Am I a factoid philistine? Boorishly unfervent about the nuances of narrative nuggets?
Should I on that Saturday night, have applauded the curiously cubic chronicle of the number ‘1729’ ?
A Saturday night that began at eight pm with a million multicolored balls in the air. Tickets to a to nine o clock play at Prithvi Theatre with free seating that ensures that the later you get the worse corner bench you’re squashed in. Yoghurt I HAD to set for tomorrow’s cream cheese dip, and then a call to the shop next door. Dosa batter, soda and bread for Sunday breakfast that I must remember to order just as I finish ironing this silk blouse. Oh and the strawberries too, and these from the fruitwala. So what then, if spouse and soul mate (lounging on the sofa with ‘A History of Numbers’) found me unappreciative and inattentive . Yes , mathematicians Hardy and Ramanujan did meet a century ago. And Hardy remarked that he had arrived in a taxicab whose number, 1729, was quite uninteresting. But then Ramanujan replied that, on the contrary, 1729 was quite interesting as it was the smallest positive integer which could be written as the sum of two (positive) cubes in two different ways: 93 + 103 = 123 + 13. So ?
It’s not like I’m mathematically challenged. Seat me at a desk, a laptop or even in a silent space and I can juggle numbers as well as any man.
And so it goes with other stuff. But no, I can’t co-obsess about coordinates on a wonderfully scenic drive. Or swoon over the survival instincts of the Savannah centipede. Or expand enthusiastically and endlessly, on where Sachin Tendulkar scored centuries .
Call me crass , but I’d rather read a thriller, than read up on the origins of the ektara. I don’t, like my fact obsessed better half , browse through Bradshaw’s for breakfast. And if you do inform me in tones of newly discovered awe, that the Rajdhani takes 20 mins less than the August Kranti in its journey to Delhi, I’m more likely to be busy with the Bombay Times.
Does that then make me then the archetypal enemy of the arcane – the ‘soft’ sex with more EQ than IQ , more right brain than Left ?
It seems it does. And what’s more I’d like to state ( in my statistically unsupported stance!) that this maybe all to the good. Life’s way is most likely to be the highway, never mind all those beguiling branch lines to eternity.
What’s it then with this male mania for trivia ? Are narrative nuggets the new age medallions ? ‘ Mr. Know It All’ Esquire magazine Senior Editor and author Jacobs would agree. And he should know. Jacobs spent a whole year reading the Encyclopedia Britannica . As he says in an interview shortly after, having just read about a long-dead ruler of Saxony who hunted and killed more than 42,000 deer during his reign,” I’m worried I'm not much better than John of Saxony. I'm just trying to fill my wall with the stuffed heads of deer and lion and bears, though in my case, my wall would be filled with facts about lions and bears - for example, bears are not true hibernators - their body temperature doesn't dive and they are easily awakened. Is all this a macho accumulation?” It’s an accumulation that serves Jacobs well and not just on the cocktail party circuit, though it works well on that too. Too much trivia maybe a tad tiresome, but it certainly has its uses and these are not just limited to BBC Quiz Time, topic ‘The life and times of Martina Navratilova age 26 to age 28’.
In the end it seems more about a male craving for the comfort of cold fact. As one blogger confesses,” I can only speak for my own gender, and I can reveal that men are mostly dragged kicking and screaming into grown-upness. They never give up the secret hope that complexity will go away and leave them alone. They take refuge in trivia because facts, nice orderly facts, are psychological balm to the friction burns inflicted by contact with real life.”
In Man's World January 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Friday, August 04, 2006
Uprooted
A giant tamarind tree stood tall behind our house. Its tiny leaves, perfectly shaped, looked viridian green on cloudy days, emerald on sunny ones. And it made a fantastically foresty Venetian Blind for our block of flats. I'd look out from my fifth floor corridor and all I'd see was green and a bit of brown-black. Occasionally a parrot or a mynah might alight, but that was all.
It made me think of my neighbour and friend Anisha’s astonished question. I’d once told her the price of land was the same in our Juhu neighbourhood as the newly developing Parel. And that my brother was buying a flat in a gigantic Parel complex. “Why would he want to live in Parel if he could live in Juhu for the same price?” she’d puzzled.
Why indeed? Maybe Juhu-Versova is far far away from the Fort-Fountain finance and heritage hubs, but it’s a most pleasant spot to live in. And wonderfully wooded as the many walkers in the area will vouchsafe.
I’d have expected coconut palms in this suburb by the sea, and they’re there too, sometimes five storeys high, like the ones that sway in the breeze outside my window.
But there are many more trees as well — the rain trees, the Ashokas, the mango trees and of course the Gulmohars. Streets in the JVPD scheme, like the Gulmohar Cross Roads 1-10, stand testimony to these leafy wonders.
They surprise me, these trees. I trudge through Juhu Market’s traffic jammed streets into the Isckon Temple and there they are. Peepul trees in the marble arched inner courtyard. One moment I’m in an unruly medley of autos, and the next I’m in arboreal heaven.
And then there’s the road I always take, no matter which direction I must go – the Juhukar Gandhigram with great big trees on either side. At its very end is the road’s most magic spot, where stands an ancient banyan whose earthy roots envelop all space. But the tamarind tree... it toppled over in last fortnight’s deluge. Smashing the boundary wall, flattening two cars. Some say it was old, 90 years or more and that it had to go. But the gnarled old Mali who tends these trees all year long, says that like the raintrees that fell last year, this too could have lived. If only its roots hadn’t been so crowded out by concrete.
This appeared in Mumbai Mirror dated August 5th
It made me think of my neighbour and friend Anisha’s astonished question. I’d once told her the price of land was the same in our Juhu neighbourhood as the newly developing Parel. And that my brother was buying a flat in a gigantic Parel complex. “Why would he want to live in Parel if he could live in Juhu for the same price?” she’d puzzled.
Why indeed? Maybe Juhu-Versova is far far away from the Fort-Fountain finance and heritage hubs, but it’s a most pleasant spot to live in. And wonderfully wooded as the many walkers in the area will vouchsafe.
I’d have expected coconut palms in this suburb by the sea, and they’re there too, sometimes five storeys high, like the ones that sway in the breeze outside my window.
But there are many more trees as well — the rain trees, the Ashokas, the mango trees and of course the Gulmohars. Streets in the JVPD scheme, like the Gulmohar Cross Roads 1-10, stand testimony to these leafy wonders.
They surprise me, these trees. I trudge through Juhu Market’s traffic jammed streets into the Isckon Temple and there they are. Peepul trees in the marble arched inner courtyard. One moment I’m in an unruly medley of autos, and the next I’m in arboreal heaven.
And then there’s the road I always take, no matter which direction I must go – the Juhukar Gandhigram with great big trees on either side. At its very end is the road’s most magic spot, where stands an ancient banyan whose earthy roots envelop all space. But the tamarind tree... it toppled over in last fortnight’s deluge. Smashing the boundary wall, flattening two cars. Some say it was old, 90 years or more and that it had to go. But the gnarled old Mali who tends these trees all year long, says that like the raintrees that fell last year, this too could have lived. If only its roots hadn’t been so crowded out by concrete.
This appeared in Mumbai Mirror dated August 5th
Monday, June 19, 2006
Racists by Kunal Basu - Book review
It’s 1885. Off the coast of Africa, where the slave ships ply , lies the island of Arlinda. Here a black baby boy and a white baby girl are being raised by a mute nurse, as par of an experiment in race studies. Arlinda is an interesting setting : Islands lend themselves well to powerful denouements or at the least to idyllic romances, as anyone who has read Goldings ‘The Lord of the Flies’ or seen ‘The Blue Lagoon’ will testify. Add to this the extra dimension of genetic theory , and you could with artful plot and perspective have a provocative piece of ‘Frankenstein’ meets ‘Never Let Me Go’.
Management Professor Basu has written earlier about 'The Opium Clerk' and then 'The Miniaturist' a court painter in Akbar's Court. The two warring scientists in this, his third novel, book certainly add depth to this varied repertoire. Bates , the Englishman collects skulls, in an office referred to appropriately enough as the Madhouse. According to him the White race is superior to the Black and skull measurements confirm this hypothesis. Belacroix, the Frenchman is less defined. He is subject to a basketful of weird skin conditions, but mostly he takes notes and he also engages Bates in pages and pages of pseudo scientific argument. His thesis remains that the races are different but doomed to hate each other. The Arlinda experiment is the statistically half baked consequence of this disagreement. The White girl will emerge as superior , says Bates. They will fight and one will kill the other says Belacroix. It’s a macabre menage-a-trois, Bates and his assistant Quartley, antagonist Belacroix , and the two ‘savage’ children with their dumb nurse. They circle each other , like gladiators in a ring, for most of the book, which sounds suspenseful, except that nothing happens. It’s all dependably dull. Bates, Belacroix , Norah and specially the children never come to life. The denouement isn’t overly dramatic either, but it comes as a relief all the same.
This review appeared in India Today June 2006
Management Professor Basu has written earlier about 'The Opium Clerk' and then 'The Miniaturist' a court painter in Akbar's Court. The two warring scientists in this, his third novel, book certainly add depth to this varied repertoire. Bates , the Englishman collects skulls, in an office referred to appropriately enough as the Madhouse. According to him the White race is superior to the Black and skull measurements confirm this hypothesis. Belacroix, the Frenchman is less defined. He is subject to a basketful of weird skin conditions, but mostly he takes notes and he also engages Bates in pages and pages of pseudo scientific argument. His thesis remains that the races are different but doomed to hate each other. The Arlinda experiment is the statistically half baked consequence of this disagreement. The White girl will emerge as superior , says Bates. They will fight and one will kill the other says Belacroix. It’s a macabre menage-a-trois, Bates and his assistant Quartley, antagonist Belacroix , and the two ‘savage’ children with their dumb nurse. They circle each other , like gladiators in a ring, for most of the book, which sounds suspenseful, except that nothing happens. It’s all dependably dull. Bates, Belacroix , Norah and specially the children never come to life. The denouement isn’t overly dramatic either, but it comes as a relief all the same.
This review appeared in India Today June 2006
Mommy Lit ? Momoirs ?
Is motherhood, that most primeval of states, much maligned in today’s mommy lit? Methinks so, a Martian might be moved to venture, on reading the current crop.
With titles that run the gamut from ‘Misconceptions’ to ‘Oh Yeah Get a Life’, you don’t have to delve too deep to figure that all-effacing motherhood is not the formula for the new millennium. Motherhood maybe our biological bug bear, these books say, but the times they are a–changing and we no longer care to pretend its mere child’s play. Such books, and there are now a whole bunch, ranging from activist analysis to easy breezy ‘momoirs’, don’t shy away from displaying their diapers, poopy or otherwise. The most sensational of them all, Orange prize winning ‘We Need to Talk about Kevin’, tells the story of Eva Khatchadourian , an otherwise fulfilled career woman who can’t bring herself to like her child. That he kills seven fellow students in a high school shooting before his sixteenth birthday, is one of the questions this powerful novel asks – was Kevin innately bad or did he get twisted ? Analysing the runaway success of her book, journalist author Lionel Shriver says in an interview to the Guardian ,”I think Kevin has attracted an audience because my narrator, Eva, allows herself to say all those things that mothers are not supposed to say. She experiences pregnancy as an invasion. When her newborn son is first set on her breast, she is not overwhelmed with unconditional love; to her own horror, she feels nothing. She imputes to her perpetually screaming infant a devious intention to divide and conquer her marriage. Eva finds caring for a toddler dull”.
The metaphors of dullness , imprisonment and indeed, lack of feeling are not new ones. Betty Friedman in her 1963 cult book ‘The Feminine Mystique’ famously exploded the happy housewife mother figure. The real life women in Friedman’s book, in ‘smiling empty passivity’ or in ‘morbid depression’ tell their stories , one young mother of three even describing herself ‘ready for a padded cell’ before half the day’s work was done. But it took Erma Bombeck in the 1980’s to cleverly convert this maternal angst into daily diary humour in her bestselling ‘Motherhood : The Second Oldest Profession in the World’. It’s here she asks -"If someone was to run an ad in the New York Times which read: WANTED: Household drudge, 140 hour week, no retirement, no sick leave, no room of own, no Sundays off. Must be good with animals, kids and hamburger. Must share bath, would 42 million women still apply?" Sounds like a snappy bit of humour , and yet there’s no missing the serious satire. It would be two decades however, before another woman writer, this one an economist , would address Bombeck ‘s question with real numbers . Anne Crittenden in her ‘The Price of Motherhood: Why the Most Important Job in the World is Still the Least Valued’, quantifies the loss of lifetime earnings of the average college educated American mother as a million dollars. In a revealing anecdote Crittenden talks about the genesis of her book , a few years after she left her job at the New York Times to be full time mother ,” I ran into someone at a party who said, "Didn’t you used to be Ann Crittenden?" That’s when I knew I had to write this book.”
Crittenden’s book joins other activist titles like ‘The Myth of Motherhood’ and ‘The Truth Behind the Mommy Wars : Who decides What makes a Good Mother’. But it’s the Bombeck tradition of mommy lit that currently rules commercial roost ( even though the phrase ‘mommy lit’ appeared later, in a sort of maternal elder sister extension to the ‘Bridget Jones Diary’ inspired ‘chick lit’.) The Divine Secrets of the Mama Sisterhood have never been more readable and the last decade has seen a proliferation of such titles. They crib and they complain – some stridently and others satirically, and yet to read them is to see that they’re also crying out for help.
Of these, the best known is undoubtedly Allison Pearson’s 2002 novel ’I don’t Know How She Does It’. It tells the story of Kate Reddy, working fund manager mother of two and the multiple juggling act that is her life. Frantically defacing perfect factory made meat pies to look as if they’re homemade Kate Reddy reflects , “I already understood the world of women was divided in two: there were the proper mothers, self sacrificing bakers of apple pies….and there were the other sort” . And as she spars , singly with the Corporation she says, “It’s possible to get sway with being late in the City. The key thing is to offer what my lawyer friend Debra calls a Man’s Excuse. Senior managers who would be frankly appalled by the story of a vomiting nocturnal baby or an AWOL nanny…are happy to accept anything to do with the internal combustion engine ’The car broke down/was broken into.’ ‘You should have seen the – fill in scene of mayhem-at the –fill in street’ Either of these will do very well.”
This appeared in The Sunday Times Bookmark on May 8th - mothers day
With titles that run the gamut from ‘Misconceptions’ to ‘Oh Yeah Get a Life’, you don’t have to delve too deep to figure that all-effacing motherhood is not the formula for the new millennium. Motherhood maybe our biological bug bear, these books say, but the times they are a–changing and we no longer care to pretend its mere child’s play. Such books, and there are now a whole bunch, ranging from activist analysis to easy breezy ‘momoirs’, don’t shy away from displaying their diapers, poopy or otherwise. The most sensational of them all, Orange prize winning ‘We Need to Talk about Kevin’, tells the story of Eva Khatchadourian , an otherwise fulfilled career woman who can’t bring herself to like her child. That he kills seven fellow students in a high school shooting before his sixteenth birthday, is one of the questions this powerful novel asks – was Kevin innately bad or did he get twisted ? Analysing the runaway success of her book, journalist author Lionel Shriver says in an interview to the Guardian ,”I think Kevin has attracted an audience because my narrator, Eva, allows herself to say all those things that mothers are not supposed to say. She experiences pregnancy as an invasion. When her newborn son is first set on her breast, she is not overwhelmed with unconditional love; to her own horror, she feels nothing. She imputes to her perpetually screaming infant a devious intention to divide and conquer her marriage. Eva finds caring for a toddler dull”.
The metaphors of dullness , imprisonment and indeed, lack of feeling are not new ones. Betty Friedman in her 1963 cult book ‘The Feminine Mystique’ famously exploded the happy housewife mother figure. The real life women in Friedman’s book, in ‘smiling empty passivity’ or in ‘morbid depression’ tell their stories , one young mother of three even describing herself ‘ready for a padded cell’ before half the day’s work was done. But it took Erma Bombeck in the 1980’s to cleverly convert this maternal angst into daily diary humour in her bestselling ‘Motherhood : The Second Oldest Profession in the World’. It’s here she asks -"If someone was to run an ad in the New York Times which read: WANTED: Household drudge, 140 hour week, no retirement, no sick leave, no room of own, no Sundays off. Must be good with animals, kids and hamburger. Must share bath, would 42 million women still apply?" Sounds like a snappy bit of humour , and yet there’s no missing the serious satire. It would be two decades however, before another woman writer, this one an economist , would address Bombeck ‘s question with real numbers . Anne Crittenden in her ‘The Price of Motherhood: Why the Most Important Job in the World is Still the Least Valued’, quantifies the loss of lifetime earnings of the average college educated American mother as a million dollars. In a revealing anecdote Crittenden talks about the genesis of her book , a few years after she left her job at the New York Times to be full time mother ,” I ran into someone at a party who said, "Didn’t you used to be Ann Crittenden?" That’s when I knew I had to write this book.”
Crittenden’s book joins other activist titles like ‘The Myth of Motherhood’ and ‘The Truth Behind the Mommy Wars : Who decides What makes a Good Mother’. But it’s the Bombeck tradition of mommy lit that currently rules commercial roost ( even though the phrase ‘mommy lit’ appeared later, in a sort of maternal elder sister extension to the ‘Bridget Jones Diary’ inspired ‘chick lit’.) The Divine Secrets of the Mama Sisterhood have never been more readable and the last decade has seen a proliferation of such titles. They crib and they complain – some stridently and others satirically, and yet to read them is to see that they’re also crying out for help.
Of these, the best known is undoubtedly Allison Pearson’s 2002 novel ’I don’t Know How She Does It’. It tells the story of Kate Reddy, working fund manager mother of two and the multiple juggling act that is her life. Frantically defacing perfect factory made meat pies to look as if they’re homemade Kate Reddy reflects , “I already understood the world of women was divided in two: there were the proper mothers, self sacrificing bakers of apple pies….and there were the other sort” . And as she spars , singly with the Corporation she says, “It’s possible to get sway with being late in the City. The key thing is to offer what my lawyer friend Debra calls a Man’s Excuse. Senior managers who would be frankly appalled by the story of a vomiting nocturnal baby or an AWOL nanny…are happy to accept anything to do with the internal combustion engine ’The car broke down/was broken into.’ ‘You should have seen the – fill in scene of mayhem-at the –fill in street’ Either of these will do very well.”
This appeared in The Sunday Times Bookmark on May 8th - mothers day
Allan Sealy
Allan Sealy doesn’t read newspapers. He lives, like fellow writer Ruskin Bond, in the foothills of the Himalayas. The only concession this 54 year old Anglo Indian writer makes to modernity is his mouse. Also his computer and his net connection.
So even as Sealy loves his solitude, he delights little-boy like in the marvels of technology.
‘Red’, the book Sealy is here in Mumbai to promote, is about many things. It’s also the first book Sealy has written on a computer. Three threads, colour coded run through the book. The red thread tells of billionairess Aline and avant garde musician Zach, who meets in front of Matisse’s painting entitled ‘The Red Room’. The black tells of Gilgitan, earthy and energetic, a Dom who blackens his face with soot and grease, and yet wins the love of an unlikely woman. The third wire is a green one and the most obviously autobiographical. It tells of N, the Narrator, who lives in Dariya Dun, his work and his relationships with his estranged wife Olivia and his daughter, Mandalay. I ask Sealy if he has a daughter as well. ”Yes”, he says after the briefest of pauses,” But she doesn’t look anything like N’s daughter in the book.” Deepa Rose is the same age as the book’s Manda, and she lives in New Zealand (unlike Mandalay who lives in America). Sealy and his New Zealander wife, live like N does, in a little house in Dehra Dun with a walled garden. It’s a house with a newly acquired resident. One that becomes, as Sealy tells me “one of the characters”. Acquired after much frustration with having to access the net from seedy centres -“I was a prisoner of these cybercafés”, Sealy tells me “and they were filthy little places, horrible holes.” So Sealy bought himself a computer, a flat screen monitor and a wireless mouse. Like N in the novel, who encounters, besides the picture of a ‘ dripping Bipasha Basu’ , “something sticky on the floor under my shoe and it’s not chewing gum. It’s- o my god’. So N gets himself a computer too, on which he types in www.hermitagemuseum.com and then ‘Matisse’ in the search box, to watch ‘The Red Room’ download.
We talk about the book’s sense of colour. It’s easy for Sealy to engage with these themes, he’s a painter himself. “I never carry a camera. Instead I do small sketches “, he tells me. I ask him if he’s done any of Mumbai. ”The view from here”, he says gesturing to the sea and South Mumbai green outside. It’s a little pencil sketch on a small President Hotel pad. But it has point and perspective, with the morning star, the taxis and the World Trade Centre.
‘Red’, also has poetry, a quality Sealy’s earlier books have often been praised for. Right from the ‘The Trotternama’ a chronicle of Anglo Indian history, to ‘The Everest Hotel’ . In Sealy’s love story novel, ‘The Brain Fever Bird’, the city of Delhi comes alive in lyrically poetic prose. Here’s Lev, the out of work biological weapons scientist from St. Petersburg, in Delhi – “India Gate, his map says. The wide road leading to it is heroic, out of another sort of dream. Its vaunting scale is familiar : he recognizes the bullying note from his Moscow days”. And of the brain fever bird –“a shy bird, furtive in speckled fatigues, a cuckoo with a liking for babblers nests…and a call that climbs and climbs maddeningly through the hot June afternoon and the burning nights : brainfever! brainfever ! brainfever ! higher and higher till the crazed listener sits down on a stool and prepares a noose that could either be for the bird or for himself.”
We talk about his first name ‘Irwin’ – “it was my father’s name as well, so I was always called Allan. Subconsciously I must have resented it , because I decided to resurrect it, but only the initial. “ And then Sealy tired of people asking him what the ‘I’ stood for.So now ‘Red’ is the first book that features the author’s full name on the jacket - ‘Irwin Allan Sealy’.
What do Sealy’s literary awards mean to him- ‘Trotternama’ won the 1988 Commonwealth Writers prize and ‘The Everest Hotel’, The 1998 Crossword Award . Sealy’s philosophical – “ It’s nice to get a lakh or two. Prizes may probably quicken a writer’s career, but they can also deaden some impulse in him – they can interfere with the flow.” And all those hefty advances overseas writers get ? “It doesn’t touch me “, Sealy maintains. We talk about the huge advance the Harvard student author Kaavya Vishwanathan received “It’s a huge wallop on the head – she doesn’t realise it - at the moment she’s floating but she could sink “ - a prophecy that was to prove uncannily true a few days later.
Sealy himself , may travel but always goes back to his Himalayan Retreat , safely distant from the big bucks. Is money an issue ? “Not a serious issue, in other words I’m not seriously poor!”, he jokes. It’s a joke like most, with some truth. It’s N the narrator in ‘Red’ who answers it most poetically- “When I’m anxious for the future, I look up at the hornbill in the palm tree with a single areca nut in his beak, and think that’s his whole pension too, his provident fund, his retirement package, his future, and then my fears are quelled. Not answered, put at rest. You have to sit quietly on your branch and offer up your self entire, to the world, to the universe, to the next passer-by”.
This appeared in The Week April 2006
So even as Sealy loves his solitude, he delights little-boy like in the marvels of technology.
‘Red’, the book Sealy is here in Mumbai to promote, is about many things. It’s also the first book Sealy has written on a computer. Three threads, colour coded run through the book. The red thread tells of billionairess Aline and avant garde musician Zach, who meets in front of Matisse’s painting entitled ‘The Red Room’. The black tells of Gilgitan, earthy and energetic, a Dom who blackens his face with soot and grease, and yet wins the love of an unlikely woman. The third wire is a green one and the most obviously autobiographical. It tells of N, the Narrator, who lives in Dariya Dun, his work and his relationships with his estranged wife Olivia and his daughter, Mandalay. I ask Sealy if he has a daughter as well. ”Yes”, he says after the briefest of pauses,” But she doesn’t look anything like N’s daughter in the book.” Deepa Rose is the same age as the book’s Manda, and she lives in New Zealand (unlike Mandalay who lives in America). Sealy and his New Zealander wife, live like N does, in a little house in Dehra Dun with a walled garden. It’s a house with a newly acquired resident. One that becomes, as Sealy tells me “one of the characters”. Acquired after much frustration with having to access the net from seedy centres -“I was a prisoner of these cybercafés”, Sealy tells me “and they were filthy little places, horrible holes.” So Sealy bought himself a computer, a flat screen monitor and a wireless mouse. Like N in the novel, who encounters, besides the picture of a ‘ dripping Bipasha Basu’ , “something sticky on the floor under my shoe and it’s not chewing gum. It’s- o my god’. So N gets himself a computer too, on which he types in www.hermitagemuseum.com and then ‘Matisse’ in the search box, to watch ‘The Red Room’ download.
We talk about the book’s sense of colour. It’s easy for Sealy to engage with these themes, he’s a painter himself. “I never carry a camera. Instead I do small sketches “, he tells me. I ask him if he’s done any of Mumbai. ”The view from here”, he says gesturing to the sea and South Mumbai green outside. It’s a little pencil sketch on a small President Hotel pad. But it has point and perspective, with the morning star, the taxis and the World Trade Centre.
‘Red’, also has poetry, a quality Sealy’s earlier books have often been praised for. Right from the ‘The Trotternama’ a chronicle of Anglo Indian history, to ‘The Everest Hotel’ . In Sealy’s love story novel, ‘The Brain Fever Bird’, the city of Delhi comes alive in lyrically poetic prose. Here’s Lev, the out of work biological weapons scientist from St. Petersburg, in Delhi – “India Gate, his map says. The wide road leading to it is heroic, out of another sort of dream. Its vaunting scale is familiar : he recognizes the bullying note from his Moscow days”. And of the brain fever bird –“a shy bird, furtive in speckled fatigues, a cuckoo with a liking for babblers nests…and a call that climbs and climbs maddeningly through the hot June afternoon and the burning nights : brainfever! brainfever ! brainfever ! higher and higher till the crazed listener sits down on a stool and prepares a noose that could either be for the bird or for himself.”
We talk about his first name ‘Irwin’ – “it was my father’s name as well, so I was always called Allan. Subconsciously I must have resented it , because I decided to resurrect it, but only the initial. “ And then Sealy tired of people asking him what the ‘I’ stood for.So now ‘Red’ is the first book that features the author’s full name on the jacket - ‘Irwin Allan Sealy’.
What do Sealy’s literary awards mean to him- ‘Trotternama’ won the 1988 Commonwealth Writers prize and ‘The Everest Hotel’, The 1998 Crossword Award . Sealy’s philosophical – “ It’s nice to get a lakh or two. Prizes may probably quicken a writer’s career, but they can also deaden some impulse in him – they can interfere with the flow.” And all those hefty advances overseas writers get ? “It doesn’t touch me “, Sealy maintains. We talk about the huge advance the Harvard student author Kaavya Vishwanathan received “It’s a huge wallop on the head – she doesn’t realise it - at the moment she’s floating but she could sink “ - a prophecy that was to prove uncannily true a few days later.
Sealy himself , may travel but always goes back to his Himalayan Retreat , safely distant from the big bucks. Is money an issue ? “Not a serious issue, in other words I’m not seriously poor!”, he jokes. It’s a joke like most, with some truth. It’s N the narrator in ‘Red’ who answers it most poetically- “When I’m anxious for the future, I look up at the hornbill in the palm tree with a single areca nut in his beak, and think that’s his whole pension too, his provident fund, his retirement package, his future, and then my fears are quelled. Not answered, put at rest. You have to sit quietly on your branch and offer up your self entire, to the world, to the universe, to the next passer-by”.
This appeared in The Week April 2006
KIran Nagarakr
I meet Kiran Nagarkar at his beautiful Breach Candy bungalow – raintrees outside, brass urns, and mahogany tables inside. It’s a friend’s house, he tells me, he lost his own . How that happened is a story that could be an aside in any of Nagarkar’s novels. A sinister version of the ‘Water Wars’, the squabbles the chawl protagonists in his famous Bombay novel ‘Ravan and Eddie’ are subjected to. It’s an urban nightmare both sad and scatological, and the writer is upset in the retelling.
But today is a hopeful day – the 63 year old Marathi English novelist is back after a break of eight years. Like ‘Cuckold’, his historical Sahitya Akademi winning 1998 novel, this present work is another voluminous saga. It tells in 584 pages, the coming of age story of a young Indian terrorist - Zia Khan. Early reviews have been mixed. Nagarkar is back last night from a reading in Germany, and is off the following day for the books launch in Delhi. Mumbai and Calcutta follow next. So Nagarkar is all keyed up. A new book is always a tense occasion ,and must be particularly so for Nagarkar, a writer who has risen from humble beginnings through constant re invention, moving from Marathi to English, and from novel to screenplay to a play.
So we talk. About Zia, Nagarkar’s terrorist hero. About the art of the novel. A subject he’s eloquent on, and obviously impassioned about,” I keep going back to these classic tales”, he confesses, ”you can live your life by these stories, Homer has you by the collar, and Kabir has you by the throat… I mean gosh, how many times have they buried the novel?” he demands. “All this post modernist fixation of -I have to be different, I have to be original… “.
I ask him if he enjoys any contemporary writers- Amitabh Ghosh , he answers , pausing to wonder at Ghosh’s genius for unravelling fascinating nuggets ,”I mean he found out that the Burmese King actually lived in Ratnagiri”, constructing much of his ‘The Glass Palace ‘around that little fact.
And Rushdie ? In Nagarkar’s new book, his terrorist hero Zia , is obsessed with killing Rushdie. Zia, who has been sent by his family to study at Cambridge , updates Allah with Yeatsian status reports on SR/Essar’s whereabouts “The Beast has gone underground…All the heathens and disbelievers of the world have conspired to throw a smoke screen around it “. I ask him where all that graphic imagery of ‘the evil one reading from his satanic book ‘…and his ‘hooded eyes’ came from ? “Well that’s Zia’s perspective “, he clarifies. Nagarkar himself doesn’t enjoy Rushdie’s prose anymore – “he’s trapped “, he analyses . Nevertheless he fumes those who criticise at Rushdie– “these are people who have no idea of the value of life”.
Nagarkar should know. In 1977 Nagarkar wrote ‘Bedtime Stories’ a scathing retelling of four stories from the Mahabharata. The play had a chorus that was represented by a Nazi , and the perpetrators on trial were the audience themselves. The play was attacked by the RSS even as rehearsals themselves became an impossibility , to say nothing of an actual performance. But then Nagarkar’s non novelistic endeavours have always been somewhat jinxed. The famous Bombay novel ‘Ravan and Eddie’ began life as a screenplay for Dev Benegal, but was abandoned mid-way. And in this latest book Zia’s novelist brother Amanat has a run in with a couple of such fickle film producers who “keep him hanging for months on end, destroying whatever fragment of self esteem he had left”. Why does this happen , I ask him ? Maybe they are just horrid people , he replies post a thoughtful pause. Yet Nagarkar confesses he is still extremely fond of Benegal, even though the two scarcely speak.
Like Nagarkar and the Marathi establishment. Once hailed as a shining gem of Marathi literature, Nagarkar reveals how today he is persona non grata . It’s an episode that has been particularly painful for this Marathi writer. Right from 1991 when Nagarkar was in Chicago on a fellowship (“cleaning bathrooms “, he tells me in another delightful aside “the fellowship was so shoe string”). That’s when he made the decision to switch languages “For days I couldn’t get out of bed “, he confesses , “the move seemed a betrayal”. And yet Marathi readership with its abysmal numbers was slowly killing the writer in him. Nagarkar hadn’t written for 12 years. As he explains,“ Saat sakkam trechalis’ is called a milestone in Marathi lit… But what’s the use of a milestone if it sells only 1500 copies in 25 years?” .
I ask him how he spent those non writing years . “We struggled to make ends meet, he confesses. Arun ( Kolatkar, the poet) and I were partners for 20 years. We wrote ad copy but then our agency closed down,. We were out of a job. We’d go around together, and we just would not get any work – me in my kurta pajama, Arun with his long hair .God knows why, he, Arun had a reputation for unreliability. Our rejection fee used to be Rs.1500 for an assignment and Rs.3000 if our work was accepted. Somehow we got by. And now after his death Arun gets all this recognition. What damn use is it ?”
So will this new book change all of this ? ‘God’s Little Soldier’ is contemporary. It’s come after eight years of writes and rewrites. “I struggled”, Nagarkar explains “with the character of Zia.” The first draft, 800 pages plus and handwritten, was rejected when Nagarkar realised that the rigid idealistic terrorist hero he had created could take no humour. Zia was emerging as a vastly different character from the tongue in cheek chawl boys in Ravan and Eddie. Where Ravan and Eddie coped with recognizable evils like errant fathers and school bullies with zing, Zia created his own monsters. Like keeping Ramadan to please his aunt, by pretending to eat (to satisfy his liberal Muslim parents) and then throwing up post every meal. Or by flagellating himself. All of which makes ‘God’s Little Soldier’ very dramatic. Also cinematic, as locales move from Bombay to Cambridge and then worlds away to a Trappist monastery atop a ledge of the Sierra Nevada mountains. It’s been described a book which has the ideas and events for three or four different novels, and certainly as you follow Zia through his childhood , and see him moving from Cambridge dons to gay priests to arms dealing god men, you begin to see why. Colourful, kaleidoscopic and quite the dance of life, even if it is macabre.
IN the Week April 2006
But today is a hopeful day – the 63 year old Marathi English novelist is back after a break of eight years. Like ‘Cuckold’, his historical Sahitya Akademi winning 1998 novel, this present work is another voluminous saga. It tells in 584 pages, the coming of age story of a young Indian terrorist - Zia Khan. Early reviews have been mixed. Nagarkar is back last night from a reading in Germany, and is off the following day for the books launch in Delhi. Mumbai and Calcutta follow next. So Nagarkar is all keyed up. A new book is always a tense occasion ,and must be particularly so for Nagarkar, a writer who has risen from humble beginnings through constant re invention, moving from Marathi to English, and from novel to screenplay to a play.
So we talk. About Zia, Nagarkar’s terrorist hero. About the art of the novel. A subject he’s eloquent on, and obviously impassioned about,” I keep going back to these classic tales”, he confesses, ”you can live your life by these stories, Homer has you by the collar, and Kabir has you by the throat… I mean gosh, how many times have they buried the novel?” he demands. “All this post modernist fixation of -I have to be different, I have to be original… “.
I ask him if he enjoys any contemporary writers- Amitabh Ghosh , he answers , pausing to wonder at Ghosh’s genius for unravelling fascinating nuggets ,”I mean he found out that the Burmese King actually lived in Ratnagiri”, constructing much of his ‘The Glass Palace ‘around that little fact.
And Rushdie ? In Nagarkar’s new book, his terrorist hero Zia , is obsessed with killing Rushdie. Zia, who has been sent by his family to study at Cambridge , updates Allah with Yeatsian status reports on SR/Essar’s whereabouts “The Beast has gone underground…All the heathens and disbelievers of the world have conspired to throw a smoke screen around it “. I ask him where all that graphic imagery of ‘the evil one reading from his satanic book ‘…and his ‘hooded eyes’ came from ? “Well that’s Zia’s perspective “, he clarifies. Nagarkar himself doesn’t enjoy Rushdie’s prose anymore – “he’s trapped “, he analyses . Nevertheless he fumes those who criticise at Rushdie– “these are people who have no idea of the value of life”.
Nagarkar should know. In 1977 Nagarkar wrote ‘Bedtime Stories’ a scathing retelling of four stories from the Mahabharata. The play had a chorus that was represented by a Nazi , and the perpetrators on trial were the audience themselves. The play was attacked by the RSS even as rehearsals themselves became an impossibility , to say nothing of an actual performance. But then Nagarkar’s non novelistic endeavours have always been somewhat jinxed. The famous Bombay novel ‘Ravan and Eddie’ began life as a screenplay for Dev Benegal, but was abandoned mid-way. And in this latest book Zia’s novelist brother Amanat has a run in with a couple of such fickle film producers who “keep him hanging for months on end, destroying whatever fragment of self esteem he had left”. Why does this happen , I ask him ? Maybe they are just horrid people , he replies post a thoughtful pause. Yet Nagarkar confesses he is still extremely fond of Benegal, even though the two scarcely speak.
Like Nagarkar and the Marathi establishment. Once hailed as a shining gem of Marathi literature, Nagarkar reveals how today he is persona non grata . It’s an episode that has been particularly painful for this Marathi writer. Right from 1991 when Nagarkar was in Chicago on a fellowship (“cleaning bathrooms “, he tells me in another delightful aside “the fellowship was so shoe string”). That’s when he made the decision to switch languages “For days I couldn’t get out of bed “, he confesses , “the move seemed a betrayal”. And yet Marathi readership with its abysmal numbers was slowly killing the writer in him. Nagarkar hadn’t written for 12 years. As he explains,“ Saat sakkam trechalis’ is called a milestone in Marathi lit… But what’s the use of a milestone if it sells only 1500 copies in 25 years?” .
I ask him how he spent those non writing years . “We struggled to make ends meet, he confesses. Arun ( Kolatkar, the poet) and I were partners for 20 years. We wrote ad copy but then our agency closed down,. We were out of a job. We’d go around together, and we just would not get any work – me in my kurta pajama, Arun with his long hair .God knows why, he, Arun had a reputation for unreliability. Our rejection fee used to be Rs.1500 for an assignment and Rs.3000 if our work was accepted. Somehow we got by. And now after his death Arun gets all this recognition. What damn use is it ?”
So will this new book change all of this ? ‘God’s Little Soldier’ is contemporary. It’s come after eight years of writes and rewrites. “I struggled”, Nagarkar explains “with the character of Zia.” The first draft, 800 pages plus and handwritten, was rejected when Nagarkar realised that the rigid idealistic terrorist hero he had created could take no humour. Zia was emerging as a vastly different character from the tongue in cheek chawl boys in Ravan and Eddie. Where Ravan and Eddie coped with recognizable evils like errant fathers and school bullies with zing, Zia created his own monsters. Like keeping Ramadan to please his aunt, by pretending to eat (to satisfy his liberal Muslim parents) and then throwing up post every meal. Or by flagellating himself. All of which makes ‘God’s Little Soldier’ very dramatic. Also cinematic, as locales move from Bombay to Cambridge and then worlds away to a Trappist monastery atop a ledge of the Sierra Nevada mountains. It’s been described a book which has the ideas and events for three or four different novels, and certainly as you follow Zia through his childhood , and see him moving from Cambridge dons to gay priests to arms dealing god men, you begin to see why. Colourful, kaleidoscopic and quite the dance of life, even if it is macabre.
IN the Week April 2006
Monday, February 06, 2006
I Love Juhu
I love Juhu
Marshland and a sandy island called Juhu Tara metamorphosed into this queen of the suburbs- Bollywood’s own Beverly Hills. Juhu, with its film-famous beach , coconut palm skyline and its barricaded bungalows is a movie goers Mecca. Crowds congregate every evening , via wide bodied Volvos , or by BEST bus rides from the Vile Parle Station to take in the temples, the sand and the sea . Also to scour the streets for that single second serendipitous glimpse of their favorite film stars – a scene they will describe many times over to enthralled audiences in the great Indian hinterland.
Almost every road in Juhu seems to have own little story. The mini Gandhi ashram, the temples, the tanks, the Bollywood homes all these are local reference points, as estate agents and autowalas inform all prospective buyers and passers-by with pride. [Even for the suitably inured resident, it is rather a thrill to encounter Shabana Azmi strolling on the beach or wheel one’s trolley past Hema Malini at the Foodland supermarket. At the hip Nalini and Yasmin beauty parlor, you could be flanked by Farah Khan in the midst of a power hair wash and dry, and Dimple Kapadia on the other side. And at Rain and Vie, the beachfront bar, you’re likely to spot Kareena Kapoor, Bobby Deol or Bipasha Basu in animated conversation at the little tables perched atop a softly luminous floor.
But it isn’t all high living in our neighborhood. Next to the giant glass-windowed Shoppers Stop (with its very own Crossword and soon-to-come Moshe’s) is Chandan Cinema. Here, for the princely sum of Rs 40 you can sit back in air-conditioned comfort and watch the latest blockbuster. Crowds of college students, Sindhi and Gujarati families and the inevitable complement of unemployed /part time /playing hooky? young men line up for matinee shows.
Life is lively on the Juhu streets. Spicy vada pav and sweet steaming chai at many street corners find conversational crowds of takers, discussion veering from film star employees to cricket controversies. College students congregate in coffee shops and householders wax expansively with their families over generous dollops of ice cream and milk shake . Gyms, saunas and Jacuzzis dot the area as their many patrons – the yummy mummy’s , the actor wannabe's and the adventuring Buntys and Bablis scour designer boutiques for sensational strappy wonders, as they ready themselves for nights of net working in the areas chic pubs and lounges.
Mostly though, it’s just good to be home. Mornings bring birdsong – emerald green parrots pecking at the coconuts on the palm trees, tiny grey sparrows, shimmering sunbirds and maybe even a mynah. And everywhere, the feel of the sea, just there, or a couple of lanes away. You can see it if you climb high enough – that and a wide open vista beyond foam flecked waves and a blue grey Arabian sea.
NEIGHBOURHOOD GEMS
Juhu Beach All roads in Juhu lead to this stretch of sand and sea. The beach has something for everyone – sports enthusiasts play Frisbee, football or beach cricket mornings and evenings. Walkers, laughter clubs and suryanamaskar practitioners congregate mornings, while evenings turn almost carnival like. Picnicking families set out little rectangular cloths, women unwrap carefully packed parathas and theplas while their kids tuck into pink candy floss, build sandcastles and dip in the sea.
The ISKON Temple Complex With its black and white marble floors, its generous tree- shaded quadrangle and great teak and gold doors that open onto ornate Krishna figures, the temple is worth a visit. There’s also an excellent auditorium that hosts classical dance and music performances. Gourmet meals at the in-house restaurant ‘Govinda’, that connoisseurs delight, with its trademark ‘chappan bhog’ in shudh ghee, are the icing on this cake. At Hare Krishna Land, Juhu Tel 26206860. Temple opens from 4am – 1 pm and 4-9 pm. ‘Govinda’ open all days of the week from 12.30 -3 pm and 7.30-10 pm . Meal for two Rs.1100
The Centre for Arts and Crafts. Originally Contemporary Arts and Crafts, this store has a new name, but retains its distinct feel. It’s crammed with mix of irresistible artifacts - pottery, lamps and even a warm wooden bar. Tribal masks, silver Ganeshas and wicker furniture too. This a great store to pick up unusual presents and the displays are gorgeous. They play Buddha Bar, but don’t let that put you off. There’s a smell of freshly roasted coffee from the tiny café. Seating is outside, under dark blue canopies nice, except when it’s raining. At 9, Juhu Supreme Shopping Centre, Gulmohar Cross Road no 9. Tel 26204668 . Open all days of the week from 10am -8 pm
Bharat Scouts and Guides Grounds – Turn off the Juhu Military Canteen road at the police Chowky, past Rutumbara/ Sanghavi College and suddenly out of nowhere, you have an amazing, almost endless expanse of verdant green. There’s a series of tennis courts here , six or more and often a cricket game in progress too.
Off Juhu Military Road, past Ritumbara College Most games between 7 am to 6 pm
Prithvi Café Sip mint tea or coffee, splurge on brownies or get serious with chicken tikka at this arty outdoor café, ringed by bamboo trees. The crowd here is an interesting mix of intense artists, articulate writers, hippie girls and lets-hang-out-in-an arty-place others. Besides Prithvi theatre there’s also The Corner Bookshop for a bit of browsing. At Janaki Kutir, Off Juhu Church Road. Tel 26149546 Open all days from 12.30 in the afternoon to 11.30 at night.
Mahesh Lunch Home Spicy tandoori pomfret, tiger prawns, Mangalorean fish bathed in satisfyingly rich coconut gravy. Mahesh Lunch Home is a branch of the original thing in Fort and located very accessibly on Juhu Tara Road promises all that and more. Only, one wishes the décor was not so Udipi-turned-prosperous plush. At Juhu Tara Road, next to Hotel Tulip Star Tel no 56955554, 56978966/8967 Open all days of the week for lunch from 12-3.30 and in the evenings from 7 - 12.30 PM. Meal for two Rs.500
Natural Ice Cream The winning combination of fruit and creamy kulfi-like ice cream was born here. Today Natural of JVPD has branches all over Mumbai, but the original Juhu outlet continues to do brisk business. Crowds converge at all hours Seasonal specials are posted on boards – strawberries, sitaphal, watermelon , cheeku or tender coconut….all very hard to choose between , even after sampling tiny white plastic spoons of each.
At 13th North South Road, Opp.Lotus Eye Hospital Tel 26707558, 26206053. Open all days of the week . From 10AM – 12.30 midnight. Prices range from Rs. 25 a scoop of ice cream upward
An edited version of this appeared in Timeout January 14th 2006
Marshland and a sandy island called Juhu Tara metamorphosed into this queen of the suburbs- Bollywood’s own Beverly Hills. Juhu, with its film-famous beach , coconut palm skyline and its barricaded bungalows is a movie goers Mecca. Crowds congregate every evening , via wide bodied Volvos , or by BEST bus rides from the Vile Parle Station to take in the temples, the sand and the sea . Also to scour the streets for that single second serendipitous glimpse of their favorite film stars – a scene they will describe many times over to enthralled audiences in the great Indian hinterland.
Almost every road in Juhu seems to have own little story. The mini Gandhi ashram, the temples, the tanks, the Bollywood homes all these are local reference points, as estate agents and autowalas inform all prospective buyers and passers-by with pride. [Even for the suitably inured resident, it is rather a thrill to encounter Shabana Azmi strolling on the beach or wheel one’s trolley past Hema Malini at the Foodland supermarket. At the hip Nalini and Yasmin beauty parlor, you could be flanked by Farah Khan in the midst of a power hair wash and dry, and Dimple Kapadia on the other side. And at Rain and Vie, the beachfront bar, you’re likely to spot Kareena Kapoor, Bobby Deol or Bipasha Basu in animated conversation at the little tables perched atop a softly luminous floor.
But it isn’t all high living in our neighborhood. Next to the giant glass-windowed Shoppers Stop (with its very own Crossword and soon-to-come Moshe’s) is Chandan Cinema. Here, for the princely sum of Rs 40 you can sit back in air-conditioned comfort and watch the latest blockbuster. Crowds of college students, Sindhi and Gujarati families and the inevitable complement of unemployed /part time /playing hooky? young men line up for matinee shows.
Life is lively on the Juhu streets. Spicy vada pav and sweet steaming chai at many street corners find conversational crowds of takers, discussion veering from film star employees to cricket controversies. College students congregate in coffee shops and householders wax expansively with their families over generous dollops of ice cream and milk shake . Gyms, saunas and Jacuzzis dot the area as their many patrons – the yummy mummy’s , the actor wannabe's and the adventuring Buntys and Bablis scour designer boutiques for sensational strappy wonders, as they ready themselves for nights of net working in the areas chic pubs and lounges.
Mostly though, it’s just good to be home. Mornings bring birdsong – emerald green parrots pecking at the coconuts on the palm trees, tiny grey sparrows, shimmering sunbirds and maybe even a mynah. And everywhere, the feel of the sea, just there, or a couple of lanes away. You can see it if you climb high enough – that and a wide open vista beyond foam flecked waves and a blue grey Arabian sea.
NEIGHBOURHOOD GEMS
Juhu Beach All roads in Juhu lead to this stretch of sand and sea. The beach has something for everyone – sports enthusiasts play Frisbee, football or beach cricket mornings and evenings. Walkers, laughter clubs and suryanamaskar practitioners congregate mornings, while evenings turn almost carnival like. Picnicking families set out little rectangular cloths, women unwrap carefully packed parathas and theplas while their kids tuck into pink candy floss, build sandcastles and dip in the sea.
The ISKON Temple Complex With its black and white marble floors, its generous tree- shaded quadrangle and great teak and gold doors that open onto ornate Krishna figures, the temple is worth a visit. There’s also an excellent auditorium that hosts classical dance and music performances. Gourmet meals at the in-house restaurant ‘Govinda’, that connoisseurs delight, with its trademark ‘chappan bhog’ in shudh ghee, are the icing on this cake. At Hare Krishna Land, Juhu Tel 26206860. Temple opens from 4am – 1 pm and 4-9 pm. ‘Govinda’ open all days of the week from 12.30 -3 pm and 7.30-10 pm . Meal for two Rs.1100
The Centre for Arts and Crafts. Originally Contemporary Arts and Crafts, this store has a new name, but retains its distinct feel. It’s crammed with mix of irresistible artifacts - pottery, lamps and even a warm wooden bar. Tribal masks, silver Ganeshas and wicker furniture too. This a great store to pick up unusual presents and the displays are gorgeous. They play Buddha Bar, but don’t let that put you off. There’s a smell of freshly roasted coffee from the tiny café. Seating is outside, under dark blue canopies nice, except when it’s raining. At 9, Juhu Supreme Shopping Centre, Gulmohar Cross Road no 9. Tel 26204668 . Open all days of the week from 10am -8 pm
Bharat Scouts and Guides Grounds – Turn off the Juhu Military Canteen road at the police Chowky, past Rutumbara/ Sanghavi College and suddenly out of nowhere, you have an amazing, almost endless expanse of verdant green. There’s a series of tennis courts here , six or more and often a cricket game in progress too.
Off Juhu Military Road, past Ritumbara College Most games between 7 am to 6 pm
Prithvi Café Sip mint tea or coffee, splurge on brownies or get serious with chicken tikka at this arty outdoor café, ringed by bamboo trees. The crowd here is an interesting mix of intense artists, articulate writers, hippie girls and lets-hang-out-in-an arty-place others. Besides Prithvi theatre there’s also The Corner Bookshop for a bit of browsing. At Janaki Kutir, Off Juhu Church Road. Tel 26149546 Open all days from 12.30 in the afternoon to 11.30 at night.
Mahesh Lunch Home Spicy tandoori pomfret, tiger prawns, Mangalorean fish bathed in satisfyingly rich coconut gravy. Mahesh Lunch Home is a branch of the original thing in Fort and located very accessibly on Juhu Tara Road promises all that and more. Only, one wishes the décor was not so Udipi-turned-prosperous plush. At Juhu Tara Road, next to Hotel Tulip Star Tel no 56955554, 56978966/8967 Open all days of the week for lunch from 12-3.30 and in the evenings from 7 - 12.30 PM. Meal for two Rs.500
Natural Ice Cream The winning combination of fruit and creamy kulfi-like ice cream was born here. Today Natural of JVPD has branches all over Mumbai, but the original Juhu outlet continues to do brisk business. Crowds converge at all hours Seasonal specials are posted on boards – strawberries, sitaphal, watermelon , cheeku or tender coconut….all very hard to choose between , even after sampling tiny white plastic spoons of each.
At 13th North South Road, Opp.Lotus Eye Hospital Tel 26707558, 26206053. Open all days of the week . From 10AM – 12.30 midnight. Prices range from Rs. 25 a scoop of ice cream upward
An edited version of this appeared in Timeout January 14th 2006
Party time in Juhu
January in Juhu and it’s party time. The Citizen’s Group is taking a break from clearing road blocks and battling beach encroachments. Earlier in the week, slim blue and white flyers are slipped into mailboxes and under doors in most households in the area. ‘Volunteers required’, they invite, ’for the Juhu Hamara Festival 2006’, details set against a beguiling logo of a radiant sun on the sea.
So calls flood in - a few want to help, others to attend festivities and many to see the stars.
Juhu Citizen members dash around in different directions – Hansel is putting together the free film screenings, Gulu Gadekar makes the round of local schools for kiddie activities and Adolf processes entries for Sunday evening’s talent night. So much classical music and dance, he discovers. Age old traditions from ‘Nandan’, the celebrated Bharat Natyam School opposite Amitabh Bachchan’s shrub filled and fenced palatial house ‘Pratiksha’ . From ‘Sangeet Mahabharti’, the singing institute in the striking old world house and garden across the road.
Song and dance, and the grounds opposite the Shoppers Stop Mall are beginning to look festive. Here’s where Hema Malini will inaugurate the festival and Ahana Deol will perform a traditional Ganesh vandana dance. The Mall itself with it’s strings of fairy lights and giant glass windows will be host to a series of literary readings. It’s sprawling basement Crossword will see an enactment of Dalit writer Urmila Pawar’s gritty autobiography ‘Ayudaan’, stories of the sea by Juhu Versova born poet Saleem Peeradina, Arundhati Subramaniam and Anand Thakore’s poetry of the sea and a reading from ‘The Girl’, journalist Sonia Faleiro’s haunting debut novel of love and betrayal set on the sea.
A few streets away, the Kaifi Azmi Park with it’s carefully coiffured landscaping, paths and podiums will be another scene for much bustle and buzz – pot painting, craft work and kite flying. At Juhu Jagruti, Javed Akhtar inaugurates the film festival with a mix of Mumbai gems like Anand Patwardhan’s classic commentary and Paromita Vohra’s neighbourhood documentaries. Oh, and there’s the Juhu Dream Run , Sunday 8 am everybody, the gorgeous Pooja Bedi’s going to flag off runners from the spacious Jamnabai Narsee School Grounds, deep in the heart of the gulmohar tree lined JVPD Scheme.
This appeared in the Mumbai Mirror Jan 18th
So calls flood in - a few want to help, others to attend festivities and many to see the stars.
Juhu Citizen members dash around in different directions – Hansel is putting together the free film screenings, Gulu Gadekar makes the round of local schools for kiddie activities and Adolf processes entries for Sunday evening’s talent night. So much classical music and dance, he discovers. Age old traditions from ‘Nandan’, the celebrated Bharat Natyam School opposite Amitabh Bachchan’s shrub filled and fenced palatial house ‘Pratiksha’ . From ‘Sangeet Mahabharti’, the singing institute in the striking old world house and garden across the road.
Song and dance, and the grounds opposite the Shoppers Stop Mall are beginning to look festive. Here’s where Hema Malini will inaugurate the festival and Ahana Deol will perform a traditional Ganesh vandana dance. The Mall itself with it’s strings of fairy lights and giant glass windows will be host to a series of literary readings. It’s sprawling basement Crossword will see an enactment of Dalit writer Urmila Pawar’s gritty autobiography ‘Ayudaan’, stories of the sea by Juhu Versova born poet Saleem Peeradina, Arundhati Subramaniam and Anand Thakore’s poetry of the sea and a reading from ‘The Girl’, journalist Sonia Faleiro’s haunting debut novel of love and betrayal set on the sea.
A few streets away, the Kaifi Azmi Park with it’s carefully coiffured landscaping, paths and podiums will be another scene for much bustle and buzz – pot painting, craft work and kite flying. At Juhu Jagruti, Javed Akhtar inaugurates the film festival with a mix of Mumbai gems like Anand Patwardhan’s classic commentary and Paromita Vohra’s neighbourhood documentaries. Oh, and there’s the Juhu Dream Run , Sunday 8 am everybody, the gorgeous Pooja Bedi’s going to flag off runners from the spacious Jamnabai Narsee School Grounds, deep in the heart of the gulmohar tree lined JVPD Scheme.
This appeared in the Mumbai Mirror Jan 18th
Papa, Pass the Pullman
How many children read the dazzlingly inventive adventures of Artemis Fowl, boy genius and criminal mastermind? How many venture into the incredibly complex, richly textured parallel universes of Philip Pullman’s Dark Materials trilogy? Do tweenies and teenagers really dip in, of their own accord, into the time travels of Jonathon Stroud’s infamous djinn Bartimaeus?
Certainly not as many as the multiple displays in the Children’s Sections of many bookstores would have us believe. Armed with a basketful of questions based on these bookshelves, at a recent children’s literature quiz, I was greeted by staggering silences on these bestsellers. And yet the same kids were competently conversant with Shakespeare and Sherlock Holmes, with Janus and Jules Verne.
So why are these titles all over children’s sections? Why isn’t Pullman, like HG Wells’ ‘War of the Worlds’, tucked into the crowded recesses of adult science fiction and fantasy? Perhaps it’s because booksellers, like movie makers have discovered the secret of wholesome family fare. If ‘Shark Tales’ with its Robert de Niro and Martin Scorcese voiceovers can net in entire families, books targeted at teenagers and yet complex enough to hold their parents attention are sure volume winners. Spawning a separate category called ‘crossover’. It’s a category that’s largely publisher created and it features a lot of complex fantasy like Pullman , Stroud and Ursula Le Guin. Also other intricately nuanced books like Mark Haddon’s ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night time ‘ , a story of an autistic child which makes the grade because of it’s simple language and it’s child protagonist. But really a book that is, in the reading far more complex, than a standard Hardy Boys roaring river mystery. Interestingly, both Pullman and Haddon, never intended their books to be for children. Yet both ended up being wildly successful after being slotted by their publishers, in the children’s fiction category. For children’s fiction shelves are by all accounts , burgeoning, and how ! What’s debatable is who exactly is driving that boom.
Post Potter, it is no longer infra dig or dumbing down to read children’s books. More and more adults are doing exactly that – maybe because these books are well marketed, they stand out from the clutter and are exceedingly well written. They feature powerful and very primeval stories that engage with the always fascinating metaphysical confrontations of good and evil. Harking back to days when, crossovers’ ancient predecessors , ‘The Arabian Nights’, ‘The Odyssey’ or ‘The Mahabharata’, enthralled all ages in the telling . Or even their modern day variations that work so successfully at various levels. Lewis Carroll, Roald Dahl, Tolkien and CS Lewis . Rushdie in that delightful children’s tale of ‘Haroun and the Sea of Stories’. I loved reading it out to my six year old who delighted in the action of Haroun on a boat in a lake, while I marvelled at Rushdie’s scrumptious satire as Snooty Buttoo speaks through the Mists of Misery, on the Dull Lake, in the Valley of K. A great story - but not one you’d find the average child reader rushing off into a cosy corner with.
This appeared in the Sunday Times of India Bookmark page 5 th Feb 2006
Certainly not as many as the multiple displays in the Children’s Sections of many bookstores would have us believe. Armed with a basketful of questions based on these bookshelves, at a recent children’s literature quiz, I was greeted by staggering silences on these bestsellers. And yet the same kids were competently conversant with Shakespeare and Sherlock Holmes, with Janus and Jules Verne.
So why are these titles all over children’s sections? Why isn’t Pullman, like HG Wells’ ‘War of the Worlds’, tucked into the crowded recesses of adult science fiction and fantasy? Perhaps it’s because booksellers, like movie makers have discovered the secret of wholesome family fare. If ‘Shark Tales’ with its Robert de Niro and Martin Scorcese voiceovers can net in entire families, books targeted at teenagers and yet complex enough to hold their parents attention are sure volume winners. Spawning a separate category called ‘crossover’. It’s a category that’s largely publisher created and it features a lot of complex fantasy like Pullman , Stroud and Ursula Le Guin. Also other intricately nuanced books like Mark Haddon’s ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night time ‘ , a story of an autistic child which makes the grade because of it’s simple language and it’s child protagonist. But really a book that is, in the reading far more complex, than a standard Hardy Boys roaring river mystery. Interestingly, both Pullman and Haddon, never intended their books to be for children. Yet both ended up being wildly successful after being slotted by their publishers, in the children’s fiction category. For children’s fiction shelves are by all accounts , burgeoning, and how ! What’s debatable is who exactly is driving that boom.
Post Potter, it is no longer infra dig or dumbing down to read children’s books. More and more adults are doing exactly that – maybe because these books are well marketed, they stand out from the clutter and are exceedingly well written. They feature powerful and very primeval stories that engage with the always fascinating metaphysical confrontations of good and evil. Harking back to days when, crossovers’ ancient predecessors , ‘The Arabian Nights’, ‘The Odyssey’ or ‘The Mahabharata’, enthralled all ages in the telling . Or even their modern day variations that work so successfully at various levels. Lewis Carroll, Roald Dahl, Tolkien and CS Lewis . Rushdie in that delightful children’s tale of ‘Haroun and the Sea of Stories’. I loved reading it out to my six year old who delighted in the action of Haroun on a boat in a lake, while I marvelled at Rushdie’s scrumptious satire as Snooty Buttoo speaks through the Mists of Misery, on the Dull Lake, in the Valley of K. A great story - but not one you’d find the average child reader rushing off into a cosy corner with.
This appeared in the Sunday Times of India Bookmark page 5 th Feb 2006
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
No God in Sight
Nestled amidst the clean lines of Tyrewala’s debut novel, lie a million voices. Voices that belong to many protagonists. Faceless people you see all the time, but rarely look at - a housewife, a butcher, a beggar, an Urdu teacher.
They could come from anywhere and yet they also belong exactly where Tyrewala situates them – among the congested streets of Mumbai’s oldest neighborhoods. They tell their stories simply – a chapter for each character. But their voices when you hear them are like the unborn-baby voices in the head of the illegal abortionist protagonist, “discordant and raw and numbing “.
It’s an unusual novel - spare and simple but strangely dispersed. Yet Mumbai based Tyrewala navigates the six degrees of separation between his pavement protagonists with cinematic ease. Beginning with ‘Mrs. Khwaja’ who tells us,”I used to be a poetess and would dwell on minute metaphors for days. Now all day long I cook for Ubaid and Minaz, spend the thousands their fathers earns every month, and contemplate television absentmindedly.” And ‘Mr. Khwaja’ on the next page,” Twenty six years ago I married a mediocre poetess. She gave me two kids”. One of these kids will now visit Akhbar, the abortionist. Kaka , the father of the abortionist, is a shoe salesman. Everyday, for the last thirty years, he climbs to his place of work , where he stays crouched “between the shop’s false ceiling and real ceiling, the mezzanine, where boxes and boxes of footwear are stocked.” Only , Amin-bhai, the shoe shop owner and a disillusioned man, will soon sell the shop and emigrate on an aircraft whose “projection screen will show a blue India, with our plane’s route-so- far outlined in white like an anemic tapeworm in the belly of a diseased nation”.
Strong metaphors these, but expressive of the sense of isolated hopelessness most of Tyrewala’s Muslim protagonists feel . Like Rohington Mistry’s impoverished Parsis who are remorselessly squeezed into smaller spaces , the characters in this book no longer seem to belong . Sohail Tambawala’s wife must borrow her maid’s mangalsutra before she registers a missing person complaint in the local police station, Suleiman obsesses about his Muslim identity , his great-grandpa’s conversion that “turned us into outsiders to be driven out of villages..”, Tambawala recoils from the disgust of the Honda City passengers face ,”staring out at what must seem just another filthy Muslim ghetto”.
Simple yet soulful , this is less that is definitely more.
This review appeared in the Deccan Herald December 25th 2005
They could come from anywhere and yet they also belong exactly where Tyrewala situates them – among the congested streets of Mumbai’s oldest neighborhoods. They tell their stories simply – a chapter for each character. But their voices when you hear them are like the unborn-baby voices in the head of the illegal abortionist protagonist, “discordant and raw and numbing “.
It’s an unusual novel - spare and simple but strangely dispersed. Yet Mumbai based Tyrewala navigates the six degrees of separation between his pavement protagonists with cinematic ease. Beginning with ‘Mrs. Khwaja’ who tells us,”I used to be a poetess and would dwell on minute metaphors for days. Now all day long I cook for Ubaid and Minaz, spend the thousands their fathers earns every month, and contemplate television absentmindedly.” And ‘Mr. Khwaja’ on the next page,” Twenty six years ago I married a mediocre poetess. She gave me two kids”. One of these kids will now visit Akhbar, the abortionist. Kaka , the father of the abortionist, is a shoe salesman. Everyday, for the last thirty years, he climbs to his place of work , where he stays crouched “between the shop’s false ceiling and real ceiling, the mezzanine, where boxes and boxes of footwear are stocked.” Only , Amin-bhai, the shoe shop owner and a disillusioned man, will soon sell the shop and emigrate on an aircraft whose “projection screen will show a blue India, with our plane’s route-so- far outlined in white like an anemic tapeworm in the belly of a diseased nation”.
Strong metaphors these, but expressive of the sense of isolated hopelessness most of Tyrewala’s Muslim protagonists feel . Like Rohington Mistry’s impoverished Parsis who are remorselessly squeezed into smaller spaces , the characters in this book no longer seem to belong . Sohail Tambawala’s wife must borrow her maid’s mangalsutra before she registers a missing person complaint in the local police station, Suleiman obsesses about his Muslim identity , his great-grandpa’s conversion that “turned us into outsiders to be driven out of villages..”, Tambawala recoils from the disgust of the Honda City passengers face ,”staring out at what must seem just another filthy Muslim ghetto”.
Simple yet soulful , this is less that is definitely more.
This review appeared in the Deccan Herald December 25th 2005
The Geisha Strikes Back
Arthur Golden’s best selling saga of a geisha girl is back in the news. First published in 1997, this kimono clad ‘Pretty Woman’ meets ‘A Woman of Substance’ wowed readers with its exotic subject and setting. Indeed Golden ( who based his tale on the confessions of Mineko Iwasaki, a retired Kyoto geisha) was much praised for his atmospheric authenticity. But three years and four million copies later, Iwasaki sued Golden claiming that he "tarnished her reputation, breached an unwritten contract not to reveal her identity and unjustly enriched himself through the novel".
Now Memoirs finds itself in the centre of another news making controversy – this one caused by the release, earlier this month of it’s cinematic version. Produced by Steven Spielberg, this visually sumptuous epic of the East seemed an inevitable development of a Hollywood hungry for Oriental inspiration. But the film invoked the ire of purists and politics , for it’s controversial casting of Chinese actresses in the three Japanese female leads.
All of which makes Memoirs the season’s trendiest read – a worthy successor to sushi bars, pokemon and manga comics. The book itself is undeniably engaging. Set in early 1900’s Japan, it opens in the little fishing village of Yoroido. Sayuri (still called Chiyo-san) and her elder sister Satsu are sold by their fisherman father and sent many miles away to Kyoto. There, they are separated – the plainer Satsu into an ordinary brothel and Chiyo with her striking grey green eyes into a geisha obiya. This house of the rising sun is run by two mean and ugly crones, ‘Mother’ and ‘Auntie’ . Nine year old Chiyo must fight their petty cruelties and the evil wiles of the beautiful but cruel geisha, Hatsumomo. One day , teary eyed on the banks on the Shirakawa river, Chiyo meets the man who will change her life, known simply as ‘Chairman ‘. He gives her counsel and a coin to buy ice candy ( also a monogrammed handkerchief to wipe her tears). Chiyo’s luck turns, she acquires a fairy godmother, the famous Mameha, who is also rival to Hatsumoto. She applies herself feverishly to her lessons, playing the shamisen, learning dance and deportment (including training to pour tea with just the right glimpse of bare skin visible through a kimono sleeve and walking daintily in wooden shoes ). Events proceed briskly in the tatami matted territory of the Gion tea houses . Mameha’s manipulations for the bid price for Sayuri’s mizuage ( virginity) by playing two interested bidders off each other, pays off. Sayuri is now an independent geisha . But in the conspiring cat-eat-cat world of the Gion geishas, will she achieve her dream of acquiring the ‘Chairman’ as her danna or special patron ?
Golden tells the story deftly, with lots of intricate little descriptions ( Hatsumomo’s kimono, for instance is ‘ water blue, with swirling lines in ivory to mimic the current in a stream. Glistening trout tumbled in the current, and the surface of the water was ringed with gold wherever the soft green leaves of a tree touched it’.) There’s lots of interesting trivia as well , from the designer details of kimonos with their broad belt obi’s and under layer koshimaki’s to the intricacies of geisha make up . And in the distance , tiny glimpses of a frightening real world – of poverty, of common whore houses , being made to work in a factory and of War time in Japan.
Definitely worth a read . For even if it’s a cliché it’s a fascinatingly accoutered one.
This appeared in The Times of India Sunday BookMark dated 1st January 2006
Now Memoirs finds itself in the centre of another news making controversy – this one caused by the release, earlier this month of it’s cinematic version. Produced by Steven Spielberg, this visually sumptuous epic of the East seemed an inevitable development of a Hollywood hungry for Oriental inspiration. But the film invoked the ire of purists and politics , for it’s controversial casting of Chinese actresses in the three Japanese female leads.
All of which makes Memoirs the season’s trendiest read – a worthy successor to sushi bars, pokemon and manga comics. The book itself is undeniably engaging. Set in early 1900’s Japan, it opens in the little fishing village of Yoroido. Sayuri (still called Chiyo-san) and her elder sister Satsu are sold by their fisherman father and sent many miles away to Kyoto. There, they are separated – the plainer Satsu into an ordinary brothel and Chiyo with her striking grey green eyes into a geisha obiya. This house of the rising sun is run by two mean and ugly crones, ‘Mother’ and ‘Auntie’ . Nine year old Chiyo must fight their petty cruelties and the evil wiles of the beautiful but cruel geisha, Hatsumomo. One day , teary eyed on the banks on the Shirakawa river, Chiyo meets the man who will change her life, known simply as ‘Chairman ‘. He gives her counsel and a coin to buy ice candy ( also a monogrammed handkerchief to wipe her tears). Chiyo’s luck turns, she acquires a fairy godmother, the famous Mameha, who is also rival to Hatsumoto. She applies herself feverishly to her lessons, playing the shamisen, learning dance and deportment (including training to pour tea with just the right glimpse of bare skin visible through a kimono sleeve and walking daintily in wooden shoes ). Events proceed briskly in the tatami matted territory of the Gion tea houses . Mameha’s manipulations for the bid price for Sayuri’s mizuage ( virginity) by playing two interested bidders off each other, pays off. Sayuri is now an independent geisha . But in the conspiring cat-eat-cat world of the Gion geishas, will she achieve her dream of acquiring the ‘Chairman’ as her danna or special patron ?
Golden tells the story deftly, with lots of intricate little descriptions ( Hatsumomo’s kimono, for instance is ‘ water blue, with swirling lines in ivory to mimic the current in a stream. Glistening trout tumbled in the current, and the surface of the water was ringed with gold wherever the soft green leaves of a tree touched it’.) There’s lots of interesting trivia as well , from the designer details of kimonos with their broad belt obi’s and under layer koshimaki’s to the intricacies of geisha make up . And in the distance , tiny glimpses of a frightening real world – of poverty, of common whore houses , being made to work in a factory and of War time in Japan.
Definitely worth a read . For even if it’s a cliché it’s a fascinatingly accoutered one.
This appeared in The Times of India Sunday BookMark dated 1st January 2006
Chrissie Robin Pooh Pooh !
The 100 Acre Wood is under attack. Home to Christopher Robin and Winnie-the-Pooh since 1926. Here’s where Pooh pursues his honey and goes visiting, Eeyore has a birthday and Piglet meets a Heffalump. Areas marked on the map drawn by Christopher Robin invoke their make belief world - Where the Woozle Wasn’t, Eeyore’s Gloomy Place Rather Boggy and Sad, Nice for Piknicks and the top right corner marked To North Pole. But all that is set to change soon. The original creator of these characters A.A Milne is long since dead. And now the Monstrous Mouse franchisee, that makes the mega moolah off merchandising these characters, finds that little six year old Christopher Robin doesn’t sell. Certainly not well enough as his animal friends who bring in upto US $ 1 billion . What better reason then, for the Disney Corporation to write him off their stories and videos, replacing him with a trendier (and presumably more saleable) female counterpart? Never mind that the original stories were actually written around the character of Christopher Robin, named after Milne’s own son. And that the original Winnie-the-Pooh was named after Christopher Robin’s toy bear.
The as-yet-nameless new girl (referred to as ‘tomboyish’) will be launched in 2007 as part of a package of celebrations around Pooh’s 80th anniversary. But for generations of readers who have grown up on these stories, Disney’s crass commercialism is adding insult to injury. Remixed Disney versions of the Pooh books, with their uniformly bright colors and dumbed down stories, have slowly pushed the amusingly written, thoughts from a child’s world originals into oblivion.
Look for the originals and (if you find them) it’s like a journey into Lewis Carroll –like heaven. From the delightful make belief of ‘Nursery Chairs’ to the child like reality of ‘Solitude’ to the serious business of ‘Lines and Squares’, Christopher Robin tells us -“ Whenever I walk in a London Street,/I’m ever so careful to watch my feet;/ And I keep in the squares, /And the masses of bears/Who wait at the corners all ready to eat, /The sillies who tread on the lines of the street, /Go back to their lairs”
And then there’s the ‘100 Aker Wood’, with all it’s idiosyncratic adventures – Here’s where an ’Expotition’ began to ‘discover’ the North Pole ( ”What is the North Pole” he (Pooh) asked. “It’s just a thing you discover,” said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself.’ ) Here’s also where Eeyore loses a tail, Pooh and Christopher Robin rescue Piglet from the Flood in an upturned umbrella and Christopher Robin hosts a party for Pooh and gives him a present –‘It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked “B” for Bear, and pencils marked “HB” for Helping Bear, and pencils marked “BB” for Brave Bear.’
Yet even then (in Disney–less days) it was not all fun and happiness – the real Christopher Robin was growing up and beginning to be affected by the huge popularity of his print persona. So Milne concluded his popular series in ‘The House at Pooh Corner’ where ‘Christopher Robin and Pooh Come to an Enchanted Place, and We Leave Them There’ with Christopher Robin saying
‘”Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”
Pooh thought for a little. “How old shall I be then?”
“Ninety nine “
Pooh nodded.
“I promise”, he said. ‘
So conclude the Pooh books declaring that ‘in that enchanted place on top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing’. Little did Milne dream that eighty years later his magical world would be modified so, all by a mercenary Mouse.
This appeared in the Times of India sunday BookMark dated 25th December 2005
The as-yet-nameless new girl (referred to as ‘tomboyish’) will be launched in 2007 as part of a package of celebrations around Pooh’s 80th anniversary. But for generations of readers who have grown up on these stories, Disney’s crass commercialism is adding insult to injury. Remixed Disney versions of the Pooh books, with their uniformly bright colors and dumbed down stories, have slowly pushed the amusingly written, thoughts from a child’s world originals into oblivion.
Look for the originals and (if you find them) it’s like a journey into Lewis Carroll –like heaven. From the delightful make belief of ‘Nursery Chairs’ to the child like reality of ‘Solitude’ to the serious business of ‘Lines and Squares’, Christopher Robin tells us -“ Whenever I walk in a London Street,/I’m ever so careful to watch my feet;/ And I keep in the squares, /And the masses of bears/Who wait at the corners all ready to eat, /The sillies who tread on the lines of the street, /Go back to their lairs”
And then there’s the ‘100 Aker Wood’, with all it’s idiosyncratic adventures – Here’s where an ’Expotition’ began to ‘discover’ the North Pole ( ”What is the North Pole” he (Pooh) asked. “It’s just a thing you discover,” said Christopher Robin carelessly, not being quite sure himself.’ ) Here’s also where Eeyore loses a tail, Pooh and Christopher Robin rescue Piglet from the Flood in an upturned umbrella and Christopher Robin hosts a party for Pooh and gives him a present –‘It was a Special Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked “B” for Bear, and pencils marked “HB” for Helping Bear, and pencils marked “BB” for Brave Bear.’
Yet even then (in Disney–less days) it was not all fun and happiness – the real Christopher Robin was growing up and beginning to be affected by the huge popularity of his print persona. So Milne concluded his popular series in ‘The House at Pooh Corner’ where ‘Christopher Robin and Pooh Come to an Enchanted Place, and We Leave Them There’ with Christopher Robin saying
‘”Pooh, promise you won’t forget about me, ever. Not even when I’m a hundred.”
Pooh thought for a little. “How old shall I be then?”
“Ninety nine “
Pooh nodded.
“I promise”, he said. ‘
So conclude the Pooh books declaring that ‘in that enchanted place on top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing’. Little did Milne dream that eighty years later his magical world would be modified so, all by a mercenary Mouse.
This appeared in the Times of India sunday BookMark dated 25th December 2005
Celebrate Bandra
At Carter Road, on Bandra’s beach front promenade, the crowds are celebrating. Spiffy old ladies with cropped hair and cotton print dresses, tank top teenagers and their families jive to a local band’s rock n roll. A few kilometers south, at Bandstand, another sea front, more residents congregate to the sounds of Sheena and Nicole and their electric guitars. Bandra-ites , descendants of Mumbai’s old Koli and Christian families and many later immigrants, are celebrating, quite literally, the ground beneath their feet.
The fortnight long ‘Celebrate Bandra Festival’ brings people and place together in a unique way. As Darryl D’Monte , Convenor of the ‘Celebrate Bandra’ festival points out “ this is different. It is unlike any other festival which is run by private institutions or the government. This is citizen driven”. Certainly the sense of community bonhomie at the venues bears D’Monte out. At the Lands End Amphitheatre children perform their acts to the very vocal encouragement of friends, family and the neighborhood aunties and uncles. D’Monte also emphasizes the importance of place, ”The festival has been made possible because of the citizen’s creation of free space – an area one can call one’s own’. Five years ago, both Carter Road and the Bandstand were junky, bedraggled stretches of dumping ground. Citizen Groups consisting of Residents Associations and the ALM’s ( Advanced Locality Management) banded together to fight for a beach front. Architect PK Das who designed the present promenade with its neat concrete walkway and benches describes the festival as having been “born out of this movement. The struggle for space consolidated the area’s sense of community and led to a tremendous pride among the people.” Das is currently working on a beach development plan for Juhu, along with the Juhu Citizen’s Welfare Group (JCWG) a local residents group committed to safe guarding public space . “Everyday is a struggle”, confesses PK Das,” With land sharks and with the apathetic bureaucracy – its many layers can bury you in its own graveyard.” The Bandra project took over 4 years to complete. But looking at it today, it all seems worth it.
Simple outdoor stages designed by Bandra based event management group Fountainhead , with basic sound and light effects utilize these spaces for a various performances. The audience sit en familie and entranced. Early birds fill the rows of white plastic chairs placed on the promenade, others stay standing. At Bandra Bandstand some of the crowd even spills out onto large rocks on a low tide beach . There’s a nip in the November air and the crowd , seated or standing is animated and enthusiastic. Gushes middle aged Shirley D’Souza, out with her friend Samantha for the evenings festivities,” They have been having some great events – Bandra people but they’re just like performers”. Indeed in a star studded neighborhood ( the three Khan’s , Aishwarya Rai and the Tendulkar’s all live in Bandra), there’s been something of an absence of stars. D’Monte does confess to having tried to “tap into star power”. But in an era where stars charge big bucks for brief appearances , a low budget local festival is hard put to compete with high profile brand ad spends. “We did have Perizaad Zorabian though”, says D’Monte ,”she came very gracefully and described herself as a ‘goondi’ of Bandra” . Celebrities like Gulzar , who was the subject of a tribute also participated enthusiastically. Other notable highlights included a delightfully whacky musical ‘The Ballad of Bandora’ performed outdoor to loud applause , an animated panel discussion on the role of the media and Cyrus Mistry’s play ‘Legacy of Rage’ played out against the spectacular backdrop of a quaint old time Bandra bungalow. Outdoor screenings of popular films like ‘Taal’ and ‘Lagaan’, Paromita Vohra’s delightful documentary ‘Sandra from Bandra’ and the food festival held on the steps of the historic Mount Mary’s Church kept the excitement going.
The festival also hopes to raise some funds . The very first 2003 festival had generated a small surplus, which was divided among the different geographical zones of Bandra for general upkeep. This time the ‘Celebrate Bandra Trust’ hopes to utilize this surplus for projects like Rainwater and Waste Management.
Absence of celebrities kept TV cameras away and a major newspaper boycotted coverage for commercial reasons. Still everybody seems happy. Says Fountainhead Director and Festival Partner Neale Murray “Everything we’ve given has been exceedingly well received. We have one hell of a lot of happy Bandra- ites who can’t stop thanking us “
his appeared in the Hindu Sunday magazine 1st January 2006
The fortnight long ‘Celebrate Bandra Festival’ brings people and place together in a unique way. As Darryl D’Monte , Convenor of the ‘Celebrate Bandra’ festival points out “ this is different. It is unlike any other festival which is run by private institutions or the government. This is citizen driven”. Certainly the sense of community bonhomie at the venues bears D’Monte out. At the Lands End Amphitheatre children perform their acts to the very vocal encouragement of friends, family and the neighborhood aunties and uncles. D’Monte also emphasizes the importance of place, ”The festival has been made possible because of the citizen’s creation of free space – an area one can call one’s own’. Five years ago, both Carter Road and the Bandstand were junky, bedraggled stretches of dumping ground. Citizen Groups consisting of Residents Associations and the ALM’s ( Advanced Locality Management) banded together to fight for a beach front. Architect PK Das who designed the present promenade with its neat concrete walkway and benches describes the festival as having been “born out of this movement. The struggle for space consolidated the area’s sense of community and led to a tremendous pride among the people.” Das is currently working on a beach development plan for Juhu, along with the Juhu Citizen’s Welfare Group (JCWG) a local residents group committed to safe guarding public space . “Everyday is a struggle”, confesses PK Das,” With land sharks and with the apathetic bureaucracy – its many layers can bury you in its own graveyard.” The Bandra project took over 4 years to complete. But looking at it today, it all seems worth it.
Simple outdoor stages designed by Bandra based event management group Fountainhead , with basic sound and light effects utilize these spaces for a various performances. The audience sit en familie and entranced. Early birds fill the rows of white plastic chairs placed on the promenade, others stay standing. At Bandra Bandstand some of the crowd even spills out onto large rocks on a low tide beach . There’s a nip in the November air and the crowd , seated or standing is animated and enthusiastic. Gushes middle aged Shirley D’Souza, out with her friend Samantha for the evenings festivities,” They have been having some great events – Bandra people but they’re just like performers”. Indeed in a star studded neighborhood ( the three Khan’s , Aishwarya Rai and the Tendulkar’s all live in Bandra), there’s been something of an absence of stars. D’Monte does confess to having tried to “tap into star power”. But in an era where stars charge big bucks for brief appearances , a low budget local festival is hard put to compete with high profile brand ad spends. “We did have Perizaad Zorabian though”, says D’Monte ,”she came very gracefully and described herself as a ‘goondi’ of Bandra” . Celebrities like Gulzar , who was the subject of a tribute also participated enthusiastically. Other notable highlights included a delightfully whacky musical ‘The Ballad of Bandora’ performed outdoor to loud applause , an animated panel discussion on the role of the media and Cyrus Mistry’s play ‘Legacy of Rage’ played out against the spectacular backdrop of a quaint old time Bandra bungalow. Outdoor screenings of popular films like ‘Taal’ and ‘Lagaan’, Paromita Vohra’s delightful documentary ‘Sandra from Bandra’ and the food festival held on the steps of the historic Mount Mary’s Church kept the excitement going.
The festival also hopes to raise some funds . The very first 2003 festival had generated a small surplus, which was divided among the different geographical zones of Bandra for general upkeep. This time the ‘Celebrate Bandra Trust’ hopes to utilize this surplus for projects like Rainwater and Waste Management.
Absence of celebrities kept TV cameras away and a major newspaper boycotted coverage for commercial reasons. Still everybody seems happy. Says Fountainhead Director and Festival Partner Neale Murray “Everything we’ve given has been exceedingly well received. We have one hell of a lot of happy Bandra- ites who can’t stop thanking us “
his appeared in the Hindu Sunday magazine 1st January 2006
Monday, November 28, 2005
House Hunting in Juhu
It’s almost as elusive as the Holy Grail – but we search nevertheless. Scanning numerous newspaper ads and waiting by the phone – all for those few square yards of reclaimed land to call our very own. We begin our quest on Juhu Tara road, where tiny designer boutiques occupy the ground floor of old apartment buildings . Clothes stores must flourish here – a new one opens every few weeks. I see these ‘openings’ on my way back from town to our rented apartment of many years. Traveling down the unevenly tarred roads, they appear as tiny traffic jams where cameras and crowds cluster outside , and the beautiful people sip their wine and cheese inside. They’re flats for sale here on this palm tree lined, pocket- handkerchief- glimpse- of -sea promenade. ‘Sea touch’ as the broker lingo describes them, these buildings are often over 20 years old. Many have spectacular views – glass windows that look onto a shimmering blue grey sea. But there’s damp on the walls and the plaster is crumbling . The sea air will ruin all your TV’s and CD players a musically inclined friend warns us. Need massive maintenance and structural repairs, another friend counsels.
So we move onto the cozy streets of the Juhu Scheme. There’s lots of new construction here, ‘TDR buildings’ as the local broker calls them. ‘Transfer of Development rights’ buildings are easy to spot. Newly erected giant columns prop up old apartment buildings. Fresh floors are then added on with generous abandon. Inside the flats look swankingly modern – granite floors and brass tapped bathrooms. Outside the parking spaces are defined in tightly squeezed slots. Not much green, but they’re gulmohar trees on the street and some parks in the neighborhood. “Madam, flat le lo , badiya location hai , Film star ka neighborhood hai”, our earnest faced part time broker ( he’s a fitness instructor in the other time) urges me. But the views from the windows depress me. They’re multi storied buildings coming up in at least two lots close by . Many more will come up soon, as property prices zoom and proliferating families trade their ancestral houses for neat little blocks of flats. Soon all the charming bungalows that line these streets will disappear.
So we carry on northwards to the Juhu Versova Link Road, where apartment buildings line the road with large spaces in between. These are the mangrove areas and the residents have fought bitter battles to keep them so. We maneuver our car through a tight band of metal spikes. Spikes that have been erected by residents to keep away trucks that made stealthy trips in the middle of the night to dump soil on reclaimed mangrove land. Many spacious buildings line the mangrove sea front – but this again is not to be. The land is Collectors Land , we’re told and comes with a whole barrage of pre conditions, most of which we, as ten year residents in the city do not fulfill. So it’s back to the streets again !
This appeared in the Mumbai Mirror November 25th 2005
So we move onto the cozy streets of the Juhu Scheme. There’s lots of new construction here, ‘TDR buildings’ as the local broker calls them. ‘Transfer of Development rights’ buildings are easy to spot. Newly erected giant columns prop up old apartment buildings. Fresh floors are then added on with generous abandon. Inside the flats look swankingly modern – granite floors and brass tapped bathrooms. Outside the parking spaces are defined in tightly squeezed slots. Not much green, but they’re gulmohar trees on the street and some parks in the neighborhood. “Madam, flat le lo , badiya location hai , Film star ka neighborhood hai”, our earnest faced part time broker ( he’s a fitness instructor in the other time) urges me. But the views from the windows depress me. They’re multi storied buildings coming up in at least two lots close by . Many more will come up soon, as property prices zoom and proliferating families trade their ancestral houses for neat little blocks of flats. Soon all the charming bungalows that line these streets will disappear.
So we carry on northwards to the Juhu Versova Link Road, where apartment buildings line the road with large spaces in between. These are the mangrove areas and the residents have fought bitter battles to keep them so. We maneuver our car through a tight band of metal spikes. Spikes that have been erected by residents to keep away trucks that made stealthy trips in the middle of the night to dump soil on reclaimed mangrove land. Many spacious buildings line the mangrove sea front – but this again is not to be. The land is Collectors Land , we’re told and comes with a whole barrage of pre conditions, most of which we, as ten year residents in the city do not fulfill. So it’s back to the streets again !
This appeared in the Mumbai Mirror November 25th 2005
Life at the Juhu Versova Naka
The Juhu Versova naka is (like all others of its ilk) a noisy and eventful confluence. Identity wise though, it has always been a bit quirky. Some years ago, a tiered and landscaped garden with green grass and fountains sat regally in the centre. Maintained by the Lokhandwala Builders , the circle, perhaps logically, was named in their honor. All very well, though as it turned out , Lokhandwala Circle was a few miles away from Lokhandwala Complex, with Four Bungalows in between. And unlike the dual name American cities like Cambridge and Rochester ( oceans away from their English namesakes), this circle was sufficiently close to its Complex counterpart to confuse most first time visitors to the area.
Then, in a traffic streamlining initiative, the circular garden was razed to the ground. In its place was installed that red, orange and green presiding deity of all urban movement- the traffic light. Free right turns and free left turns were now rigorously administered. Traffic policemen in the area suddenly turned prosperous.
Today the naka is somewhat uncertainly referred to as Juhu Circle. It sprawls over as many as six roads. One corner encloses the empty concrete spaces of a BEST bus depot, the other makes its way down to Mithibai College. Yet another goes down gulmohar tree lined double carriage roads, past star’s bungalows and spacious apartment buildings.
The naka is a little world in itself- the modern day equivalent of the village banyan tree- the home airport in the areas hub and spoke system. Always noisy and always lively. Two newsvendors hawk their wares from one corner- wooden newsstands filled with newsprint and glossy Elle’s and Outlooks. Peripatetic policemen in perpetual attendance on the traffic lights. Little balloon children who skip around on the pavement . Sometimes they sell colorful talismans – pale yellow lemons strung with a series of slim green chillies and sometimes they sell toys and sometimes they sell republic flags. A wizened old woman who taps hopefully on every car window. You know she lives here on this naka, you see her every day. The other families too - their pots and pans on the sidewalk, their clothes put out to dry on the road dividers . The news vendors, the policemen and the seller of spurious books – they all go home every evening , but these poor people , the new age urban nomads , many miles away from the villages of their birth , are perhaps the only constants in this traffic filled transit space.
This appeared in Mumbai Mirror September
Then, in a traffic streamlining initiative, the circular garden was razed to the ground. In its place was installed that red, orange and green presiding deity of all urban movement- the traffic light. Free right turns and free left turns were now rigorously administered. Traffic policemen in the area suddenly turned prosperous.
Today the naka is somewhat uncertainly referred to as Juhu Circle. It sprawls over as many as six roads. One corner encloses the empty concrete spaces of a BEST bus depot, the other makes its way down to Mithibai College. Yet another goes down gulmohar tree lined double carriage roads, past star’s bungalows and spacious apartment buildings.
The naka is a little world in itself- the modern day equivalent of the village banyan tree- the home airport in the areas hub and spoke system. Always noisy and always lively. Two newsvendors hawk their wares from one corner- wooden newsstands filled with newsprint and glossy Elle’s and Outlooks. Peripatetic policemen in perpetual attendance on the traffic lights. Little balloon children who skip around on the pavement . Sometimes they sell colorful talismans – pale yellow lemons strung with a series of slim green chillies and sometimes they sell toys and sometimes they sell republic flags. A wizened old woman who taps hopefully on every car window. You know she lives here on this naka, you see her every day. The other families too - their pots and pans on the sidewalk, their clothes put out to dry on the road dividers . The news vendors, the policemen and the seller of spurious books – they all go home every evening , but these poor people , the new age urban nomads , many miles away from the villages of their birth , are perhaps the only constants in this traffic filled transit space.
This appeared in Mumbai Mirror September
Thursday, November 17, 2005
The Sunday Philosophy Club - Book review
A fat lady detective in Botswana, who drinks red bush tea and drives a little white van around the Kalahari desert, Mma Precious Ramotswe has quickly notched up legions of fans, since her debut six years ago in the best selling No 1 Ladies Detective Agency.
Now her creator, 56-year-old bassoonist and Scottish medical law professor, Alexander McCall Smith, brings us another equally lovable and quirkily eccentric heroine.
Forty-one-year old Isabel Dalhousie lives in Edinburgh. She edits a philosophical journal called ‘The Review of Applied Ethics’, attends symphonic concerts and art galleries, whilst ruminating on Auden and Kant, solutions to the Times crossword and repressed Albanian film makers, in her spare time.
All very arty, but Dalhousie is no dilettante. She may live an industrial age away from the stout, sturdy Precious Ramotswe but both woman are uncannily similar in their honesty and their matter-of-fact zeal for fighting the evil in their worlds.
A young man falls to his death after a performance by the Reykjavik Orchestra and Isabel thinks that it wasn’t an accident. Her doughty Scotswoman housekeeper Grace, quick to pronounce devastating moral judgments on the world at large seems to agree. Twenty-four-year-old Cat, who runs a delicatessen and is Isabel’s niece, protests at Isabel’s involvement,” You simply cannot get drawn into other people’s business like this”.
For Isabel though, there’s a moral bond between them (“I was the last person that young man saw… Don’t you think the last person you see on this earth owes you something?”) She embarks upon an investigation of sorts– meeting a whole congregation of characters from the predatory paparazzi McManus to the art collecting fund Manager Paul Hogg and his ‘man-eating ‘, art-swindling fiancé, Minty.
Intrigues emerge as she finds out the deceased young man was called Mark and was also a fund Manager, working coincidentally in the same firm as Paul Hogg, and that his flat mates Neil and Hen are hiding something.
It’s an interesting story, beautifully told. McCall Smith’s cameo characters from Grace and Cat, to Cat’s rejected suitor Jamie, are well developed and distinct. There are a profusion of profound little plots and sub-plots.
Grace’s friends husband’s mid life crisis– “He’s bought teenage clothes. Tight jeans. Sweaters with large letters on them. And he’s walking around listening to rock music” grumbles Grace; Cat’s suitable and unsuitable suitors; Jamie the musically minded “bit of a wimp”; Tony with the “touch of cruelty in [his]; Face and Isabel’s speculation, “Why should anybody actually want a hunk, when non-hunks were so much more interesting”.
These delightful digressions also echo and enrich the main narrative in their subtle meditations on the foibles of human behaviour and McCall treads gently and entertainingly (“was he married or… “, Isabel asks and then pauses ,”People often did not bother to marry…and yet it amounted to the same thing in many cases”).
All of which makes The Sunday Philosophy Club that rarity– an interesting detective story that’s not necessarily a hurried page turner, the development being every bit as satisfying as the denouement.
Deccan Herald September
Now her creator, 56-year-old bassoonist and Scottish medical law professor, Alexander McCall Smith, brings us another equally lovable and quirkily eccentric heroine.
Forty-one-year old Isabel Dalhousie lives in Edinburgh. She edits a philosophical journal called ‘The Review of Applied Ethics’, attends symphonic concerts and art galleries, whilst ruminating on Auden and Kant, solutions to the Times crossword and repressed Albanian film makers, in her spare time.
All very arty, but Dalhousie is no dilettante. She may live an industrial age away from the stout, sturdy Precious Ramotswe but both woman are uncannily similar in their honesty and their matter-of-fact zeal for fighting the evil in their worlds.
A young man falls to his death after a performance by the Reykjavik Orchestra and Isabel thinks that it wasn’t an accident. Her doughty Scotswoman housekeeper Grace, quick to pronounce devastating moral judgments on the world at large seems to agree. Twenty-four-year-old Cat, who runs a delicatessen and is Isabel’s niece, protests at Isabel’s involvement,” You simply cannot get drawn into other people’s business like this”.
For Isabel though, there’s a moral bond between them (“I was the last person that young man saw… Don’t you think the last person you see on this earth owes you something?”) She embarks upon an investigation of sorts– meeting a whole congregation of characters from the predatory paparazzi McManus to the art collecting fund Manager Paul Hogg and his ‘man-eating ‘, art-swindling fiancé, Minty.
Intrigues emerge as she finds out the deceased young man was called Mark and was also a fund Manager, working coincidentally in the same firm as Paul Hogg, and that his flat mates Neil and Hen are hiding something.
It’s an interesting story, beautifully told. McCall Smith’s cameo characters from Grace and Cat, to Cat’s rejected suitor Jamie, are well developed and distinct. There are a profusion of profound little plots and sub-plots.
Grace’s friends husband’s mid life crisis– “He’s bought teenage clothes. Tight jeans. Sweaters with large letters on them. And he’s walking around listening to rock music” grumbles Grace; Cat’s suitable and unsuitable suitors; Jamie the musically minded “bit of a wimp”; Tony with the “touch of cruelty in [his]; Face and Isabel’s speculation, “Why should anybody actually want a hunk, when non-hunks were so much more interesting”.
These delightful digressions also echo and enrich the main narrative in their subtle meditations on the foibles of human behaviour and McCall treads gently and entertainingly (“was he married or… “, Isabel asks and then pauses ,”People often did not bother to marry…and yet it amounted to the same thing in many cases”).
All of which makes The Sunday Philosophy Club that rarity– an interesting detective story that’s not necessarily a hurried page turner, the development being every bit as satisfying as the denouement.
Deccan Herald September
Friends, Lovers, Chocolate - Book Review
This review appeared in the Deccan Herald November 6th 2005
A case of too much of a good thing
The latest book in the detective series is fairly radical in its own right, but not much new happens here, just more of the same.
Friends, Lovers and Chocolate is book two in the prolific Professor Alexander McCall Smith’s new detective series. His phenomenally successful first series, The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency was set in Botswana.
This new series moves, fairly radically too— from dusty underdeveloped third world Africa to the rarefied cultural capital of Edinburgh. Its Scottish single woman-of-independent-means protagonist, Isabel Dalhousie finds herself (a bit like Miss Marple) drawn into strange situations, called upon by her conscience to investigate anything remotely grey in her vicinity.
Last time around in ‘The Sunday Philosophy Club’, the forty-one-year-old editor of ‘The Journal of Applied Ethics’ found herself on the case of the strange suicide-that-wasn’t. This time Dalhousie is in the midst of an even more bizarre mystery. In a typical McCall setting of old world meets new (seen here as medical technology meets the supernatural), Isabel encounters a heart transplant patient.
Over mackerel and wine at the Arts Club, Ian of the transplanted heart, discusses his cellular memory theory (that it maybe “perfectly possible that the heart may be the repository of memory”) and of one such recurring memory of which he is “worried that it’s going to kill” him.
The mystery of a sinister memory he’s received via a heart transplant? It’s a theme that could with Stephen King be pregnant with possibility, but McCall Smith’s mysteries are mostly mundane (no racy chases of missing manuscripts please). His detective’s concerns are earthy and ‘slice-of-life’ and his protagonists, like the kindly car mechanic Maketoni, are prone to many delightful digressions on life, the universe and everything else.
So the story of the memory of “high browed face, with hooded eyes and a scar running just below the hairline” doesn’t go anywhere. The desultory detection that follows is dilute even by McCall Smith standards. And the ending when it eventually arrives is a complete anti climax.
So much so, that much of what had delighted in ‘The Sunday Philosophy Club’, the elegant twists and turns and the rich ruminations now prove irksome. For nothing happens except more of the same.
Isabel’s love life is still in limbo. Niece Cat’s rejected suitor Jamie, who Isabel likes, continues to play platonic. Salvatore, the intriguing Italian of ambiguous origin (another aspiring Cat Suitor) vanishes as abruptly as he arrives. Also, interspersed with these everyday events are constant and even cloying references to Auden, Burns and Haydn.
There’s reams of reflection too (“Did the Turks go over their history with a moral fine tooth com?”) and some contemporary commentary (“exactly the same emotions and energy that had gone into witch-hunting now went into the pursuit of our preferred modern victims”). Good, but also decidedly a case of too much of a good thing.
Still, read it if you’ve never read McCall Smith.
A case of too much of a good thing
The latest book in the detective series is fairly radical in its own right, but not much new happens here, just more of the same.
Friends, Lovers and Chocolate is book two in the prolific Professor Alexander McCall Smith’s new detective series. His phenomenally successful first series, The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency was set in Botswana.
This new series moves, fairly radically too— from dusty underdeveloped third world Africa to the rarefied cultural capital of Edinburgh. Its Scottish single woman-of-independent-means protagonist, Isabel Dalhousie finds herself (a bit like Miss Marple) drawn into strange situations, called upon by her conscience to investigate anything remotely grey in her vicinity.
Last time around in ‘The Sunday Philosophy Club’, the forty-one-year-old editor of ‘The Journal of Applied Ethics’ found herself on the case of the strange suicide-that-wasn’t. This time Dalhousie is in the midst of an even more bizarre mystery. In a typical McCall setting of old world meets new (seen here as medical technology meets the supernatural), Isabel encounters a heart transplant patient.
Over mackerel and wine at the Arts Club, Ian of the transplanted heart, discusses his cellular memory theory (that it maybe “perfectly possible that the heart may be the repository of memory”) and of one such recurring memory of which he is “worried that it’s going to kill” him.
The mystery of a sinister memory he’s received via a heart transplant? It’s a theme that could with Stephen King be pregnant with possibility, but McCall Smith’s mysteries are mostly mundane (no racy chases of missing manuscripts please). His detective’s concerns are earthy and ‘slice-of-life’ and his protagonists, like the kindly car mechanic Maketoni, are prone to many delightful digressions on life, the universe and everything else.
So the story of the memory of “high browed face, with hooded eyes and a scar running just below the hairline” doesn’t go anywhere. The desultory detection that follows is dilute even by McCall Smith standards. And the ending when it eventually arrives is a complete anti climax.
So much so, that much of what had delighted in ‘The Sunday Philosophy Club’, the elegant twists and turns and the rich ruminations now prove irksome. For nothing happens except more of the same.
Isabel’s love life is still in limbo. Niece Cat’s rejected suitor Jamie, who Isabel likes, continues to play platonic. Salvatore, the intriguing Italian of ambiguous origin (another aspiring Cat Suitor) vanishes as abruptly as he arrives. Also, interspersed with these everyday events are constant and even cloying references to Auden, Burns and Haydn.
There’s reams of reflection too (“Did the Turks go over their history with a moral fine tooth com?”) and some contemporary commentary (“exactly the same emotions and energy that had gone into witch-hunting now went into the pursuit of our preferred modern victims”). Good, but also decidedly a case of too much of a good thing.
Still, read it if you’ve never read McCall Smith.
Cross over Directors ..
This is a feature I wrote many years ago ..just found it online so decided to post it here
In director Tarsem’s Singh’s visually arresting debut film, The Cell, Jennifer Lopez, an expert child psychologist enters the mind of a serial killer in order to obtain information on the whereabouts of his victim.
With this as the basic storyline, we are transported by Tarsem Singh, an award winning music videos and commercials director, to a world of sights and sounds that embrace the full visual power of what cinema can do.
Wild flourishes and varied canvases bring the 'mindscape' of the subconscious to life and the imagery employed mixes the surreal textures of Salvador Dali, the gothic motifs of Tim Burton, Japanese-inspired costume design and some truly bizarre set pieces.
Stretching traditional cinematic boundaries we have a genre of directors, many first time, who bring with them the strengths and elasticities of their earlier disciplines, whether it is cinematography, ad filmmaking, painting or even film criticism.
For directors like Santosh Sivan, Rajiv Menon, M F Husain and Khalid Mohamed, direction has been a richly interactive experience, a process of being defined by cinematic traditions as well as defying them, and of positioning themselves at varying degrees on the art cinema-commercial cinema continuum.
For Santosh Sivan, this has meant moving from the award winning, low budget somewhat niche The Terrorist, where Sivan worked wonders with his camerawork and Ayesha’s Dharkers expressive eyes to magnum opus Asoka.
Inspired by the late Stanley Kubrick and Martin Scorsese, Sivan’s Asoka, based on the life the 3rd Emperor of the Mauryan Dynasty, is a three-hour epic love story, which deals with the transformation of the emperor Asoka from a bloody warrior to a peaceful monk.
Beset with controversy from the start as to historical accuracy, the film is however nothing short of sheer visual magic. Sivan’s cinematographer’s eye captures the essence of the changing seasons, the colors and the landscape as well the femme fatale of the piece, the Kalinga Princess Kaurwaki played by the oomph-laden Kareena Kapoor, with poetic accuracy and stunning virtuosity.
The film is a riot of colors, of contrasts, of light and shadow and striking sets sans the usual glitz and glitter. You can’t miss the cinematographer Sivan in his films, he is truly in every shot.
As fellow cinematographer, former ad filmmaker and director Rajiv Menon points out , "Cinematography helps you to keep the shooting problems in mind. It also helps you to think visually. Direction and Cinematography are related. The only difference between here and the west is that, there, the Cinematographer decides the shots while here the Director does the same job. I understand the cameraman better - my single greatest plus”.
For artist M F Husain, films have always been a passion. "It is", he declares, "a way for art to reach the people. Painting often becomes the preserve of a few art critics, who guard their knowledge jealously and do not want to share it with anyone. Besides painting, as even Dali put it is 'intellectually inadequate'. My intention in making a film like Gajagamini and casting superstars like Madhuri and Shah Rukh Khan was to bring art to the people.”
Gajagamini sketches the different forms of woman -- mysterious, multi-faceted and majestic. Filmed in surreal set pieces, with a format of a dance ballet, linear time and space progression are deliberately bent to artistic effect. Husain attempts to dispense with the concept of time by showing Leonardo Da Vinci and Shah Rukh Khan (playing himself) sharing screen space with Monica, a modern-day Madhuri, and Kalidas riding a bicycle!
Visually each frame is like a prize painting. In one of the many surreal scenes, Shabana Azmi is unable to hear Madhuri, Shilpa and Farida Jalal's voices, emphasizing that women down the centuries, want to be heard, but aren't. The role of women in keeping the cycle of creation going is established through the scene where Shilpa Shirodkar ceaseless pushes a laden-with-children giant wheel.
Yet there’s a surfeit of surrealism and symbolism here, and the Director whose celluloid brush endeavors to create a film that’s not too 'artsy artsy' and 'audience friendly', seems to have fallen short despite the star power.
Then you have film-critic Khalid Mohamed’s Fiza, that is fully accepting of the pop tradition, yet unusual in the very character of Fiza, the heroine of the film. One of the few really strong woman characters in Hindi cinema, Fiza as Director Khalid Mohamed points out is the rare film that shows a woman with a book. Amaan the hero is by contrast, shown as a well-intentioned but rather weak man.
The film delineates characters in detailed hues, though much criticism was leveled at the director for selling out to mainstream Bollywood song and dance traditions, thus situating his strong, intellectually inclined heroine in a bar and having her dance for dramatic effect. "It was however a natural progression", the director maintains, "a deliberate upset of the stereotype that Muslim woman have to exist in their mohalla and cannot dance."
Commercial successes in varying degrees, these films are nevertheless interesting ones to look out for, in the power of their imagery and in their cinematic explorations, transcending stereotype and tradition and yet also somewhat intrinsically and eventually contained by it.
In director Tarsem’s Singh’s visually arresting debut film, The Cell, Jennifer Lopez, an expert child psychologist enters the mind of a serial killer in order to obtain information on the whereabouts of his victim.
With this as the basic storyline, we are transported by Tarsem Singh, an award winning music videos and commercials director, to a world of sights and sounds that embrace the full visual power of what cinema can do.
Wild flourishes and varied canvases bring the 'mindscape' of the subconscious to life and the imagery employed mixes the surreal textures of Salvador Dali, the gothic motifs of Tim Burton, Japanese-inspired costume design and some truly bizarre set pieces.
Stretching traditional cinematic boundaries we have a genre of directors, many first time, who bring with them the strengths and elasticities of their earlier disciplines, whether it is cinematography, ad filmmaking, painting or even film criticism.
For directors like Santosh Sivan, Rajiv Menon, M F Husain and Khalid Mohamed, direction has been a richly interactive experience, a process of being defined by cinematic traditions as well as defying them, and of positioning themselves at varying degrees on the art cinema-commercial cinema continuum.
For Santosh Sivan, this has meant moving from the award winning, low budget somewhat niche The Terrorist, where Sivan worked wonders with his camerawork and Ayesha’s Dharkers expressive eyes to magnum opus Asoka.
Inspired by the late Stanley Kubrick and Martin Scorsese, Sivan’s Asoka, based on the life the 3rd Emperor of the Mauryan Dynasty, is a three-hour epic love story, which deals with the transformation of the emperor Asoka from a bloody warrior to a peaceful monk.
Beset with controversy from the start as to historical accuracy, the film is however nothing short of sheer visual magic. Sivan’s cinematographer’s eye captures the essence of the changing seasons, the colors and the landscape as well the femme fatale of the piece, the Kalinga Princess Kaurwaki played by the oomph-laden Kareena Kapoor, with poetic accuracy and stunning virtuosity.
The film is a riot of colors, of contrasts, of light and shadow and striking sets sans the usual glitz and glitter. You can’t miss the cinematographer Sivan in his films, he is truly in every shot.
As fellow cinematographer, former ad filmmaker and director Rajiv Menon points out , "Cinematography helps you to keep the shooting problems in mind. It also helps you to think visually. Direction and Cinematography are related. The only difference between here and the west is that, there, the Cinematographer decides the shots while here the Director does the same job. I understand the cameraman better - my single greatest plus”.
For artist M F Husain, films have always been a passion. "It is", he declares, "a way for art to reach the people. Painting often becomes the preserve of a few art critics, who guard their knowledge jealously and do not want to share it with anyone. Besides painting, as even Dali put it is 'intellectually inadequate'. My intention in making a film like Gajagamini and casting superstars like Madhuri and Shah Rukh Khan was to bring art to the people.”
Gajagamini sketches the different forms of woman -- mysterious, multi-faceted and majestic. Filmed in surreal set pieces, with a format of a dance ballet, linear time and space progression are deliberately bent to artistic effect. Husain attempts to dispense with the concept of time by showing Leonardo Da Vinci and Shah Rukh Khan (playing himself) sharing screen space with Monica, a modern-day Madhuri, and Kalidas riding a bicycle!
Visually each frame is like a prize painting. In one of the many surreal scenes, Shabana Azmi is unable to hear Madhuri, Shilpa and Farida Jalal's voices, emphasizing that women down the centuries, want to be heard, but aren't. The role of women in keeping the cycle of creation going is established through the scene where Shilpa Shirodkar ceaseless pushes a laden-with-children giant wheel.
Yet there’s a surfeit of surrealism and symbolism here, and the Director whose celluloid brush endeavors to create a film that’s not too 'artsy artsy' and 'audience friendly', seems to have fallen short despite the star power.
Then you have film-critic Khalid Mohamed’s Fiza, that is fully accepting of the pop tradition, yet unusual in the very character of Fiza, the heroine of the film. One of the few really strong woman characters in Hindi cinema, Fiza as Director Khalid Mohamed points out is the rare film that shows a woman with a book. Amaan the hero is by contrast, shown as a well-intentioned but rather weak man.
The film delineates characters in detailed hues, though much criticism was leveled at the director for selling out to mainstream Bollywood song and dance traditions, thus situating his strong, intellectually inclined heroine in a bar and having her dance for dramatic effect. "It was however a natural progression", the director maintains, "a deliberate upset of the stereotype that Muslim woman have to exist in their mohalla and cannot dance."
Commercial successes in varying degrees, these films are nevertheless interesting ones to look out for, in the power of their imagery and in their cinematic explorations, transcending stereotype and tradition and yet also somewhat intrinsically and eventually contained by it.
Author Profile - Bapsi Sidhwa
This appeared in the Hindu Sunday Magazine November 6th 2005
Novelist Bapsi Sidhwa talks about her writing, her best-known book about Partition and her latest one on Lahore.
BAPSI SIDHWA is in Bombay to promote a book of writings on the city of "sin and splendour" that she grew up in — pre- Partition Lahore.
I meet her at her cousin's elegant, old time Parsi apartment in South Mumbai. The heritage-like flat with its dark teak furniture and copper urns looks out onto an expanse of the Oval Maidan, onto the Rajabai Clock Tower and the gothic spires of the Bombay High Court.
It's a sumptuous setting. Also one that's immaculately appropriate for the petite Punjabi-Parsi- Pakistani writer sitting across me. Indeed this could be a still from a Merchant Ivory film. The fair 67-year-old writer, clad in a pink salwar kameez, with her carefully modulated tones, certainly looks the part. (The closest she's come to this, she confesses, is a cameo in the Deepa Mehta directed "1947 Earth", a film based on Sidhwa's classic story on Partition The Ice Candy Man.)
Early days
The last few days have been hectic as journalists and their photographers line up back to back. A TV shoot the day before, of the Houston-based writer hunting for bargains on Colaba's colourfully chaotic Causeway bazaar, has left her with a bad back. She also has a bad stomach ("All that Bombay duck," she exclaims, "I can't have enough of it.")
We talk of her days in Bombay, the five years of her first marriage. Sidhwa, like her eight-year-old heroine in the Ice Candy Man, had childhood polio and wasn't allowed to go to school. "I came to Bombay like a country bumpkin," she declares. "My first husband said, `you can't walk; you can't talk. What you can do?'"
Still, it was a city the young woman found enormously liberating. "Unlike Lahore where everybody knew you, in Bombay there was a wonderful anonymity, you could wear what you liked and just get on a bus".
Like Madhu Jaffrey, who tells an interesting ugly duckling story of how unattractive she felt as a young woman until she moved to the U.S. and threw her spectacles into the Atlantic, Sidhwa too, discovered the confidence of being a late bloomer.
Years later, on her second marriage honeymoon to the mountains, her first novel came to her ("I'd never written before", she says, "just some stupid little piece on pregnancy and how if you walked too far front you were carrying a boy"). It's a story I've read of before, but Sidhwa tells it beautifully, in the manner of a storyteller born. She describes the remote mountain fastnesses between Afghanistan and Pakistan ("you could lose a herd of elephants in there, let alone Osama bin Laden") and tells the tragic tale of a runaway young bride bought as a wife for a tribal man. The short story she set out to write (in secret, she was afraid she'd be laughed at), turned eventually into her first novel The Pakistani Bride.
Trauma of Partition
Interestingly, the story she'd carried inside her almost all her life — that of the terrors and traumas of Partition — was to emerge much later in 1988 — as The Ice Candy Man (published in the U.S. as Cracking India as "ice candy man" had colloquial connotations of a drug supplier).
It's an immensely powerful book, written from a child's point of view and based on Bapsi Sidhwa's own terrified memories. As she writes in an essay for The New York Times of those times, "Yet the ominous roar of distant mobs was a constant of my awareness, alerting me, even at age seven, to a palpable sense of the evil that was taking place in various parts of Lahore...(And when) the dread roar of mobs has at last ceased, terrible sounds of grief and pain erupt at night. They come from the abandoned servants' quarters behind the Singhs' house... why do these women cry like that? Because they're delivering unwanted babies, I'm told, or reliving hideous memories."
Later that evening, at the book's formal launch at a city bookstore, strangers come forward emotionally with their Partition stories — one lady wants the book of writings on Lahore autographed for her mother who used to live in Lahore, two young students from Xavier's introduce themselves, "We did a presentation on you." Question hour is animated.
Journalist Anil Dharker asks her, "You look so gentle and genteel. How then do you manage to write such ribald stuff?"
Sidhwa splutters, "But my writing is very decent — I don't write like writers like ... er ... Philip Roth" (the infamous Portnoy's Complaint being a prime example!).
"If a writer writes about a boy's sexual urges it is perfectly natural; but girls also experience the same feelings, the daze and the dazzlement, so how does that become ribald and indecent?" she queries, still smarting under the recent U.S. high school controversy on a couple of burgeoning sexuality scenes in The Ice Candy Man.
Novelist Bapsi Sidhwa talks about her writing, her best-known book about Partition and her latest one on Lahore.
BAPSI SIDHWA is in Bombay to promote a book of writings on the city of "sin and splendour" that she grew up in — pre- Partition Lahore.
I meet her at her cousin's elegant, old time Parsi apartment in South Mumbai. The heritage-like flat with its dark teak furniture and copper urns looks out onto an expanse of the Oval Maidan, onto the Rajabai Clock Tower and the gothic spires of the Bombay High Court.
It's a sumptuous setting. Also one that's immaculately appropriate for the petite Punjabi-Parsi- Pakistani writer sitting across me. Indeed this could be a still from a Merchant Ivory film. The fair 67-year-old writer, clad in a pink salwar kameez, with her carefully modulated tones, certainly looks the part. (The closest she's come to this, she confesses, is a cameo in the Deepa Mehta directed "1947 Earth", a film based on Sidhwa's classic story on Partition The Ice Candy Man.)
Early days
The last few days have been hectic as journalists and their photographers line up back to back. A TV shoot the day before, of the Houston-based writer hunting for bargains on Colaba's colourfully chaotic Causeway bazaar, has left her with a bad back. She also has a bad stomach ("All that Bombay duck," she exclaims, "I can't have enough of it.")
We talk of her days in Bombay, the five years of her first marriage. Sidhwa, like her eight-year-old heroine in the Ice Candy Man, had childhood polio and wasn't allowed to go to school. "I came to Bombay like a country bumpkin," she declares. "My first husband said, `you can't walk; you can't talk. What you can do?'"
Still, it was a city the young woman found enormously liberating. "Unlike Lahore where everybody knew you, in Bombay there was a wonderful anonymity, you could wear what you liked and just get on a bus".
Like Madhu Jaffrey, who tells an interesting ugly duckling story of how unattractive she felt as a young woman until she moved to the U.S. and threw her spectacles into the Atlantic, Sidhwa too, discovered the confidence of being a late bloomer.
Years later, on her second marriage honeymoon to the mountains, her first novel came to her ("I'd never written before", she says, "just some stupid little piece on pregnancy and how if you walked too far front you were carrying a boy"). It's a story I've read of before, but Sidhwa tells it beautifully, in the manner of a storyteller born. She describes the remote mountain fastnesses between Afghanistan and Pakistan ("you could lose a herd of elephants in there, let alone Osama bin Laden") and tells the tragic tale of a runaway young bride bought as a wife for a tribal man. The short story she set out to write (in secret, she was afraid she'd be laughed at), turned eventually into her first novel The Pakistani Bride.
Trauma of Partition
Interestingly, the story she'd carried inside her almost all her life — that of the terrors and traumas of Partition — was to emerge much later in 1988 — as The Ice Candy Man (published in the U.S. as Cracking India as "ice candy man" had colloquial connotations of a drug supplier).
It's an immensely powerful book, written from a child's point of view and based on Bapsi Sidhwa's own terrified memories. As she writes in an essay for The New York Times of those times, "Yet the ominous roar of distant mobs was a constant of my awareness, alerting me, even at age seven, to a palpable sense of the evil that was taking place in various parts of Lahore...(And when) the dread roar of mobs has at last ceased, terrible sounds of grief and pain erupt at night. They come from the abandoned servants' quarters behind the Singhs' house... why do these women cry like that? Because they're delivering unwanted babies, I'm told, or reliving hideous memories."
Later that evening, at the book's formal launch at a city bookstore, strangers come forward emotionally with their Partition stories — one lady wants the book of writings on Lahore autographed for her mother who used to live in Lahore, two young students from Xavier's introduce themselves, "We did a presentation on you." Question hour is animated.
Journalist Anil Dharker asks her, "You look so gentle and genteel. How then do you manage to write such ribald stuff?"
Sidhwa splutters, "But my writing is very decent — I don't write like writers like ... er ... Philip Roth" (the infamous Portnoy's Complaint being a prime example!).
"If a writer writes about a boy's sexual urges it is perfectly natural; but girls also experience the same feelings, the daze and the dazzlement, so how does that become ribald and indecent?" she queries, still smarting under the recent U.S. high school controversy on a couple of burgeoning sexuality scenes in The Ice Candy Man.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Book Review - The Harmony Silk Factory
This review appeared in the Sept 22 issue of Time Out Mumbai
Booker long list contender , Tash Aw’s debut novel, is a fractured and complex tale. Set exotically enough in the jungles of Malaya, it tells the story of the “infamous Chinaman Johnny Lim” ‘s rise from illiterate peasanthood to power in Malaysia’s Kinta Valley.
The book, Rashomon- like has three narratives. Which do we believe ? Is Lim the ‘liar , a cheat, a traitor’ his embittered son Jasper tells us about ? Was his meteoric rise, a ladder littered with a litany of horrific crimes ? Or is he the blandly inscrutable, distantly adoring husband , his reluctant aristocratic bride Snow Soong describes ? In an extract from her private journal , she tells of the couple’s bizarre honeymoon in Malaysia’s Seven Maidens islands .Or do we believe the third narrative ? This from Johnny’s friend Peter Wormwood’s geriatric days in an Oriental people’s old age home. Wormwood describes a simple and likeable Johnny, in chapters that shift between landscaping the old age home and his memories of the strange honeymoon trip, an almost Conradian journey in to the ‘Heart of Darkness’ ?
‘The Harmony Silk Factory’ has received critical acclaim and it’s easy to see why – the novel has all the right elements - plenty of local color in the story of the rise of Johnny from his days as a brilliant mechanic in the tin mines of Malaya ,as well as the strange tale of a bizarre jungle honeymoon shared with an odd set of characters. There’s suave Japanese military man in disguise, Kunichika , also titled ‘Butcher of Kampar’, English tin mine owner Honey Fredrick , Peter Wormwood and of course Johnny and Snow . Add to that the novel’s narrative complexity of multiple points of view, its themes of appearance and reality and the heart of darkness where the jungle takes over (‘Broken branches littered the place I worked so hard to cleanse, and above us the canopy of leaves suddenly seemed more opaque than ever’). All very promising, but the multiple points of view disperse in different directions, minus any shades of Rashomon-like brilliance, and the story remains rather unraveled despite the dramatic denouement. It does however leave you looking out for more from Tash Aw.
Booker long list contender , Tash Aw’s debut novel, is a fractured and complex tale. Set exotically enough in the jungles of Malaya, it tells the story of the “infamous Chinaman Johnny Lim” ‘s rise from illiterate peasanthood to power in Malaysia’s Kinta Valley.
The book, Rashomon- like has three narratives. Which do we believe ? Is Lim the ‘liar , a cheat, a traitor’ his embittered son Jasper tells us about ? Was his meteoric rise, a ladder littered with a litany of horrific crimes ? Or is he the blandly inscrutable, distantly adoring husband , his reluctant aristocratic bride Snow Soong describes ? In an extract from her private journal , she tells of the couple’s bizarre honeymoon in Malaysia’s Seven Maidens islands .Or do we believe the third narrative ? This from Johnny’s friend Peter Wormwood’s geriatric days in an Oriental people’s old age home. Wormwood describes a simple and likeable Johnny, in chapters that shift between landscaping the old age home and his memories of the strange honeymoon trip, an almost Conradian journey in to the ‘Heart of Darkness’ ?
‘The Harmony Silk Factory’ has received critical acclaim and it’s easy to see why – the novel has all the right elements - plenty of local color in the story of the rise of Johnny from his days as a brilliant mechanic in the tin mines of Malaya ,as well as the strange tale of a bizarre jungle honeymoon shared with an odd set of characters. There’s suave Japanese military man in disguise, Kunichika , also titled ‘Butcher of Kampar’, English tin mine owner Honey Fredrick , Peter Wormwood and of course Johnny and Snow . Add to that the novel’s narrative complexity of multiple points of view, its themes of appearance and reality and the heart of darkness where the jungle takes over (‘Broken branches littered the place I worked so hard to cleanse, and above us the canopy of leaves suddenly seemed more opaque than ever’). All very promising, but the multiple points of view disperse in different directions, minus any shades of Rashomon-like brilliance, and the story remains rather unraveled despite the dramatic denouement. It does however leave you looking out for more from Tash Aw.
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