back then was not comforting. It was a weird feeling. More like a boy sitting in wet jeans in an excursion having a ball shouting. Fun was omnipresent but the occasional feeling of the moisture, cold and irritatingly uncomfortable.
Nov 7th, 2007. 3:30 pm pst, Palo Alto, VMware - I sit in my cubicle, bleeding c++ code. Intermittent pondering on things - when exactly is Diwali, 9th or the 8th ? The damn thoughts.
Googling resulted in nov 9th. Later realized and thought of Chugani family who always celebrated diwali the next day - me and other southies have it on ettaan thedhi(8th), north Indians - onboaadhey! (9th). With that insulting revelation or rather a painful self realization I headed to the gym around 5pm. Frustrations and the happiness shaped hole in my universe, MADe me spend 90 mins in the gym. Head back, had a 6 inch sub in the omnipresent subway. Called up home, My dad was boasting his Kurta and his jeans, his other son had bought him, un clear due to the potatoe bonda in his mouth, my mom bragging about her 4.5K silk saree paid in pounds using a plastic card by an aspiring neurologist aka my brother. Called up my aunt and uncle. They said they missed me, they wished that they handed me that 100 Rs and paint my forehead.
100 Rs is not world cup victory (time with family is). Fun is not omnipresent(subway is). Happiness is hard to earn these days. Miss the embarrassments. Yearn for the enthusiasm I once had. Regret the physical and mental maturity that has spread into me like the tea from the tea bag. 3 years of DDiwaalee outside India, away from home will show up, show up like a pop-up in IE7. It has left a scar. One of many lessons that Prof. Life continues to teach. Its ingenuous. Hopefully I will be with the my family for the next DDiwaalee.
To quote Andy Dufresne "Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies"
stressing on D and ee. What did I do, smirked, blushed in embarrassment, surprised by his ESP and amused by the way he said DEE- WAAA-LEE twice.
I don't remember clearly what happened that diwali. The usual potato bonda, idli with gatti chutney and of course sweets and savories for breakfast. My moms cherubic smile when she says "sooper" on seeing me in new attire. Crackers then. The usual ritual of going to my aunt's place must have happened. Mostly I would hesitate to go, to stay with friends in neighborhood but the good food and the 100 Rs pocket money I would receive on prostrating in front of my aunt and uncle was irresistible. 12 std was not like your 12 std, were you might have had a hero honda or at least a kinetic honda, well... I just had bonda. My dad thought 'mentally' I never matured. I felt I never matured(be it physical, mental and spiritual). Pocket money was almost nil. He had a reason, he was a doctor. He knew mentally unstable people are not supposed to have cash.
me: Appa, 10 rs....
my dad: edhukku? (for what?)
me: hm.. er... summa (just like that)
my dad: hmmm adhu summa yen purse la irukattum (let it be 'just like that' in my purse)
A whole 50 Rs was like cheese to Jerry, a whole 100 Rs was like soccer world cup victory. So I would eat the amazing food my aunt had cooked, meet the other aunts and uncles, get embarrassed, make other cousins blush in embarrassment. Fight for the hard earned (in 3 seconds of prostration and letting some real estate in my forehead for lease to my aunt and uncle for the viboodhi - sacred ash), elusive money with my dad on our way back to my house...err.. my dad's house in the Auto, sitting on that side bars, with my butt(if any) protruding outside. He wouldn't budge. So did my butt. He would probably give me 20%. Not cheese, not the world cup but some 'eese' n the 'world'.
Then see the Rajini movie on Sun tv (mostly, almost all the time baasha), watch Prakash uncle and his family burst the crackers in our flat/apartments terrace during the news interval. Get back to the movie, come back to terrace to see the Chugani family burst some crackers as their diwali just started and continued until the next day night. Go back home and sleep. Every diwali back then was not comforting. It was a weird feeling. More like a boy sitting in wet jeans in an excursion having a ball shouting. Fun was omnipresent but the occasional feeling of the moisture, cold and irritatingly uncomfortable.
Nov 7th, 2007. 3:30 pm pst, Palo Alto, VMware - I sit in my cubicle, bleeding c++ code. Intermittent pondering on things - when exactly is Diwali, 9th or the 8th ? The damn thoughts.
Googling resulted in nov 9th. Later realized and thought of Chugani family who always celebrated diwali the next day - me and other southies have it on ettaan thedhi(8th), north Indians - onboaadhey! (9th). With that insulting revelation or rather a painful self realization I headed to the gym around 5pm. Frustrations and the happiness shaped hole in my universe, MADe me spend 90 mins in the gym. Head back, had a 6 inch sub in the omnipresent subway. Called up home, My dad was boasting his Kurta and his jeans, his other son had bought him, un clear due to the potatoe bonda in his mouth, my mom bragging about her 4.5K silk saree paid in pounds using a plastic card by an aspiring neurologist aka my brother. Called up my aunt and uncle. They said they missed me, they wished that they handed me that 100 Rs and paint my forehead.
100 Rs is not world cup victory (time with family is). Fun is not omnipresent(subway is). Happiness is hard to earn these days. Miss the embarrassments. Yearn for the enthusiasm I once had. Regret the physical and mental maturity that has spread into me like the tea from the tea bag. 3 years of DDiwaalee outside India, away from home will show up, show up like a pop-up in IE7. It has left a scar. One of many lessons that Prof. Life continues to teach. Its ingenuous. Hopefully I will be with the my family for the next DDiwaalee.
To quote Andy Dufresne "Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies"
Monday, August 27, 2007
The Bond Girl!
Nope.. not Hally Berry.
This is the plot.It was 1997. I was close to 138cm high(do the math, converting to feet and inches is too embarrasing) and I was this brown, very thin kid doing 8th std/grade. Prodiguous! mostly due to my size and appearance-so small that a 4th std kid would be temped to rag me. It was music class, for some reason that class room was inside chemistry lab! A physics lab would have made a cent's sense. At 4th grade, anything other than games was boring and carnatic music was 793rd on the priority list. My good senseless friend named prasanna walks by me with a smirk which I can still remember with very high resolution. He says "XYZ loves you da, she told me so".
Now for the 'Bond' part. We used to have this 'cycle test' for 20 marks. It happens roughly 8 times in a year. By the time the year was about to close, my math teacher Mr. Pandian who also happened to be our class teacher lost his mind and called Miss XYZ and read her cycle tests math marks thus far.. it went somehing like this 0,1,0,0,1,0,0,1 all out of 20 marks.
He said "like James bond 007 you are Miss XYZ 001. For all those who pity her, please do not, she wore a smile and though I was only in 8th grade, I could pick from her reaction that she felt absolutely no shame and that smile was infact a proud one. She liked the attention I guess.
Now for the tragic part.
"No matter what a proposal is a proposal#"(scroll to the end for a deviation). I clearly remember in 8th grade, for some reason, all the girls in our class if not most started behaving abnormally. 9th grade biology chapter "human reproductive system" clearly showed the reason. Because of the harmones acting up they started pairing up with "well built" guys in class. "well built" back in 1997 meant "anything but Vijay Kolappan". So being the poor side kick, I was a spectator in awe and I among with few other 'wannabe complan boys', we were the audience these 'heroic couples' where catering to. They loved being envied, we loved the 'thrill' of seeing a live Kollywood romance scene. Miss XYZ caught the harmone swing, so bad that within a year she had proposed (albeit an Indian version) to 15 other guys. Being the 'bond girl' she had to let go of the 'well built' constraint. My guess is that I was the 14th or 15th victim of hers.
Back then it was nothing. Its summer time now, CHI town is overflowing with half naked chicks. Mostly lip locked with 'abercrombie and fitch' vested guys. The same thrill of watching a live romance is no more. It hurts these days. 22 years of 'single' mindedness has its effects and thinking back about the bond girl, being the 14th now hurts like a low blow. The fact i heard that from a guy named Prasanna is a 100 mph bouncer.
P.S not intended to hurt anyone. If you are the 'bond girl' I'm sorry I can now in a way empathize!
Been there, seen that, done it!
Kaevy
#There is this difference in the interpretation of the word proposal. In India it means saying the sacred 3 words " I Love you" irrespective of the language you speak. The guy from bhopal who only listens Bhojpuri songs would with an accent say "hey gulabi, I Love you" and then go on to repeat it using any of the synonyms ishq, pyaar etc. So would a premamathil shikkiya mallu or a Kaadhal vasapatta Tam. Rest of the world thinks proposal is asking someone to be one's life partner. That is asking someone to marry him/her.
This is the plot.It was 1997. I was close to 138cm high(do the math, converting to feet and inches is too embarrasing) and I was this brown, very thin kid doing 8th std/grade. Prodiguous! mostly due to my size and appearance-so small that a 4th std kid would be temped to rag me. It was music class, for some reason that class room was inside chemistry lab! A physics lab would have made a cent's sense. At 4th grade, anything other than games was boring and carnatic music was 793rd on the priority list. My good senseless friend named prasanna walks by me with a smirk which I can still remember with very high resolution. He says "XYZ loves you da, she told me so".
Now for the 'Bond' part. We used to have this 'cycle test' for 20 marks. It happens roughly 8 times in a year. By the time the year was about to close, my math teacher Mr. Pandian who also happened to be our class teacher lost his mind and called Miss XYZ and read her cycle tests math marks thus far.. it went somehing like this 0,1,0,0,1,0,0,1 all out of 20 marks.
He said "like James bond 007 you are Miss XYZ 001. For all those who pity her, please do not, she wore a smile and though I was only in 8th grade, I could pick from her reaction that she felt absolutely no shame and that smile was infact a proud one. She liked the attention I guess.
Now for the tragic part.
"No matter what a proposal is a proposal#"(scroll to the end for a deviation). I clearly remember in 8th grade, for some reason, all the girls in our class if not most started behaving abnormally. 9th grade biology chapter "human reproductive system" clearly showed the reason. Because of the harmones acting up they started pairing up with "well built" guys in class. "well built" back in 1997 meant "anything but Vijay Kolappan". So being the poor side kick, I was a spectator in awe and I among with few other 'wannabe complan boys', we were the audience these 'heroic couples' where catering to. They loved being envied, we loved the 'thrill' of seeing a live Kollywood romance scene. Miss XYZ caught the harmone swing, so bad that within a year she had proposed (albeit an Indian version) to 15 other guys. Being the 'bond girl' she had to let go of the 'well built' constraint. My guess is that I was the 14th or 15th victim of hers.
Back then it was nothing. Its summer time now, CHI town is overflowing with half naked chicks. Mostly lip locked with 'abercrombie and fitch' vested guys. The same thrill of watching a live romance is no more. It hurts these days. 22 years of 'single' mindedness has its effects and thinking back about the bond girl, being the 14th now hurts like a low blow. The fact i heard that from a guy named Prasanna is a 100 mph bouncer.
P.S not intended to hurt anyone. If you are the 'bond girl' I'm sorry I can now in a way empathize!
Been there, seen that, done it!
Kaevy
#There is this difference in the interpretation of the word proposal. In India it means saying the sacred 3 words " I Love you" irrespective of the language you speak. The guy from bhopal who only listens Bhojpuri songs would with an accent say "hey gulabi, I Love you" and then go on to repeat it using any of the synonyms ishq, pyaar etc. So would a premamathil shikkiya mallu or a Kaadhal vasapatta Tam. Rest of the world thinks proposal is asking someone to be one's life partner. That is asking someone to marry him/her.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Of myths and men
The Potterisation of a gifted sportsman — in popular perception — robs him of his essential humanity, writes Nirmal Shekar
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.
— Bob Dylan
Great athletes feed our illusions, fuel our fantasies. They unleash the romantic in us, liberating us from the mundane pragmatism of careworn adulthood and let us become dreamy-eyed, innocent children all over again.
Of course, this is not on their agenda. It is hardly their objective as they step into the cauldron to tackle monumental challenges head on. They may not even be aware of anything as seemingly far-fetched as this. Yet, they end up aiding us in our myt h-building mission because we want them to do it; it has more to do with us than with them.
Hard-wired
Man is a myth-making animal; to keep existential anxieties at arm’s length, we have been hard-wired by nature to create fables, to seek out comforting myths, to revel in them, to celebrate them, to cherish them. It’s in our DNA. Great athletes are merely the instruments that set the process in motion.
In Indian sport, perhaps no other athlete has allowed us to feed off his genius to construct myth after myth after myth as has Sachin Tendulkar. In millions of cricket lovers’ minds, he is a James Dean figure drinking forever from the fountain of youth, an infallible superman whose consistent heroics connect to some deep emotional terrain, a lovable wizard who almost always makes sure that our dreams and reality are magically inter-changeable, that they are one and the same.
This sort of Potterisation of an athlete — in popular perception — robs him of his essential humanity. J.K. Rowling can conveniently key in the ending she wants to let handsome Harry remain the master of wizardry. But, at age 34, after 18 long summers in the most demanding era in cricket, no human being can re-connect to the magic of youth — not even Superman Sachin.
For sport — as indeed all of life — is subject to the laws of nature, something that best-selling fiction can conveniently bypass to take care of our primordial hunger for fantasies, to let us lose ourselves, however briefly, in a magical world of the supernatural.
Human quality
If sport accommodates a range of talents, from the average to the good, the great and lastly the few geniuses, then the laws apply uniformly to all of them. Genius is very much a part of nature; this is precisely why it is a human quality that is so highly rated.
This is also the reason why you don’t need a super-sleuth like Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street Irregulars to solve the mystery of Tendulkar’s struggles of the recent past. It’s elementary, my dear Watson, the legendary detective might have said.
Age, of course, is more than just elementary in sport. It is the master’s master. It ruthlessly holds a mirror to the greatest of them all, at once exposing their human, all-too-human frailties.
Five years ago, after a shock second round loss to a Swiss journeyman ranked well outside the top 100, one of the greatest sportsmen of all time slumped into his chair on the No.2 court at Wimbledon. As Pete Sampras bit into his tongue idiosyncratically and stared blankly in disbelief, he suddenly looked twice his age. Wimbledon’s greatest champion would never play again at the All England Club.
Of course, the great man made me eat my own words three months later when he won the last of his 14 Grand Slam titles in New York, beating his friend and archrival Andre Agassi in the final. But most great sportsmen find such fairy tale endings out of their reach.
At Nottingham over the weekend, or maybe at The Oval in two weeks’ time, Tendulkar might very well come up with a gem that would silence his critics — a tribe whose numbers are increasing with every tentative prod of the Tendulkar bat in the Test arena — but it can only be a temporary respite, at best.
End game
For, the end game is the toughest game of all for every top athlete, however great he/she is. Eyesight, reflexes and confidence are not quite what they used to be as the 30-something athlete soldiers on on dodgy knees with patient, hungry vultures (read critics) hovering overhead under leaden skies.
It happens to the best of them. Kapil Dev, who recently took a swipe at Tendulkar on television, captured 33 wickets in his last 16 Tests with a best haul of three for 35. The Mumbai maestro’s sequence of runs in his own last 16 Tests might well compare favourably.
Yet, this is not quite the point. The truth is, most great sportsmen have struggled a bit towards the end of their careers. They would not have been human if they had not. But, when the toiler in question is the Harry Potter of Indian cricket, we are shocked, devastated.
We shouldn’t be, even if our cherished superman myth has been disturbed. For, it might be unwise to maintain the fiction anymore.
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Masterfully Written By
Nirmal Sekar - The Hindu
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Emotional Entities
Why are we so emotional? 'we' as in Indians. Isn't cricket a sport ? Isn't the BarmyArmy of England sportive enough to support a dumb team like the English cricket team, even though they lose more often than not ? Life of an Indian is mercurial. Extreme is normal, normal is abnormal, abnormal is undefined to most. From pointless stardom worship in Xollywood (X = {B,K,T}) to weird unhealthy cricket fanaticism, we Indians are in a way sentimental idiots. In fact, soccer followers are even worse in certain countries. Once a soccer coach said , soccer is not about life or death, its much more than that. So now I can proudly say, most of the people in this world are sentimental Idiots. English premier league fans aren't half wise as Barmy Army is.So to re-phrase "Why are we so emotional? 'we' as in humans".
India lost to Bangladesh in a cricket world cup tournament. Then managed to lose to SriLanka. Given the uncertainty of the game, anyone who knows the game and has some part of their head above their shoulders would accept the defeat and get depressed for a day or two and get to live their own life then on. But in India, it isn't the case, burning effigies, hurling stones at players' residence is a standard way of expending anger. From the players perspective, its even more sad. You play for the country, with all the passion one could imagine, and since people have unwarranted, unrealistic expectations and you--though might have 14000 odd runs and the maximum possible experience one could ask for--cannot meet those expectations all the time and you get berated and cursed for doing an innocuous thing - 'doing what you love'.
I have learned that supporting a entity(a person, a team, a cause) with all your heart is expensive and I have learned this the hard way. All I did was support a team, namely Indian cricket team, with all my heart, more often blinded by their fame than their game and I eventually was hurt beyond my imagination. It plays on your mind, the same feeling you get when you fail in a big exam. Its simple when you get out of the blues and see the past and analyze why what has happened to you, happened to you, you will realize this: the closer you stand to something, the more the thing will affect you, the thing may be a bomb, your dad, Indian cricket team, your girl friend.
So now that I realized the cause of the misery, what am I going to do about it ? Answer: Nothing. Just because your mom has a bulls eye shot at your heart, you cannot do away with her, can you? But your mom is not the same as the Indian cricket team. It sounds so logical but being an Indian, cricket is an inherent part of every desi. So doing away with cricket is next to impossible.
The good thing about these passionate entities is that they also have a very good way of keeping you mentally healthy. Your moms comfort is what you need when you are in US, when you just cannot handle the pressure. And they are like demons, if you chase one out other kicks in from behind you. Your mom gives you a nice blow, Sachin tendulkar's straight drive calms you down like a soothing balm. When India loses to Srilanka, calling up home to speak to your mom ceases the fire.
So its all a trade-off, a balancing act. There will be times such balancing act won't work, say when Sachin retires, It would probably take more time to sink in. But once you have understood the dynamics, you will be happy.
India lost to Bangladesh in a cricket world cup tournament. Then managed to lose to SriLanka. Given the uncertainty of the game, anyone who knows the game and has some part of their head above their shoulders would accept the defeat and get depressed for a day or two and get to live their own life then on. But in India, it isn't the case, burning effigies, hurling stones at players' residence is a standard way of expending anger. From the players perspective, its even more sad. You play for the country, with all the passion one could imagine, and since people have unwarranted, unrealistic expectations and you--though might have 14000 odd runs and the maximum possible experience one could ask for--cannot meet those expectations all the time and you get berated and cursed for doing an innocuous thing - 'doing what you love'.
I have learned that supporting a entity(a person, a team, a cause) with all your heart is expensive and I have learned this the hard way. All I did was support a team, namely Indian cricket team, with all my heart, more often blinded by their fame than their game and I eventually was hurt beyond my imagination. It plays on your mind, the same feeling you get when you fail in a big exam. Its simple when you get out of the blues and see the past and analyze why what has happened to you, happened to you, you will realize this: the closer you stand to something, the more the thing will affect you, the thing may be a bomb, your dad, Indian cricket team, your girl friend.
So now that I realized the cause of the misery, what am I going to do about it ? Answer: Nothing. Just because your mom has a bulls eye shot at your heart, you cannot do away with her, can you? But your mom is not the same as the Indian cricket team. It sounds so logical but being an Indian, cricket is an inherent part of every desi. So doing away with cricket is next to impossible.
The good thing about these passionate entities is that they also have a very good way of keeping you mentally healthy. Your moms comfort is what you need when you are in US, when you just cannot handle the pressure. And they are like demons, if you chase one out other kicks in from behind you. Your mom gives you a nice blow, Sachin tendulkar's straight drive calms you down like a soothing balm. When India loses to Srilanka, calling up home to speak to your mom ceases the fire.
So its all a trade-off, a balancing act. There will be times such balancing act won't work, say when Sachin retires, It would probably take more time to sink in. But once you have understood the dynamics, you will be happy.
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