The Mind's Language

Reflections: The World We Found

2012-01-06T16:12:00.002-05:00

Thrity Umrigar’s latest book surrounds the stories of four college friends who drifted away in the currents of life, but come together for one last poignant reunion. Laleh, Kavita, Nishta, and Armaiti were an inseparable, idealistic bunch in college. With fiery beliefs in socialism and secularism, the girls envisaged creating a New India, a new society, a new way of life. Now, after the passage of more than two decades, fate draws all the four women together as Armaiti battles a fatal illness. As they reconnect, they are forced to reflect on their own lives, confront their pasts, their regrets, their simple, touching idealism, and wonder how their worlds shaped in directions almost contrary to the beliefs and ideologies of their younger selves. Faced with this jolt of realization, the women deal with their inner conflicts as they decide what little steps should be taken to resurrect at least a portion of their dreams to build their own world - congruent to their terms. This is a reflective book that juxtaposes idealism with reality, individual forces against political and religious forces, specifically in the context of Indian society in the thriving city of Bombay.

I loved Thrity Umrigar’s Bombay Time for the wonderful, memorable characters that she weaved into a complex story that involves people, culture and society merging into one another and influencing each other. This book has a similar theme. The threads are similar, the colors are similar, but the patterns and textures are different. One major aspect that I appreciate in Umrigar’s writing is her beautiful, realistic depiction of how people change, and what causes them to harbor thoughts and execute actions that are socially appalling. The psychological characterization makes it easy for the reader to readily sympathize and empathize with even those characters whom we resent in our lives. One such character in this story is Iqbal, Nishta’s austere muslim husband. Although I was unable to empathize with this character in the beginning, my heart went out for him by the end. And the most amazing part was I sympathized with both Iqbal and Nishta, felt their emotions as if they were my own, read their thoughts, and connected with their fears and frustrations. I couldn’t view one as the victim and the other as the perpetrator as we so often do while coming to know of real life stories. Both were victims in my eyes, and that was precisely the author’s aim. She convincingly crafted the story to show how forces and powers much much bigger than our idealism crush the essence of our ideals. Religious violence, communal violence, and the accompanying prejudices and discrimination, often turn people to seek comfort in the very arms that slashed them - religion and community. An idealistic, secural Iqbal who was daring enough to oppose his family and community by marrying a Hindu, was pushed to embrace his religion and community to protect himself. My favorite piece in this book is the story of Nishta and Iqbal. It has the most impact and significance to the book.

In addition to the strong thread on Hindu-Muslim rivalry and prejudices, Umrigar also focuses on the subtle but powerful influence of capitalism in our socialistic structure. Money, higher “caste”, and power are the reigning elements in India, despite the extents of good-will, idealism, and socialistic attitude that one tries to wear, and live by. These pieces are tightly strung into every chapter and every scene, making it thought-provoking for the reader to inspect into their own lives.

Another piece that touched me was Armaiti’s thoughts and her slow, gradual reconcilement to her illness and mortality. Umrigar’s writing on mortality was refined, deep, and moving.

These strong and relevant themes carry this book along. I was a bit disappointed with some of the main characters in the book - they seemed a bit cliched and didn’t seem to have distinct personalities that I could remember. I think this is because Umrigar tries to cover a gamut of social themes using more than five primary characters, that some characters don’t have enough room in the story to be entirely fleshed out. For instance, the social issue on lesbianism is part of the book, but it merely exists within a cliched, obvious character and setting.

Umrigar’s writing is beautiful and touchingly insightful in some sections, but some of the dialogues seemed a little unnatural and trite. And knowing the various little hoops one needs to jump through, and the lengthy, arduous rigmarole that Indians go through to obtain their US visa, I felt the visa interview process was not represented in its true light. But, that’s just a quibble in the overall framework of the story.

Except for these few quibbles, I quite liked reading the book. It was deeply relevant and meaningful. I could very easily identify with the young idealistic girls who were slowly pulled by life’s uncertain, inexplicable paths. I already cringe at the unnerving prospect of looking back and pondering how far removed life looks from the idealistic image painted by the younger me. I’m sure to remember this book and its themes for a very very long time. This is an interesting, contemplative read that I recommend.

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I received an advance-review-copy of this book through a publisher-organized giveaway that was hosted here. Quite exciting! Thanks to the publisher (Harper) for sending me a review copy, and to S. Krishna for organizing this.

A disclaimer that my thoughts on the book are honest and are not influenced by the free copy.

Renewed Hope

2012-01-03T12:50:00.000-05:00

Hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades.

Time has snowballed into a terrorizingly massive storm.

Twenty years. Too long to look back, squinting along moments precious and bitter, to see that phase of innocence, confusion, longing, and hope. How did we so willingly submit to this. How did I allow time to create this constancy, this slow, constant erosion?

Hope. Rising, blooming, and fading with the change of every season. Things will change this year, this month, this time, we kept telling ourselves. How I blink incredulously at such steady placation. The denial successfully sunk deeper and deeper till it shrunk to the shining pin-point of reality, residing in all its glory for all to see, but carefully clothed and dressed in illusions, and careless, silly explanations. Now, it lies naked and bare, shivering in all our rude glares. Too late to grasp it, too soon to dismiss it, and too steeped in our lives to wrap it up in a quiet corner.

As acceptance tries to seep through the spaces to shed some warmth, a new year rises, bringing with it another cycle of immortal Hope. Hope again. Hope, that things will change this year, no matter how helpless I am, no matter how little control I have. I imagine and sincerely dream of plenty of positive changes, and wish very much, with all my last straws of will, that you both will be a part of it. Willingly, happily; like we have always dearly wished and imagined it to be in our isolated fantasies. May all our wishes come together in fruition in this space of reality we find ourselves in.

From "Good" to "Best"

2011-11-11T12:23:00.002-05:00

This is not much of an “eye-opening” post. All of us are aware of the thoughts I’ve put down, but still, this is one of those times when I have been able to relate to these aspects in a compelling, overwhelming manner. And I wish to record them.

I’m comparing myself, and my little bubble of upbringing, schooling, and life in the context of this post. My examples are from my personal experiences.

I’ve realized (quite strongly) that the “secret” to exceptional performance, success, growth, and innovation are:

Never ever settle for “good enough”. The bar is realistically set at the very highest point. To do so, one needs to have an excellent (and objective) grasp on one’s abilities, and that of the team. If planned correctly, and if every-one's skills are utilized to the best, the goal is realizable. And it stays realizable.

Innovation and exceptional performance has little to do with competition, and more to do with the inner-drive to deliver the best service/product for oneself (Hello again, Ayn Rand!). I’ve realized that it has more to do with treating ourselves as the consumer/audience, and creating experiences/end-products that we would genuinely appreciate. I know this was Steve Job’s motto as well, but only recently did I fully relate to this. From where I come from, there is a demarcation made between what “we” get and what “others” get. If we are not direct consumers of something, we compromise and settle on it (Example: even thank-you gifts handed to wedding attendees). The worst part is that people willingly, voluntarily put in their least efforts in instances like this, thereby bringing down the overall quality of an event or product. It’s not about money or the monetary worth of such things - no one expects a gold statue, but it’s about the thought that goes into the usability and quality. A $1 nice-looking, usable gift is more valuable than a $10 crude, unusable, ugly gift, thrown at you for the sake of it.

Following the previous point, the devil lies in the details. I used to be extremely annoyed and skeptical about this, but yes, the details are reflections of effort, thought, and dedication. Perfection drives everyone crazy, but attending to relevant details that play into the big picture of the overall experience is incredibly important. Put yourself in the shoes of the consumer to understand which details are important, and which ones are unnecessary hair-splitting ventures. Another example from my upbringing - (not sure why I’m using wedding examples; perhaps because I just came out of an event planning experience). Parents and wedding caterers spend enormous amounts of money on different kinds of exotic food. But the tables (and chairs) that are put out even in well-trimmed, pricey lawns get very little attention, when they are extremely important for a satisfying dining experience. Expensive silk may get caught in unsightly splinters, kids would not be able to reach their food or injure themselves on rusty screws, the serving plastic cups will be of inferior quality, resulting in leaks etc. It’s sometimes not even a matter of money to correct these little things, but the focus is never on them, and people settle. We assume that others can “adjust”, although the solutions are quite simple and cost-effective. That’s why, on a bigger scale, even inter-state highways have appalling sights such as overflowing trash, mail-boxes never close, gate hinges always give away, the seats on air-conditioned buses rattle, the packaging on expensive medications are either hard to open, or half-open etc. These little things do add up in creating a negative, frustrating experience. There is a simple Tamil expression that goes - Whatever you do, do it well. Even if you’re serving only one simple dish, cook it well and serve it well. Dedicate your time and attention to it. Sloppiness is even more aggravating, glaring, and impossible to tolerate if it’s capped on an expensive product/service.

Nothing is totally impossible. There is always a solution, if we decide to take the extra mile. This is how innovation is born. From where I come from, change is unpleasant. People are more comfortable doing things the same old way than attempting them differently. Fine, tradition is a murky topic to explore. But, what I find unacceptable is that people choose to do things in a lackluster manner to simply avoid more work! If something requires a little more work, more effort, more thought, we are ready to fall back on what is nearest and most available and easy. Our cost-benefit analysis is often skewed - we underestimate the benefits, and overestimate the costs. As my father keeps ranting, the expression that we seem to hear the most is, “No, it cannot be done”, rather than, “Yes, we will try.”

Maybe all of this is just a reflection of different management styles? Perhaps. But a huge part of it is attributed to the individual’s drive and motivation to do their best. And I hope everyone, including me, tries to adhere to these values.

Reflections: Les Miserables

2011-10-21T10:00:00.001-04:00

After serving his time in prison for stealing bread, Jean Valjean steps out in anticipation of freedom and a new life, but what he is met with is repugnance, hatred and prejudice in 19th century France. Thanks to Providence, with a touch of kindness and a determined steely will he rises up in life, but only to be hounded by the beast of justice that steadfastly remains blinded to the purity of his conscience. Amid haranguing circumstances, Jean Valjean continues to orient the purpose of his life to serving those in need, and in remaining immaculately clean in spirit. He leads his entire life being morally and spiritually pure. Les Miserables is a moving, immortal classic that explores deep social and philosophical questions on our existence.

Although I’ve read only two books of Victor Hugo’s so far, he is one author whose prose is so emotionally intense and powerful, it affects me deeply. There is so much wisdom, insight, truth, beauty, and simplicity to his writing. His use of metaphors is astounding. Every sentence is loaded with them in unimaginably articulate ways. As if to prove the point, I randomly opened a page from this 600-paged book, glanced at a paragraph and reread this:
“It is society buying a slave. From whom? From misery. From hunger, from privation. Melancholy barter. A soul for a bit of bread. Misery makes the offer, society accepts.”

In a nutshell, it describes one of the themes of the book. Society drives misery to breed and mutate with man-made rules that are often divorced from humanity or compassion. How does one escape the vicious cycle of poverty and misery if there is no way to break out of it? How is morality serving its purpose if it only results in the oppression of the already downtrodden and abused section?

The themes intersect with my most favorite and insistent thoughts on morality. Hugo brilliantly addresses the philosophy of morality (and justice) through the moral dilemmas that Jean Valjean struggles to resolve. Almost always, the question of what is good is murky. There are no clear, straight answers. The deed alone doesn’t explain the answer. The intention and consequences complete the picture. One needs a higher faculty of thought and emotion to truly comprehend good from wrong. And sometimes, one requires a deeper realization to understand when and whom to forgive. Hugo convincingly stresses on the immense power of mercy, empathy, and compassion.

Similar to books of those times (such as Crime and Punishment, and The Brothers Karamazov), the human conscience is treated as the voice of God, or higher awakening. When words, thoughts, and rationality fail to provide us with answers, the conscience does.

I relished every bit of the book. I could read Victor Hugo’s words a million times and emerge with a new insight every single time. The only part of the book that detracted my interest was the description of the internal rebellion in Paris. But through the civil war, Hugo indicates both internal and external awakening of a change, of a reformation, of a struggle for equality, and of a perception of higher truths.

It’s a beautiful and powerful book that both satisfies the idealistic and pragmatic viewpoints on morality.

Reflections: The Broken Wings

2011-10-20T08:00:00.006-04:00

The book is Gibran’s novella on a sad and tragic story of unrealized love. Selma is a wealthy, kind, wise, and beautiful woman in Lebanon. Her dad is as benevolent and humble despite his wealth. Selma and the protagonist fall in love but are forced to go different ways due to the archaic rules that society and religion impose.

I originally assumed this book was autobiographical, but it isn’t so. The story has been translated from Arabic, so the prose betrays a few hints of that. The writing is as lyrical and poetic as any of Gibran’s works. In a few short pages, he plunges into the characters’ psyche and describes their soul. The story is a bitter reminder of the stifling rules that women had to, and continue to suffer from. It also speaks of the prejudices man adopts in the name of religion and laws. As rules and rituals build over time, the underneath symbolism, principles, and meaning get buried, only to be replaced by skewed, irrelevant, irrational models that restrict progress of the spirit and the mind.

Overall, I was as usual impressed by Gibran’s writing, but the story itself has been heard enough number of times.

How could I end this without a quote. Of the several I marked, here is one:

"Limited love asks for possession of the beloved, but the unlimited asks only for itself. Love that comes between the naiveté and awakening of youth satisfies itself with possessing, and grows with embraces. But Love which is born in the firmament’s lap and has descended with the night’s secrets is not contended with anything but Eternity and immortality; it does not stand reverently before anything except deity. "

Criticism

2011-10-19T10:46:00.000-04:00

When is criticism acceptable? The answer is: when it is constructive. But then, when is constructive criticism accepted?

When it is worded and packaged rightly?
When concrete solutions/suggestions are provided for our benefit and improvement, instead of highly abstracted views?
When it doesn’t directly or indirectly question our core competence, even while suggesting avenues for improvement?
When it doesn’t question or touch on sensitive issues on our beliefs, faiths, and principles?

When it doesn't veer off into territories that are impertinent to the work?

Does the critic matter? Is it accepted when...
It comes from people whom we trust, regard, and respect?
It comes from experts?
It comes from a higher authority that demands respect?

Or maybe, most importantly, the criticism is accepted when we accept that there is always room for improvement and learning?

How a person reacts to criticism is a good test of their maturity and personality. Their own books and writings would preach and preach and preach (endlessly) on the magnanimity of acceptance, the need for humility, the necessity to step out of insecurities, the “evils” of ego, and yet, they would tweet, and rant, and protest, and scathe if God forbid, they receive one unpalatable “constructive criticism” :).

Anyway, the objective is not to discuss such people. But this person’s childish rants made me consider when constructive criticism could go awry. It is indeed easy to meticulously pick apart someone’s hard work in the name of providing constructive criticism. And yes, I’ve been there. I have encountered reviewers who mean well, but needlessly nit-pick, make assertions on subject areas that they know little about, jump to conclusions, and make assumptions on things that were not even specified. True, it’s harrowing to reason with such critics who are not open-minded themselves to reassess their statements, even when clarifications are made and evidences to the contrary are presented. On the other hand, there are those who suggest the same things, but word it in a manner that minimizes confrontation and expresses genuineness to clarify and improvise.

So, agreed, the critic’s language, intention, and open-mindedness are surely important factors. Knowing who the critic is might also bias our perceptions on whether the person is “qualified” to offer criticism, advice, or suggestions. But, I will reiterate the most important factor - it is your ability to be open-minded and critical with yourself. If you believe that there is always more to learn, if you desire to keep improving, if you respect or acknowledge the fact that others are entitled to their opinions and views, and if you’re secure within yourself, you’d be more accepting of criticism in general, constructive or not. Consequently, I believe you’d also develop the courage and wisdom to parse through it all, and objectively filter out the ones that don’t help you improve or grow.

Memorable Books: Ramayana

2011-10-17T11:01:00.007-04:00

Aparna, who blogs at Musings shares her thoughts on one of her memorable books! I'm thrilled that she graciously made time to participate in this feature. Aparna is my friend, cousin, and aunt, all rolled into one :). Since we've bonded as both friends and family, it is suffice to say we share a huge subset of common interests and personality traits. Hence, her word is as good as mine! She loves reading as well, and recently, she has been taking an active interest in Mythology. Her writings have started to inspire me to learn more about our rich heritage!

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Ramayana is a mythological story which has been close to my heart since I was a little child. Along with my grandparents, I used to sit eagerly waiting for the Sunday morning telecast of the Ramayana on Doordarshan (the only Indian television channel around the 1980’s). My grandfather used to start watching sitting on the sofa which was a little away from the television, and then as the story unfolded, he would slowly get off the sofa, and move closer and closer to the Television, until he was right under it. Though the language in which the series was telecast was something that he could not easily comprehend (it was telecast in Hindi, and we speak Tamil), that did not deter him, and at the end of the hour's telecast, he would be in tears. Every Sunday!

I have read Ramayana written by various authors. The ones that I remember are C.Rajagopalachari's version of Ramayana, and of course the Ramayana re-told for children in the Amar Chitra Katha series. However, I have never read a Ramayana quite like what Ashok K. Banker has written. It's a series of seven books with the seventh one just released. I am on the third book now and every time I pick it up, I read with bated breath to know what is in store.

The books in the series are – 1) Prince of Ayodhya, 2) Siege of Mithila, 3) Demons of Chitrakut, 4) Armies of Hanuman, 5) Bridge of Rama, 6) King of Ayodhya, and 7) Vengeance of Ravana

Ashok Banker has written the book more for today's generation. Imagine Rama working his way through the demons and Ravana similar to the way Harry Potter would try his magic on Voldemort and his other enemies. It is a sure shot candidate for a movie series :). It is not a pure English novel per se, and is interweaved with words from Sanskrit and Hindi, and tries to reach the common man thus.

Every event that has happened through the epic is described in detail, and at the same time, the author is able to maintain a fast paced recital (Well, at least the first 3 books do seem pretty fast paced, but the Husband begs to differ here, saying it does get slower as one goes on to the fourth or fifth book :)). As I read about the fight between the demoness Tataka and the Rama - Lakshmana duo, I was at the edge of my seat, waiting to know the fate of Lakshmana and the demoness.

Every character in the book has been created with a great amount of imagination and patience, all the while keeping in mind the basic personalities of each of them from the original Ramayana. For e.g., the character of Kaikeyi's help - Manthara - has been so created that the character exudes bitterness from all angles. The famous hunchback, with her secret chamber where she performs yagnas and the conversations she has with Ravana, are so realistic, that you end up detesting this lady from the bottom of your heart! Each form of demon is given a name like pisacas, rksas etc and they are described in detail as to how they differ from each other. The encounters between the various strong characters of the epic are depicted beautifully. Geographically, the places that the characters travel through, and the rivers and mountains they traverse are very clearly explained, and we can almost link it to today's structure of India.

I am absolutely enjoying this series since this is one Ramayana to which I am able to relate to better. The characters seem more lively and clearer. Each of the events, like the killing of the demon Tataka, Rama breaking Shiva's Bow to win over Sita, Rama defeating Parashurama, etc., left a lasting impression on my mind. Although sometimes there is a feeling that the purity/sanctity of the original Ramayana is lost in the process, Ashok Banker's Ramayana captures the reader's interest in its own way.

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Thanks for the lovely review, Aparna! The story of Ramayana evokes a lot of childhood memories of me intently hanging onto every word of my learned grandfather's discourses. Every single night, my grandfather used to regale me with a certain branch of the story, the hidden symbolism, the not-so-well-known interpretations, and stories-within-stories of other epics. And to this day, Ramayana has remained a favorite classic. It contains rich morals that children (and adults) benefit from. It is wonderful that contemporary authors have started humanizing these epics and the characters so that they are more personable and interesting to the younger generation.

If you would like to contribute to this feature (details here), please leave me a comment stating your interest. Thanks!

Touched

2011-10-11T21:29:00.001-04:00

Touched am I

When someone chooses to remember me

When someone chooses to think of me

When someone chooses to extend some kindness towards me

When someone chooses to take that extra step to deliver that kindness to me

When someone chooses to participate in the kindness, even if they didn't know me

When someone chooses to expect virtually nothing in return for their spontaneous act

She saw, she remembered, she gave - even from the other side of the world. The sheer spontaneity and simplicity of that deep gesture of care and friendship goes a long, long way in brightening up my day.

Thanks, my friend!

Morally Lucky

2011-10-09T18:00:00.003-04:00

Joan’s husband Paul decided to leave her and the kids to realize his inner-self. Since he made the “brave” decision of “following his muse” and not remaining entrapped in the mechanics of worldly life, he expected his wife to take him back with open arms when he realized his pursuit led him nowhere. Joan asks, “You want to come back into our lives. But how can we do that when you are not even ready to acknowledge that you were in the wrong when you left us?”. Paul confidently says, “In my heart I know I wasn’t wrong. I followed my calling. You have praised great souls who renounced their family to achieve a greater purpose, haven’t you?”. To this, Joan retorts, “But you are not a great soul. You came back because you didn’t have it in you to realize what they could.”
“But none of them would have become great had they not taken the first bold step. I wasn’t aware that I would fail. What matters is that I tried. Would my action be morally acceptable had I succeeded? Am I called a betrayer only because I failed?”
Is Paul’s decision morally acceptable? Or does luck play a role in differentiating right from wrong when one takes a chance?
(Original Source: The eponymous essay from Moral Luck by Bernard Williams (Cambridge University Press, 1981)

I have pretty strong opinions on situations like the one described. I have seen families being neglected by flighty, eccentric husbands who take impulsive, idealistic decisions to serve themselves. There was one man who used to spend his time and meager savings on religious rituals, bhajans and the like, while his family used to struggle to make ends meet. When asked of his responsibility towards his family, he used to take Saint Thyagaraja’s famous words - “Rama will provide. He is the cause of everything, even this desire in me to serve Him all the time is all His doing.” No, Rama does not provide to such families by magically dropping gold coins from the ceiling. The man is accountable for the misfortunes of his family, not Rama. Another extreme is the man/woman who orients their time and energy on higher, nobler causes such as serving humanity and people in need, not thinking twice about the welfare of their own kids or spouse

I am going to make a rather blasphemous assertion here. I’m sorry if this offends anyone. The famous Tamil poet and freedom fighter, Bharathiyar is still remembered and praised for his progressive attitude, his fierce patriotism, his spiritualism, and scholarly verses. I deeply respect him for being ahead of his times and for imparting rich, wholesome knowledge. But, I find it unacceptable that he didn’t fulfil his basic role and responsibilities as a father and provider. He followed his idealistic principles and didn’t conform to conventional work. What little he got, he is known to have freely distributed to animals and others in need, when his own family would go hungry. While many applaud him for his generosity, I can’t help but pity his poor wife. Back then, women like his wife didn’t even have the resources and means to earn a living by herself. She was completely dependent on a man who put the needs of the country before his promise and responsibility towards her; That to me, is morally wrong in a sense. The pain and anguish his wife went through is very similar to what the women in the above two examples went through.

Charity begins at home. Once we make promises and are responsible for the well-being of somebody who is dependent on that commitment, we can’t afford to forget our duty. I am not against following one’s heart, realizing deeper truths or standing to higher causes. My opinion is that it is wrong to overlook our primary duties in the pursuit of “higher” paths. Even the Hindu philosophy doesn’t talk of renunciation until the worldly/familial responsibilities are taken care of. I would be perfectly fine if the men in the above scenarios were single, or didn’t have any duties that they accepted onto themselves. Or better yet, there are always ways of leading a balanced life without vacillating between extremes of materialism and detachment. I realize that my take has tinges of the “selfish gene” theory. It’s perhaps true. The "natural-selectionists" would argue that my instinct to perceive this situation as “wrong” or “unethical” arises because it is expected to nurture one’s own gene-pool before helping another set of genes. It's due to these instincts that serve our genes that humanity developed the concept of Morality. But we’ll leave this train of thought for now.

True to Paul’s question on whether luck/success plays a role in exonerating one’s morally dubious action, I am sure there are plenty of lesser-known, hidden “Bharathiyaars” in every town who pursue similar ideals, but are just not recognized, and are hence socially isolated and condemned for ignoring their family. Think about it. Granted, if someone really possesses the talent and innate ability, the likelihood of them being an undiscovered gem in a pile of rubble is low. But luck/chance does play a role in one’s life, doesn’t it? There are misguided idealists who attempt to rise to greatness (inwardly and outwardly), but are either not blessed with the capacity to do so, or are thrown around by fate till they sink into utter oblivion. Such unsuccessful attempts are indeed mocked at, frowned upon, and censured - specifically with the accusation of betraying, hurting and disappointing their family.

Such discrimination is definitely hypocritical to me. I think Paul’s decision to abandon his family to fulfill his muse or desire was indeed morally wrong, for he didn’t worry about breaking his promise to his wife or for overlooking his responsibility towards his children. My opinion will not falter even if he had been successful in his attempt.

One can argue that most moral actions are judged by the intention of the action and not through the consequences. The cliched example is using a knife to purposefully kill, versus using it to accidentally harm/kill someone. So although technically it wasn’t Paul’s intention to hurt or betray his family, he intended to leave them stranded, knowing that his actions will cause pain. It was an informed choice. Even if we are to consider the Utilitarian philosophy of weighing the consequences - Paul’s success will not outweigh the hurt and pain of his family, for he should have honored his commitment to his family. But then, measures of emotion and personal growth are subjective.

What do you think? Does luck/chance play a role in how morality is perceived?

Memorable Books: Heidi

2011-10-01T14:54:00.002-04:00

As part of the new feature of this blog, here is a guest post from my sweet friend Anne, who blogs at Abstract Admissions. Anne is the first friend to kindly oblige my request for a guest post! She was diligent and enthusiastic in delivering her article to me, and therefore has totally pumped up my blogging (and reading) energy :). She is a wonderful writer and an ardent reader. So, I'm happy she could contribute! Please read on...

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Hi people! I’ve been hovering in the background of this blog for some time now but this is the first time that I’ve been placed under the spotlight! When Neeraja asked me if I was interested in writing a guest post on a book that has touched/moved/impressed me – I jumped at the chance. But I also knew that it would be quite a challenge. Firstly I read too much and easily muddle up and mix up stories and characters in my head, as I’ve mentioned before here. But more importantly, The Mind’s Language, offers such deep and insightful thoughts on a range of fascinating books – that it is truly hard to live up to its standards. When one is posting on one’s own blog, we have every right to blabber whatever we want to – afterall it is our own blog. If someone does not like it, they are welcome to pack up and leave ;-) But while being a guest blogger, one needs to take into consideration the spirit of the host’s blog. And Neeraja being an avid reader herself as well as a self-confessed perfectionist (which frankly I am far from!), makes it all the more intimidating!

So I pondered long and hard about which book to choose and I realized that there aren’t many children’s books profiled here. If I vividly remember a book that I had read some 12-15 years back, then surely it must be one which has left a profound impact on me, right? One such classic, which pops into my mind, is Heidi by Johanna Spyri, published first in 1880. According to Wiki, it is supposedly one of the best known works of Swiss literature – and I am not surprised. Although there are sequels and abridged versions of the original and movies as well as animated films, to me nothing can dilute the magic of the original novel.

In case, anyone hasn’t come across Heidi as yet, the crux of the story is about the events that occur in the life of a young girl named Heidi, who is handed over to her curiously eccentric grandfather living in the Swiss Alps. The contrast in their personalities cannot be missed, as one is wizened and guarded against any intrusions in his life while the other is inquisitive, free and completely open to it. The changes that the charming girl brings about in the old man are heart-warming. She is like a whiff of fresh air in his secluded life and meanwhile also makes friends with others, the most notable being Peter the goat-herd.

The book transported me to the beautiful mountains of the Alps. I could only imagine how peaceful and calm it would be to live nestled among the whistling conifers, one with nature amidst an oasis of serenity. The sparkling mountain air, the earthy and rustic food such as freshly baked bread and goat cheese and the no-fuss lifestyle, might be difficult to actually live through, what with all the modern comforts that I am used to now. But what more could a small girl ask for, than running gleefully down the hills barefooted with her best friend, with the wind in her hair, the sun on her face and laughing with abandon? Untouched by vices, untroubled by worldly worries. In fact I can still recall the cozy descriptions of Heidi’s room, a loft smelling of fresh hay and with a tiny window looking out to the valley beyond. Sigh!

I think that Heidi showed me that it is possible to find pleasure and happiness in the simple things of life. It taught me that there is absolutely no need to complicate my life and that the ways of providence is beneficial, if a tad mysterious – and that everything will work out in the end. Heidi is an epitome of all that can be good in this world. She instills a sense of positivity, hope and childlike innocence in my heart. I have not reread the book as an adult – but I do plan to someday. And I have no doubt that I will continue to love and cherish her. She envelops me like the sweet, whimsical scent of a tender lily in a rain-drenched garden - reminding me that the beauty of life can be hidden away cleverly, in seemingly innocuous moments.

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Wow, what a fitting start to this feature! Thank you for the beautiful post, Anne. And well, thanks for the generous words on this blog! This blog has survived solely because it is far removed from any standards of perfectionism :).

I love children's classics and always look for opportunities to slip into the comforting world of childhood. Anne's words rekindle the significance of relishing the simple pleasures of life, and the magic behind keeping our energy levels running high - positivity! Heidi is a delightful classic that should stay memorable in all future generations to come.

Memorable Books : A New Feature

2011-10-01T14:30:00.002-04:00

I'm starting a new feature on this blog to record different people's perspectives on the memorable books they have read. This entails guest posts!

Why?

I have sensed that my reading phases go through dramatic extremes. I'm either eager and ravenously hungry to devour as many good books as possible, or I'm left with an inertia (perhaps due to drained energy), and struggle to read even those books that I enthusiastically picked up. And given the pressures of work, I realize that I need a very compelling force to make time to read good books. So, in order to give myself (and others) a refreshing boost of motivation and inspiration, I want to hear others' words and thoughts on one of the books that most moved them and touched them - emotionally/psychologically/intellectually. As one of my friends suggested, it could even be about a book that changed one's life for the better.

I'm aware that everyone has a list of such favorite books and it's almost impossible to pick one book. Yet, due to practical and selfish reasons, I want to build a tangible repository of good books that I (and others) can hopefully read within this lifetime. That being my goal, I want to coax out one's thoughts on just one of their most memorable books - "If you had to be cast away on an island", kind of deal :).

In order for this feature to survive (and grow), I have been requesting friends of mine to write guest posts. I am happy to say that the first post dutifully arrived this morning! The ensuing post will be of this guest blogger's, so stay tuned!

I heartily welcome contributions to this feature!

What I would like: Your thoughts on one of the books that is most memorable to you. I would like to know your reasons, perhaps even some personal anecdotes as to how and why this book moved/changed/affected you. I don't expect a review, so it's perfectly fine if you no longer remember the finer details of the story or the characters. I'm hoping to capture the strong feelings associated with the book, in the hopes that the words and emotions will touch the reader and fuel them to reach out to good, meaningful books. Your choice can be fiction or non-fiction (but hopefully not a specialized textbook :)). And, there is no word limit!

If you would like to contribute, please leave me a comment!

Garden Highlights

2011-09-25T09:48:00.000-04:00

The garden is a big source of satisfaction and serenity to me. Some highlights of how it turned out this year.

Bullying in the Online World

2011-09-20T14:45:00.000-04:00

It’s very hard for me to learn about kids that are driven to commit suicide due to unbearable bullying in school. Almost every month, I hear of some unfortunate story. There was a documentary I watched a while back that makes a strong case for recognizing bullying as a punishable offense by law. Some states have brought such laws into effect, but for the most part the debate continues on the ambiguity of what is bullying, when does it cross the line to turn into an offense, and who are responsible for it.

Some amount of bullying is part of growing up in any animal society. It either makes one tougher, or affects one deeply as to stunt their confidence, self-esteem and psychological growth. Perhaps due to more awareness, wider news coverage, the power of social media, or the gradual changes in the personalities of the newer generations, it seems like there are more children who are drastically affected by bullying. Children - the very definition of innocence and goodness, also seem to bear a cruel streak. Even in kindergarten, there are those little bullies that don’t hesitate to tease, push, hit, and dominate over the docile ones. They are capable of being relentlessly merciless to kids that are different and “weaker” than them in any sense. Perhaps it’s the indelible animal instinct that wakes up and flares until it is tamed by discipline and social norms. Perhaps it can be attributed to genes and chemical imbalances in the brain. Or more regrettably, it’s due to parental negligence, resulting in low-self esteem and the need to assert one’s superiority and buried frustrations on the weaker ones. Whatever the reasons, it continues to shock and horrify me to encounter such kids. It surprises me even more that in this land of abounding school counselors and therapists, these kids still grow into hardened bullies, and the bullied kids receive inadequate reprieve or weak support systems to deal with the harassment.

But according to me, there is one obvious factor that has pushed bullying to intolerable heights in today’s age. Thanks to the immense power of social media, one demeaning post, one embarrassing picture, or one painful video can go viral, reach out to thousands, and shatter the dignity and tender feelings of a bullied kid. It’s much more easier to tease, gossip, spread horrendous rumours, photoshop/morph photos, and engage in dark-humor with a wider audience of thousands and millions. I see kids under 10 years having their own facebook profiles because they simply entered a fake age to set up the account. In the hands of such kids who are unaware of the power and far-reaching impacts of the Internet and social media, the worst gets showcased. They have no understanding of privacy or security. A while back, online chat forums proved to be disastrous for kids, today it is the seemingly safe and “useful” world of social networking. In addition to such forums depleting their precious time with aimless acitivites, they prove to be channels that unleash instincts that are carefully repressed in the real world. And it’s all done with impunity. This has been said numerous times before, but I feel the need to say it again.

Of late, I have started to firmly believe that we need newer branches of the social sciences to study the evolution of human society as influenced and shaped by the Internet. There are numerous impacts that ripple out as the virtual and real worlds intersect. The dynamics of social interactions in online social forums and networks is vastly different from what we are used to in the real world. There are different rules, structures, and consequences. We need to understand how to reliably restrict access and control to this sphere, just as how we try to restrict access to books, movies, information, food, drinks, and environments in the physical space. The process gets more complicated and more ambiguous for sure. Freedom of expression takes a slightly different color in the virtual world. Boundaries are even more blurred and confusing. It’s important to acknowledge that we’re dealing with a whole new world. Nothing is solved by applying stop-gap solutions based on trial and error stemming from our basic comprehension of the real world dynamics. Everything cannot be extrapolated directly from the real world to the virtual world. More thoughtful research is necessary.

In the meanwhile, perhaps we have some responsibility in speaking out to friends and family that naively encourage and or ignore their kids’ online activities.

Reflections: The Thorn Birds

2011-09-13T15:26:00.003-04:00

How do I start writing about this book or the epic tale. I waited long enough for words and the right thoughts, but I don’t think any words of mine will do justice to the book.

This book is not for a young audience, for I myself didn’t find anything impressive enough to want to read it when I was young. The language seemed good, the plot was surely scandalous to tug you into reading it, but I didn’t find enough soul or substance in the book to finish it. But upon reading it now, my experience was totally different. And I can’t put that feeling down in words.

The plot is a family saga that spreads through three generations. The Cleary family is an eclectic mix. They relocate to Drogeda in the Australian outbacks upon the demand of their wealthy and embittered aunt, Mary Carson, who subtly starts training the Clearys to eventually take over the sprawling acres of Drogeda. Father Ralph de Bricassart is a charming and kind priest in Drogeda, working around the whims and fancies of Mary Carson. The priest’s benevolent heart is drawn towards the young and neglected Meggie Cleary, the only daughter of the Clearys. In his efforts to keep Meggie safe and happy, the priest pays special attention to the welfare of the rugged and good-natured Clearys, who generously reciprocate his kindness. But over the years, Ralph and Meggie’s affectionate bond grows into something poignantly powerful and inevitable. As the priest doggedly pursues his service and devotion to God, rising higher and higher in the Church, Meggie naively flounders in her life, falling and rising in her struggles to win what her heart desires.

This plot can be turned into something trite and shallow by an inexperienced writer. But Colleen McCollough captures the very depths of the soul and psyche of the characters through her wonderful, perceptive writing. McCollough is firstly a neuroscientist. That explains a lot, for her psychological definitions of the characters are brilliant. I have never before read a book that delves so expertly into all the characters’ psyche with such accuracy, insight, and beauty! Each and every character in this huge tale is developed so beautifully from their birth to their adulthood to the ways in which they grow, temper, and change over time and experience. When mortals like me struggle to understand the innate core of my personality and identity, here is an intelligent writer who sharply identifies the core of all her characters and retains the integrity of the core while masterfully describing the reasons for why some other characteristics evolve and harden over time.

And there is a reason why young readers may not see the beauty of such character development and transformation. We ourselves need to see and experience some of Life’s vagaries and ironies before appreciating the beauty of a writers’ expressions of them. For a naive idealist, everything about such books and characters may seem unnecessarily complicated. But having sensed that complexity within oneself and within the cycles of Life, it is moving to connect with such books and writing.

On the surface, it might seem like the book is making a statement against religion and its enforced rules and dogmatic stances. But that’s not all. It’s probably a secondary point. The primary point in this book is that some of us mortals are driven to rise above our nature and limitations to achieve a pinnacle of perfection that doesn’t exist. We force our way through Life trying to decline our basic instincts and necessities, viewing ourselves as special and capable of being different. But in all this struggle, it is essential to first acknowledge who we are in our unadulterated forms, to accept it, to be humble enough to see our faults and limitations before trying to perfect ourselves, however unrealistic the pursuit of perfection may be. Like thorn birds that look for thorns to impale themselves to sing the most beautiful song, we all hang on to difficult and torturous decisions, travel on roads less traveled, and choose to introduce challenges, for our Life takes on more meaning and depth when there is pain tingeing our pleasures - from motherhood to everything else.

In McCullough’s beautiful words - “The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters, there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorns in our breast, we know. We understand. And we still do it. We still do it.”

The Collage

2011-08-16T14:15:00.000-04:00

Teeny tiny fingers wrapped tightly around a little cushion of fist, delicate feet twitching with bursts of energy, the cute button-like black eyes search around the room. There are yapping lips, lilting sounds mingling with sudden cacophony, colorful swirls of light dancing around, and a million different smells and sensations assaulting and confusing the wobbling little head.

“Oh he looks just like you!”, someone coos.
“No, look at his nose... just like daddy’s”, another one squeals.
“All of this doesn’t matter. He is sure to change in 3 months”, a wise voice remarks.
“Well, surely not his nose!”, the proud daddy interjects.

With every newborn that gets visited, the most assuredly pleasing and popular topic to dominate the conversation is - whom does the baby resemble? This topic of discussion continues forever, in every gathering, every occasion that brings together people after a long enough period of time. Even when you’re 60 and croon to your own grandchild, there will be someone to wonder about whom you look like, talk like, walk like, think like, cook like, eat like.

We seem to revel in immeasurable thrill and awe in finding traces of our genes manifested and taking life in other people. I can understand how amazing it is to look into eyes that mirror yours, to witness mannerisms that characterize your father, to hear the voice of your spouse, and to watch someone grow into a brand new person with a permutation and combination of traits that are intimate signatures of who you are, where you come from, and what you’re made of. It’s even more fascinating when a second aunt stumbles into a niece that has taken after her. An implicit bond blooms. The wonder of Nature at its best.

But, just like the newborn above who doesn’t grasp any of this, I’ve lived through most my life listening to people discuss about my appearance and characteristics with a glazed, disinterested look. As aunties stared and probed into my very soul trying to prove their point about my resemblance, I vacantly looked at their colorful silks and dissected their interesting, if quirky, behavior. It didn’t matter much to me whom I looked like. As a child, I always thought of myself as my own. Period. However, subconsciously, I seem to have been swayed by such talk. Popular opinions voiced by loud and opinionated aunties and uncles sunk into me, making me believe whom I’ve taken after, and whom I ought not to have taken after. Yeah, “ought not to”. It’s the perpetual maternal versus paternal clash. Maternal relatives stress you are an embodiment of them, while the paternal relatives put their foot down on such nonsense. In the end, the most loudest, emphatic statements win over.

At this stage in my life, when I’ve taken the interest and opportunity to get to know my maternal as well as paternal family, without the biases of one over the other, I eerily see myself in the most unexpected groups of people. For the first time, I see myself reflected in people beyond my parents. And it’s staggering to connect yourself with a wider circle of people who mostly remained strangers despite being family. It’s almost as if I’m rediscovering myself and my roots, and it’s humbling and eye-opening.

When people vote that you resemble one parent, you just go with it, even if you can’t see the resemblance for yourself that convincingly. But one fine day, you catch yourself in a picture and gasp, for today you can really see the uncanny resemblance, so much so that your heart skips a beat wondering if the camera and mirror can play such tricks. It’s a totally different feeling. My heart leaps as I see my mother’s smile in my eyes and lips, I see her insecurities and sensitive feelings rise in me, I sense her gait as I walk; I see my father’s annoyed expression in my brows, his mammoth will in my glimmers of persistence, his perceptiveness in my occasional intuitions; I see my aunt’s stoicism in my forehead and jaws, her stubborn introversion in my social anxieties, her words in my writing; I see my uncle’s absent-mindedness, his curiosities in my thoughts, his laid-back demeanor in my actions, and I no longer see me. I see them in me.

Every day, I come closer to the realization that I am indeed a collage of a gigantic picture of mankind. While earlier, this feeling of not just being “me” disconcerted me, now I find myself embracing it joyously. It is wondrous to say the least. For it is indeed true that despite the numerous traits and resemblances I’ve directly imbibed, how I choose (as I naively continue to believe) to act on these traits, in what circumstances and situations I display them, and how I learn to use and adapt them for my growth and to leverage my advantage, makes me “me”.

Reflections: The Splendor of Silence

2011-07-27T17:00:00.002-04:00

With this book, I can now say I have read all books written by Indu Sundaresan thus far. With most of her books, excepting her short-story collection, I’ve experienced a love-hate relationship. Hate is probably a harsh word... let’s call it frustration. But because of my adoration for her writing, I keep going back, and continue to alternate between two states of mind (and heart) as I read her book.

The Splendor of Silence had an enticing premise for me. In the pre-Independence times of India, when the Nationalist movements were simmering and bubbling, an intriguing and dashing American with a whole lot of secrets in his bag, enters Rudrakot and sweeps the heart of a well-educated, refined Indian woman. As he sets fire to a series of irrevocable events, hearts get shattered, peace gets violated, but romance lives on. Sorry for the cheesy introduction, but that’s how the book comes across - a little cheesy, but surely entertaining! I am a sucker for such romances no doubt, but there was a part of me that scoffed at the story, as much as another part of me got attached to the idealistic images. If I had written a novel when I was younger (and a romance novel at that), I would have likely written (or conceived) something exactly like this story. It has all the elements that point to the dreamy, naive, idealistic me. In that regard, I feel a special kinship with Indu! She thinks very similar to me, sets the stage and characters in a fashion almost identical to my imagination.... of a younger me.

But a few things didn’t come together to make this a cohesively compulsive and impressive book. The book contains plenty of rich history surrounding India’s independence struggle, the class discriminations of the snobbish British Raj compounded with the Indian caste system, and the acute identity crisis suffered by both Indians and British alike. Although this book is hence showcased as a historical fiction, it is basically a romantic story that is couched in a historical context. The background is historical, and some characters symbolize the different kinds of attitudes and mind-sets worn by people of that time. These aspects surely portray the political, social, and culture climate of India accurately, but they don’t weave into the story well. There are paragraphs and pages of narration and explantions on the history and social commentary, and they stand alone from the story and some of the characters. There are many “asides”, digressions, and tangents that delve into facts and history, while the character would have uttered just a sentence. So, it sort of became a frustrating mix of fiction and non-fiction. If there is one scene, one dialogue, it is then accompanied with two whole pages of factual writing, explaining the caste system, the characters’ history, past etc. In essence, most of the book was a narration, a commentary, and it kept switching from one character’s point of view to the next, most of which didn’t fit in line with how the story was delivered - as a letter from a character. So, while the main story did not leap to life until the last 75 pages of the book, the remainder of the book involved a very slow process of setting the stage and providing all the history. I would have preferred if the characters (and the story) related and portrayed the history, rather than it being delivered through detailed, explicit narration, which defeats the value of fiction.

Secondly, the characters, excepting one, were flat. I don’t have the faces of the two main characters in my head. I couldn’t imagine them all through the story - they were caricatures in my head, and did not bloom into personalities with a face and voice that I will remember for a while. Indu Sundaresan writes such gorgeous prose, but she somehow misses out on what details to give shape to, to bring her characters to life. A whole page of beautiful descriptions of the characters’ attire, or the chair in which they are seated does not help define the character. It makes the environment alive and vibrant, but not the core of the characters. Further, it was incongruous to hear all the characters speak the same, impeccable style of English as that of the narrator. How can all characters speak alike? That too speak in such good English all the time? True, people spoke much better elite English in the 1940s, but still! And like me, brevity is not Indu’s forte :). There are so many words, so many pages, tiny text crammed into 400 sheets of paper, but the volume does not indicate depth, unfortunately.

Digested Thoughts: Still, I enjoyed reading the book. I love reading about strong and refined women of the early times, especially one so strong as to break barriers and fall in love with an American. Although the protagonists’ courage seemed a notch too unrealistically scandalous and fickle at times, and the romance seemed amateurish, I still liked reading the book. The prejudices, insecurities, and confusions of the British and the Indians come at you strong. We still face the colonial hangover of those heady times. Although it has its flaws, I have to concede that this is not an easy subject to write about - India's history, past, society, and culture is far too complex anyway. But more than anything, I loved savoring Indu Sundaresan’s writing and for mainly that reason, I give the book a high rating.

The Rapture of Life

2011-07-25T13:45:00.000-04:00

Something stirred in me and found some much needed understanding and peace from this:

"The mind has to do with meaning. What's the meaning of a flower? There's a Zen story about a sermon of the Buddha in which he simply lifted a flower. There was only one man who gave him a sign with his eyes that he understood what was said. Now, the Buddha himself is called "the one thus come". There's no meaning. What's the meaning of the Universe? What's the meaning of a flea? It's just there. That's it. And your own meaning is that you're there. We're so engaged in doing things to achieve purposes of outer value that we forget the inner value, the rapture that is associated with being, is what it's all about."

-Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth

It's been an interesting read so far... quite different from what I originally anticipated. It's forcing me to think a little differently on many things. Not sure if I'll abandon my hardened ways of thinking, questioning, and analyzing, but it's helpful to tuck in such different points of view into one's thought process.

Reflections: The Origins of Virtue

2011-07-12T12:46:00.001-04:00

It seems like a long time since I started reading this book. It’s been sitting around me for months together, getting shunned every now and then for another interesting and far more gripping book. And now that I have finally finished it, it feels like I have taken forever to write about it. It’s got to do with two reasons. Ever since I started my other blog on cooking, the novelty of it has been quite compelling. I am fueled to write posts there. Besides, writing out a recipe is far far simpler and easier than all the work required to think and assimilate my thoughts to churn out a post here. Secondly, I started reading this book fully aware that I may not learn anything significantly new. Yet, when it comes to morality, society, and the definitions of virtue, I am willing to read as many repetitive (and non-repetitive) books as possible, in the hopes that I may stumble upon some, novel, interesting trains of thought that would help me internalize and understand these concepts much better.

The basic questions addressed in the book are - When and why did virtues like cooperation and altruism emerge among us?, Are these virtues wired-instincts, or are they nurtured traits?, What is the fine-line between cooperation and competition, between altruism and self-interest? How do virtues serve the interests of the individual, as much as they help our species to survive? So, is man inherently good or bad?

The short answer for why morality, altruism, and cooperation are exalted as virtues is because we need to adopt and embrace these traits for ensuring our survival, and the survival of our genes, and our species. Mankind has achieved so much and has progressed to such heights because our species knows how to cooperate, reciprocate, trade, and divide labor among specialized people. The point is, each virtue serves a selfish purpose - to us and to our species. Reciprocation is our incentive. If there were no reciprocation, we limit the altruistic deeds we do for others. In our scriptures it is called Karma - you receive what you give. So be good, and reap the benefits. We form friendships, enter into marriage, are cordial and helpful to neighbors, family and other smaller circles of our community, in order to reap the benefits of reciprocation and division of labor. We have the ingrained need to be an accepted part of a community, because when hardships strike, we have people to fall back on and help us. But in order to expect such help, we need to offer help as well. And so on... the gregarious, well-connected, socially active person is the most effective survivor. And consider this paradox - when you gift someone, you subconsciously expect something in return at some point. Then, is the person who refuses to accept any gift from friends or family, the most selfish person? For he realizes the debt he incurs by accepting the gift, and hence refuses to accept such burden of reciprocation?

It leads to another paradox. Despite the accepted rationality of practicing virtuous behavior, human-beings are still territorial, and fiercely compete with one another. Why so? It is natural selection’s way of ensuring the fittest, and only the most competent survive. At a micro-level, our genes are selfish. They cause us to fight for them, stand up for them - to ensure their propagation over other kinds of genes. This is one explanation for racial and territorial conflicts. But one can’t afford to be too aggressive to too many people, and too very often. We have the seen the fall of capitalistic giants who have been so caught up with greed and aggression.

We flounder while trying to establish a balance between competition and cooperation. Is tit-for-tat always a good strategy? We need to know when to forgive and when not to. It’s imperative that we don’t get pushed and trampled upon in our effusive need to always do good to others and never expect anything in return. For when we resort to the latter “selfless” mode, we as individuals perish, although we may help to sustain the growth of our species. Basically, it is not “rational” when one chooses to neglect the self.

For most people, selfishness is a negative trait. With that conditioning, sometimes we make decisions that are detrimental to the self. When my good friend told me that I had to do things for “self-preservation”, the whole term was new to me. When we have been taught to ignore the self, to not expect anything in return for our moral duties, it is a radical perspective to pause and consider that everything that has been established, including religion and morality, are essentially to serve a “selfish” purpose - be it from the standpoint of the community or the individual. Survival, is basically selfish. There is no escaping from it. If you have just one serving of food, and you see a hungry, wailing child of a strangers’, and a hungry child of yours, you will invariably choose to give the food to your child. Nature has wired our instincts to first help our blood and genes. If resources are in surplus, then we have the luxury of sharing a small piece of ours with others’, even without expecting anything in return right-away. We have emotions such as guilt, to make us help other non-related members of our species every now and then, because without our community, we are nothing.

But my objective is this - at some point, if I have a child, I want to be able to teach him/her when to be selfish, and when not to be. I want to help him/her understand that self-preservation is as much important as compassion and empathy for others - that one needs to know when to draw the line and say - “no, I won’t be nice to you”. And I want to make him/her realize when to forgive and when not to forgive.

Our scriptures speak a slightly different language that seems to urge the individual to always help the betterment of the species, while completely ignoring the self. I need more time and wisdom to understand why that is so. Maybe the bigger perspective of propagating our species is much more important than preserving the needs of the individual. But if every individual loses their need or drive to do something for themselves, and have no pressing instinct to preserve the self, won’t the progress of the species grind to a halt as well? How, you ask? Here is Matt Ridley’s talk on his recent book, which touches upon my question.

Digested Thoughts: A thought-provoking book on the rationality and practicality of morality and virtues. There are many more interesting thoughts, such as on the benefits of privatization of property, and the necessity for governments to govern and control our societies.

If it isn't meant to be...

2011-07-06T17:02:00.002-04:00

I look out the window and gasp. When did the sky turn dark and gloomy? Is it going to rain? Should I reach home before the rain? I can always continue working from home...

And so I find myself at the building door, and then hear a loud, low rumble. I step out, and a lightning flashes at me - a sign of warning. For two seconds I debate - should I go in or continue heading out. As always, I pick the wrong choice. Five steps out the building, it begins to drizzle. Ten steps, and it is pouring. Recalling relative velocity and all that funda, I continue walking - hurriedly, if you will. Meanwhile, there are dramatic theatrics in the sky. The monstrous, crushing, booming thunder makes me want to crawl under the cars. The wrath of the lightning leaves me momentarily blind. By the time I reach my car, I am drenched - so much for that myth! I should have run. As I drive, the lashing rain viciously threatens to crumble the windshield to powdered glass. I can barely see beyond the car in front of me. A prayer on my lips, a curse on my decision, I continue slicing through the angry rain. I exhale as I wind towards my street. I pull into the garage, and God decides to turn off his faucet - the very second. Not a drop more. Even the sun decides to poke out of the cottony clouds.

Some things are just not meant to be!

I Succumbed...

2011-07-04T10:24:00.002-04:00

I'm not exactly a foodie, but I like cooking. I feel good after a well created meal, and of the knowledge that I'm pleasing a few tummies. I know there are a TON of lovely and creative cooking blogs. But after much back and forth on the triteness of this venture, and on the added pressure of maintaining two blogs, I finally succumbed:

http://tribute-to-cooking.blogspot.com/

Please don't feel obligated to visit. But I thought I'd share all the same. And your words of wisdom are always appreciated!

A Thought

2011-06-28T13:41:00.002-04:00

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is the King.

It's laughable that we each assume ourselves to be Kings and Queens while living in a small island of the "blind". We may be extremely specialized in one area, but within a team of people that is ignorant of our focus of specialization (while being experts in their niche/area of specialty), it is amusing how each member blithely presumes to be the "King", the final authority in their land.

Always remember - you are just the one-eyed member in your ignorant group.

Let it be your pursuit to locate the two-eyed person with brilliant 20/20 vision, in both your niche and those of others. And first listen and learn, before defending and challenging.

About Me

2011-06-20T12:50:00.001-04:00

As most people probably are, I am bad at defining myself in the "About me" sections. I can rattle on endlessly and think-aloud on various aspects of myself and bore people to death, but I appear as if I accidentally swallowed my tongue if I am asked to deliver an elevator pitch about myself. This post motivated me, challenged me to come up with a sentence that truly describes who I am at most points in time.

I am innately a person of extremes, who mostly strives to reach a state of equilibrium in all things concerning the mind and the body.

Who cares about this definition of you, you wonder. Nobody really. It's just a reference for myself. Maybe this definition will evolve every time I delve into an uncomfortable, probing introspection of what the hell I am. And probably, over the years, I will have arrived at a suitable understanding and will heave a sigh of peace.

P.S: Just realized, I had to come up with a phrase, not a sentence... oh my, I give up for now!

A Touch of Color

2011-06-19T14:34:00.002-04:00

IndiBlogger has another writing contest sponsored by Hewlett Packard!

Why must somethings always be Black & White?

Tell us what you would like to see in glorious color - be it an old movie, famous portrait, family photograph or anything that you can imagine. You can also tell us why you chose those colors for your blog's template, and how it represents you as a brand. It's time to think in color!

Ho, Ho, Ho!! (rubbing my hands with glee!). Isn’t this the perfect contest for me!!!

Of the several silly arguments that bounce back and forth between me and my husband, the most common is on colors - yeah, that’s how “profound” we are. His favorite colors are black, white, and occasionally, gray. And mine is the entire rainbow! From home “decoration”/accessorizing to apparel shopping to the kinds of flowers to plant in the garden, it’s an eternal debate. I can’t wrap my head around his aversion to colors!

I love colors, and am grateful every single day for the blessing of vision to be able to appreciate and adore them. I love the creamy, syrupy, cute little bottles and capsules of paint, get mesmerized by their sparkle, their luscious aura, the million different ways in which their molecules reflect light; I admire their gooey loveliness, the thrill of mixing, swirling, and gliding one hue over another to create a different shade, and reach a high on splashing them across paper, canvas, metal, wood, cement, concrete, glass, mirror, ceramic, fabric... pretty much anything. I can confidently say that I have dabbled in all sorts of painting - though I am not good at any! I have ardently wanted to take up formal painting lessons, but have managed to never get around to it.

My childhood home is littered with my limitless experiments with “colors” and “deft” strokes. I haven’t spared cupboards, walls, doors, the fridge, the few spaces around the TV screen, and even the back of the bed frame. They may just be covered with trite replicas of flowers, birds, vines, and symmetric patterns (all in multicolored versions), but the point is, I don’t let anything remain plain and bare. Everything needs to contain vibrant (or even muted) colors. Every time I glance upon our milky-white mantle, I envision painting a looping grapevine hugging around it, masking the white with greens and violets. BUT, I am forbidden. I look at a plain wall and rush to put something on it to give it a splurge of color. I see another bare wall, and crave to do a mural, except I don’t know how to. I stare at the plain white T-shirt I was gifted by you-know-who, and have to fight the urge to hunt for fabric colors. I fill out forms and feel saddened to write down boring “black” to both my eye and hair color. If only I could color my own eyes, my hair, the walls, the various other artifacts I come across in my life, with just a touch, or a thought!

So my wish is this - I want to have the ability to have the “touch of color”, like Midas did with his “golden touch”. Midas’s story was both fascinating and morbid to me. I loved the power he held - to touch things and change them to his liking, but the whole episode with his daughter was unpleasant. My wish is hopefully not out of greed - it is out of the lust for visual stimulation (through colors), and to add merriment all around me. I wish I could touch things and change their color/s, any number of times I want.

I want to touch my eyes and alternate between the umpteen subtle shades of blue, green, brown, and violet eyes (no matter how scary and vampire-y I look). I want to touch walls and change their colors every few weeks, touch fabrics and infuse the most lovely colors into them, occasionally grace daisies and change their whites to peppy shades, wave at the sky and sprinkle yellows into the clouds... almost like living within my own version of Photoshop! The world will literally be my canvas! How exciting is that?!

Now, here is my spiel that acknowledges the ethical concerns. I realize that colors are subjective and personal - so let my “power” not extend to changing people’s body colors (I won’t make people look like they landed from Pandora), let my changes and experiments not be visible to others (so they can’t complain if I touch their sofa and change it to a garish pink). So by restricting my changes to be visible just to my eyes, I conform to the whole issue of respecting others’ choices, and not forcing my whimsies onto them. I will also not confuse the bees and insects, and mess up the ecosystem by covering flowers, leaves, and fruits in strange tints.

So that is my silly wish. Regarding the colors on my blog template, I chose them because they looked appealing! Nothing deeply intellectual. I realize that I mostly gravitate towards images with trees or falling leaves - not sure why, but I can come up with something interesting... like, trees represent robustness, the falling leaves represent the constant change of seasons, thoughts, feelings, etc. I like to think of myself as a tree that constantly weathers the various changes that take place around it, and grow and mature in the process. The pastel shades convey soothing, mellow feelings... they also tend to get dull, pale and uninteresting. The dim colors also represent the many abstract and feeble thoughts floating in my mind. Unless I give vent to them to take on full blown livid colors, they keep losing their pallor and eventually just dissolve into a corner. I like blues for their serenity and tranquility - I would like to always reach this state of calmness even after experiencing turbulence of the mind. I love soft, pale greens for the warmth and cheer they exude. They also remind me of the fresh new start of spring. Again, my aim to is to get back to a state of warmth, cheer, and begin afresh after bursts of dreary, frigid winters.

So there, a whole post dedicated to colors! Despite having come across as a raging color maniac, I do appreciate the simplicity of whites, the boldness of black, and the neutrality of grays. Every color appeals to a specific aesthetic sense, and that is the reason for their absolute beauty.

Mrs. Clean

2011-06-16T23:52:00.004-04:00

I wake up and turn on my nearest smart-electronic gadget, and the first thing that beeps at me is the day’s reminder list - “sweep and mop kitchen floor”, “clean bathroom sink”. I end the day by crawling into bed as another set of similar reminders for the next day flash and beep at me. My mom taught me to welcome the morning by opening my eyes to my palms, and then to the Sun. I was trained to retire to bed after thinking good thoughts and praying. Now I wake up to thoughts of cleaning, and drift off to sleep dreaming of washing liquids. Something is amiss.

There was a time when I was blissfully nonchalant of the rigors of house maintenance. I worried only about my room - my responsibility was narrow and manageable. It was even better when I was at home, with my mom reigning over the place with her sharp eyes and meticulous system of cleaning. Being an ace perfectionist (ah, yes, of course), she was ruthlessly particular about every single thing in the house. She would redo dishes washed by the maid, spend hours scrubbing the few odd stubborn scales and grime sticking to the bathroom floor due to the bad, murky water, will postpone or cancel engagements and weddings to stay at home and complete her cleaning assignments or laundry (cyclone or thunderstorm, the laundry shall be done), and will spend a restless, agonized, sleepless night if she is forced to abandon a lone, unwashed tumbler in the kitchen sink. I used to often tell her that she should receive an honorary doctorate in home-keeping. She is the best I know.

But, it did come with a huge cost. She never seemed satisfied, was always on the edge, fatigued herself to the bone, and would suffer panic attacks if she returned home after a break. Most of all, I felt sorry that she was missing out on lots of other meaningful things and activities in life due to constantly prioritizing on cleaning. Growing up, I never understood her obsession. I used to spend hours talking to her about the futility of investing so much time and effort on material objects. I very knowingly and sagely pleaded with her to not take cleaning to an extreme, etc.

And now, I am plumb in the middle of the same square. I guess I have subconsciously taken after my mom’s procedures. When I earlier laughed, now I find myself having serious discussions on hard-wood floor cleaners and stain removers when I visit friends. I exchange fervent notes with them, spend inordinate amounts of time in the cleaning aisle poring over the gazillion different brands, getting excited over the new eco-friendly and toxic-free brands, designing experiments to test cleaner A versus cleaner B, and fill my calendars with cleaning schedules. My eyes even light up every time there is a cleaning commercial on TV (“ooh-Kaboom!”).

I also came up with this “ingenious” idea of dividing all the cleaning tasks and tackling a few every day, so that hypothetically speaking, the house will remain reasonably sparkly, neat, and clean all the time, and I get to be super-efficient (divide and conquer!). The hypothesis was proved wrong within the third week, but I still practice it out of habit and compulsion. It has only increased my frustration - that the house will still not be “perfectly clean” even after daily slogging and scrubbing. The inevitably mysterious crumbs and the two spilled grains of rice glare accusingly at me from the just-mopped-floor. And dust balls seem to roll all over the place even when the vacuum cleaner remains warm from recent use.

So why the obsession - I had an epiphany as I was furiously scrubbing the kitchen sink. It’s all about wanting control. The more older I get, the more I realize that my control over things doesn't extend far. I have very limited control over people, environment, random twists in fate, and hence, my own life. So, when I encounter those few things that fall under my purview of control, I want to wield complete control; such as controlling this minuscule sphere of existence that surrounds me - my home. I want it to totally obey my expectations, to let me breathe in some satisfaction of being in charge. But even wood and ceramic have a mind of their own.

Secondly, it’s about the popular theory that cleaning is a “de-stresser”. It’s sort of a corollary to the first point. You realize that although you can’t de-clutter, reorganize, or clean up the various kinds of mess in your life and that of others (and of the world), you can clean up physical things - that’s tangible, very much doable. At least your home can remain clutter-free, dust free, stain free, dirt free, and grime free. And the process gives you the illusion of clearing up your mind, and a teeny bit of your life.

Thirdly, for people like my mom, the state of the house is viewed as a direct reflection of them - of their worth, skills, competence etc. Ridiculous. But, the first impression that guests have of you, is through your home. The walls, the floor, and the sinks tell stories. And they quiver of what the judgment would be. I remember scorning and censuring detergent ads in India (a decade back), that portrayed a man’s success and approval at work to be dependent on the “brightness” of his shirt, which in turn was dependent on the kind of detergent choices the wife made. The wife who picked the better detergent was deemed more caring, wiser, smarter, and better in all regards. The woman who knew her cleaning and washing seemed to have a direct impact on her man’s career and success in life. That’s huge - it links cleanliness and home-keeping skills to a woman’s competence as a wife. I don’t believe in this social image, but not sure if I am carrying some bits of it in my subconscious, and acting it out without realizing it (I do belong to the generation that grew up hearing their mom’s daily litany on the importance of cultivating “domestic” skills). Like the other day, I was folding clothes and noticed a reprehensible patch of grime on one of my husband’s shirt collars. As I experienced shivers of shame, and irritatedly wondered how to remove it, I was reminded of the ad, and had to laugh out loud. And then think about what I had become - a wannabe domestic goddess ;). And then write about it. (I also have to clarify and stress that my husband does help around with a lot of things, except I am mean enough to sometimes redo his work and hence not assign much work ;)).

I think this is just yet another department that requires a balanced frame of mind. Maintaining a home and keeping it clean and hygienic is important for the family’s (and the home’s) welfare. And that should be the only reason, focus, and objective. The practical need for organizing things speaks for itself. A home is not a home if it is made to look pristine and sterile all the time, and if people are made to worry about the crumbs they accidentally shed while relishing a fine meal. It’s actually an unrealistic goal - don’t let the catalogs on home interiors beguile you ;). Or let other immaculately kept homes intimidate you!

I am aware that all this obsession will fade when bigger and more important things take over my life. Right now, I can afford to manage my time by squeezing in regular cleaning into the daily/weekly routine. But I know one day down the road, I won’t be able to. Priorities will change then, and I hope I will retain the sanity to not push home maintenance above the rest! No matter what changes rule the place, no matter what extents of neglect the home goes through to carry dust, dirt, and clutter, all that should matter is the plentiful amounts of warmth, love, and security the home emanates...

Perfectly Imperfect

2011-06-15T12:56:00.000-04:00

It’s been 60 days, or more. And I sit, distracting myself with other work, strategy games, non-strategy games, books, papers, posts, cooking, cleaning, weeding, and such, except getting to what I have been procrastinating. My fear keeps rising, self-doubts mount, guilt flares, and resolution sparks, but it dies the next moment I intend to confront the task.

It’s too precious. Too important. And needs to be perfect. And there, I shrivel right there, hearing that word. My anxiety to be perfect is so overwhelming, it consumes my energy to work on things. I dread even starting it, even attempting it, as my inner voice locks into the phrase - “If you can’t do it right, don’t do it at all”. And the more I sit, hearing my heart thump and my mind race with fear, the more time I waste, and the more farther I slip away from getting this work done perfectly. Vicious cycle. All I want to do is curl up into a ball and sleep into oblivion. I seem to have imbued my grandfather’s infamous philosophy - If you ignore the problem/task/illness well enough, pretend it doesn’t exist, it will just go away. People go away, but the rest don’t.

This is what the pursuit of perfection does to one. It cripples one from even attempting anything for fear of not living up to the standard of perfection one sets for themselves. I have tried all my life not to succumb to this paralysis, yet, the more I run away from it, the faster it chases me.

This is surely not healthy. I look back and wonder how I even managed to get this far in life. I think most of my turning-point moments were out of desperation, necessity, limited choices, and the absence of an escape route in sight. It’s not heartening to know that my “secret” to being where I am now, is not really the idealism of passion, hard-work etc., but because of fear of not wanting to fail or lose face. Well, there was hard-work involved, but it didn’t stem out of idealistic reasons. Perhaps it is reasonable enough, for life is not entirely made of idealism anyway. But I am not sure I can carry through the rest of life’s journey with this constant anxiety-driven work principle. My passion is rewarding till it meets its matron - perfectionism.

Kind people have offered me words of wisdom and insight. I see the light in their words and thoughts, but still can’t pull out the root of this nagging ailment. But I will have to break out of this. One step at a time. Today is the day. Now is the hour. And I have started...almost started. I will do my best without killing myself. I will not beat myself over not being able to touch the highest peaks of my “best” attempts. For anyway, I never have touched or even graced my version of the “highest” peak - it is infinitely tall and never ending. They say - reach for the stars and you'll at least end up at the tree-top. For people like me, I say - just reach for the tree-top and get there. That's enough.

I begin my task of not being a perfectionist. Of allowing myself imperfection, and shutting my ears to voices real, and imagined. I repeat - Doing “something” is indeed better than doing “nothing”. After all, this blog is a good example - I've continued writing imperfect posts with imperfect language and half-baked, amateurish thoughts, but despite all the imperfection I remind myself of, despite cringing at every previous post, I can't deny that it has been extremely rewarding.

I represent many lessons to be learned - on how not to live life :).

Just Me

2011-06-14T09:31:00.005-04:00

I have this perplexing, odd, childish feeling of possessiveness towards those which are obviously not my property (well nothing really is, except for me, however....). For instance, I am possessive about certain places that are dear to me, books that have special meaning to me, authors that I adore, movies that I connect with, sentiments that I strongly believe in, thoughts and ideas that I naively assume to have originated only from me, fields of study I am passionate about, and even some of my “signature” dishes. It’s nice to bond with someone when they share a huge subset of the above, but sometimes, I feel a twang of possessiveness as if someone is encroaching into my identity, and this feels completely immature, irrational, and silly. But this is only with selective people, though. I have dear friends that I am so grateful and thrilled to have around, purely because our interests and wavelengths resonate so harmoniously. But with some others, I am not too excited to squeal, “Me too!”.

Not sure I’m making sense here. But I will plod along and write a little more and see if some clarity appears. I think I have a very personal connection, bond, relationship with thoughts and sentiments that are dear to me. If I love a city, I connect with it so well, it almost becomes who I am. My appreciation for it and interactions with it are deeply personal. But when I come out of this reverie and notice thousands of others who share an identical rapport with the place, my feeling just becomes yet another, and that bothers me. I believe it to be special, and want it to be meaningful, unique, and rising above the rest - and something that only I experience. I understand this sense of possessiveness with objects and people, but with a place, a discipline of study, and an author?! Seems extreme! And the funny thing is, I am not as possessive of people or material objects. Or so I think.

True, a bond or a strong feeling towards something is not devalued in its meaning or significance if it is not unique to me. But it strips something off me by its statement - “it’s not just you”. Shouldn’t it create kinship, camaraderie, knowing I’m not alone? Yes, yes, it mostly does, but for sentiments that are very closely associated with who I am, it doesn’t. Again, it’s only with selective people - I guess those that I don’t expect to have anything in common with me, and those I don’t hold in high regards. It’s jarring to realize - “They are like me?!”, “Then, who am I?!”

But I’ve gotten better at it...at handling this weird form of egoism. It shows up very rarely - these days the sting strikes me when I find that my bonding with my research or particular field of study isn’t unique. And I have to calm myself, before I lose fire and enter into an existential whirlpool.

I don’t think I am being threatened by competition, I am just sorry my relationships aren't totally unique and irreplaceable, and there are a million others just like me. I guess I can understand and empathize with all the cry surrounding intellectual property rights.

My mantra everyday is - You are not unique. You are part of a species. For every thought, idea, sentiment, belief, and feeling, there’s someone in the vast universe who matches yours. Revel in the understanding of this astounding magnitude, for you are just a speck. A speck who will still leave a tiny imprint. Work on creating that imprint. That imprint may not be unique, but it will still be yours.

P.S. - By "imprint", I don't mean genetic imprint :). I am against leaving such imprints to assuage the ego and its sense of immortality, uniqueness, etc.

Reflections: Room

2011-06-10T13:08:00.004-04:00

Jack is a five-year-old who has lived all his life with his young mom in Room - a single 11 by 11 feet room that has a bed, a TV, a wardrobe, a table, a lamp, a bath tub, and sink. To him, anything outside Room is Outerspace, filled with unreal objects and people, like the ones he sees through TV. Room is his sole reality. But when his mom tells him there is more to the world than Room, and that they should try to go out, his precocious little brain turns topsy-turvy. He no longer knows what is real and what is not, what is right and what is wrong, what has rules and what are free, who he is and who he is not. He can’t even comprehend that there are plenty of other humans who share his name in Outerspace. This riveting novel documents Jack’s experiences.

I don’t want to share too much about this book, for part of what makes it special and gripping is its ambiguity and novel (albeit disturbing) plot-line. So, if you would like to read the book (and I highly recommend it), it’s wise to skip the rest of the post, for I may inadvertently spill a few spoilers.

The whole book is narrated by Jack. Emma Donoghue perfectly takes the voice of a confused and innocent five-year-old, who is markedly different from kids his age. Jack is surely developmentally challenged in some ways, and advanced in some other aspects due to the circumstances of his bizarre upbringing. Donoghue beautifully incorporates his unique personality into the narration. I never believed I would read and appreciate an entire novel narrated by a child who is still learning his rules of grammar; even the grammatical errors have been researched to match a five-year-old’s linguistic development (and of course, Jack’s special case). There is so much attention to detail, yet the sentences flow naturally, totally masking the careful effort and research.

You might wonder how a five-year-old’s stilted narration would have captured the dense themes on identity, and existential crisis. Well, that’s the reason why this book is brilliant! I don’t know how, but through Jack’s endearingly simple and honest questions and thoughts, Donoghue has covered a whole gamut of interesting phenomena that isolation causes. Everything about the book is simple, but very deep. I am also amazed that through a few vague, yet vivid descriptions of Jack’s, all the other characters are given their distinct personalities. It’s a feat! Jack’s psyche is completely and realistically fleshed out.

The book is all about how much we take our minds for granted. It’s a reminder that the minds of children are especially sensitive, malleable, and impressionable that even the most subtlest of things alter their ways of thinking. Even our identity as human beings is intrinsically tied to the ways in which our mind shapes, learns, and grows. Although most of our instincts are ingrained, they fizzle out, or are grossly misplaced if they are not cultivated through structured rules that the mind learns and revises through every interaction in the world. Any hitch to such learning and natural interaction, and it’s nearly impossible to re-learn the fundamentals of life and existence. Nearly impossible, not entirely. The mind is so fascinatingly flexible, elastic, and adaptable, that the process by which it reformulates itself to survive and make sense of the world is simply incredible.

Metaphorically, many of us live inside our own version of Room. We each suffer from different forms of the-frog-in-the-well syndrome. Our reality is tightly constrained by what we believed in at one point in life, and what we choose to selectively believe in. It’s not healthy for us to limit our thinking and understanding of the world to a very small fraction of one side of reality.

The book is a moving and fascinating read. It’s a very interesting psychological study. I am so impressed that the book packs so much emotion and thought through a child’s voice. It's one of my most unique and impressive reads.

Reflections: Anthill

2011-06-09T00:30:00.001-04:00

Dr. Edward Wilson is a professor of Entomology at Harvard University, and the co-author of the Pulitzer prize winning book, The Ants. Dr. Wilson is regarded as one of the foremost authorities on everything related to Ants. I have been wanting to read his award winning book for a long long time. My interest in the intelligent and altruistic little insects resurfaced while watching an episode of the award winning documentary, Life, that featured the intelligent ways in which ants built their colonies. That was when I also heard that Dr. Wilson had recently published a book of fiction that incorporates the details of ant colonies, and emphasizes the importance of conserving Nature and its varied little seemingly insignificant creatures to maintain the delicate ecosystem and biosphere. So there I was, checking out this book.

You may wonder why I chose to dedicate a whole paragraph for the prologue. Well, the prologue says it all. The book is by an accomplished academician and expert naturalist. In an interview with NPR, Dr. Wilson stated that he wanted to write a book of fiction in order to spread awareness on the importance and magnificence of every single minuscule creature on this planet, and the ways in which they affect us, if their habitats are senselessly destroyed. He hoped more people - adults and kids would pick a novel that has facts diluted in a story, than read his papers or other non-fiction books. A noble intention, for sure. But an academic can only “dilute” so much :). I really liked the book, and was fascinated by the facts, but I don’t think it would appeal to the “lay” reader who wants more story. It is only for (crazy) people like me, who are interested about Ants and the ecosystem. It is unfortunately not an easy read for young adults, as Dr. Wilson hoped.

This is the synopsis - Raff is a young boy who grows up being highly curious and fascinated by insects, animals, and Nature. Lucky for him, he lives in a small town in Alabama that adjoins dense forests that abound with several different species of reptiles, birds, and insects. He spends most of his time in the Nokobee tract, home to a unique species of Ants that builds remarkably huge and complex colonies. When it’s time to head to college, Raff realizes that the Nokobee tract is under a threat to be destroyed. He vows to save it, and dedicates his life’s mission to preserve it.

Dr. Wilson’s prose is sharp and intelligent. He takes his time to provide a background and story to all his characters. The book addresses the vociferous debate between the Naturalists and the religiously conservative groups, on whether the environment, the birds and the animals are meant to be conserved, or whether God intended us humans to use them to suit our needs till He arrived on Judgement Day.

Although the story is predictable, the whole section on Ants was the highlight for me. Dr. Wilson shows how similar Ant colonies are to human civilization - there are the same territorial wars, similar defenses, and the familiar pressure to survive and procreate. However, we differ on one crucial aspect - ants are far more altruistic than human societies have ever been and will probably ever be! He shows us the glorious strategies of Natural selection.

It was also interesting and informative to learn about the various laws and morally dubious loopholes that lawyers and agencies use to fight over a piece of land.

In all, it was an interesting read that has only increased my awe and interest in Ants. I hope to read his award winning book soon.

Deception

2011-06-02T11:19:00.002-04:00

I have far too many thoughts jostling inside my head, my fingers itch to type out plenty of words, but I don't have enough time to give vent to those thoughts and words. Well, I shouldn't be complaining. Anyway, I couldn't contain myself from sharing this (and I will try to keep it as brief as possible).

I happened to watch a new program that premiered on Discovery channel last night, called Deception. And I was bursting with excitement and mini "revelations" all through the show. Those of you who are fans of the movie, Inception, should definitely try to watch this show (it airs at 10:00 PM on Wednesdays). It is mentally exhilarating!

Ok, so what is so fascinating about this show that I am jumping about like an energizer bunny? The show is hosted by the mentalist and illusionist, Keith Barry, who claims he can "hack" into people's minds, "read" their thoughts, and implant thoughts! No, no, he is not someone like David Copperfield, or other such illusionist/magicians. There is no "magic" to his approach, merely science - the science of the human mind! In his first show, he visits a car dealership, and demonstrates how salesmen persuade people into buying cars, how they read body language and other behavioral cues to understand the customer and use the knowledge against them, etc. In parallel, he shows how he can read the salesmen's "thoughts", how he can "implant" numbers, ideas, colors, brands, and words into their subconscious and make them think of the resultant thoughts as their own, etc.

Again, why does this excite me?! Because, Keith Barry offers logical, scientific reasons behind his mind-reading abilities! I am thrilled because, I can finally, FINALLY, come close to understanding so called psychics and religious men who predict our thoughts, who can guess numbers, dates, and names from our past, who can even retell our past, predict our future etc! It was flabbergasting to me that these men could mention things from our past even without us giving them any clues, but now I realize (as I have intuitively felt), we do give plenty of clues! In terms of body language, subtle manner of speech, and our physiological responses (subtle muscle movement, eye movements, heart-rate, sometimes lines that appear on our palm etc.). Besides, plenty of scholarly articles have demonstrated how irrational the human mind really is! For example, we suffer from confirmation bias - we set out to collect evidences to prove what we believe in, comfortably neglecting evidences that threaten to disprove our belief. Slight changes in the environment influence our thoughts, seemingly casual words thrown out by clever salesmen and psychics settle into our subconscious, and even without us realizing it, it gives rise to thoughts and ideas that corroborate with the "predictions", and we believe them to have solely originated from us, out of our free-will. But not so! Not all the time, at least. Again, those who have watched Inception will hopefully see where I am going with all this.

Anyway, there's more to come from the shows, and I can't wait to watch them all! I am sure to chime in when one of these shows sparks another wave of excitement in me!

Reflections: In The Convent of Little Flowers

2011-06-01T17:32:00.001-04:00

Indu Sundaresan’s book of short-stories is markedly different from her other books. She shows a whole new side to her ability and talent as a writer. Through nine short stories surrounding India and its varied forms of customs and traditions, she makes the reader confront some of the most difficult and controversial topics; topics we prefer to brush under the rug, fervently hoping they will dwindle with the following generations that promise to nurture progressive attitudes. In the author’s words, “they all deal with that intense moment in which people confront disturbing events in their lives...”

True to her style, Indu Sundaresan relates these stories with sensitivity, grace, and insight. But her writing style in this book took me by surprise for it was quite different from her other books (the ones on historical fiction). Her prose is clear and sharp, and has a quiet, mystical element to it. All her stories are crafted with an element of impending tragedy, and her writing style works really well with the themes.

Regarding the stories themselves, she discusses the pangs of adoption, the bottomless pit of poverty and struggle for survival, the rigidity and horror of ancient practices such as Sati, caste-system, and dowry, the clash of western ideals with the norm of tradition, the almost imperceptible (but very much existent) notions on the superiority of males, and the complex relationships and expectations between Indian parents and their children. The stories come at you strong, and almost cut your soul. Each one leaves you with an uneasy recollection of a similar story and of real-life characters. Your mind sighs and gasps, wondering and retreating in denial at the incredulity of it all. One story in particular is quite hard to believe and digest - it seemed one-dimensional and a little stretched. But the rest of them, sadly, are not as hard to believe.

The characters are beautifully and meticulously defined. Every character in each story has a personality of their own. The stories yet again demonstrate that people’s intentions are often good, but the numerous constraints and complexities put forth by rituals and customs, shackle their minds from discerning right from wrong. People are lost in their own bubble of self-imposed rules on right and wrong that their judgments are clouded, and their attitudes seem primitive, even barbaric sometimes. But despite so many rules and customs (which are practised in the name of maintaining a morally smooth-functioning society), basic morality and humanity seem to be lacking in many aspects of our social functioning. An irony indeed.

Digested Thoughts: I quite liked the book. I was pleasantly surprised by the writing and characterization. Hope the author explores her talents with more such books!

All Things Bright and Beautiful

2011-05-31T11:47:00.003-04:00

IndiBlogger is currently holding a writing contest, open to all members of the Indian Blogging Community. The topic is - What does real beauty mean to you?

I glanced through a few submitted posts, and was blown away by the immense talent and the wonderful writers. All these bloggers have done a great job at defining what beauty is, and I am humbled by their posts. I really hope all these people believe in their words and hold true to them always :). In this obsessed era of physical perfection, such reflections are indeed necessary from time to time. I have often thought about what beauty is, and have even rambled on my thoughts now and then, but I have nothing spectacularly different or insightful to add to the burgeoning views on beauty that IndiBlogger has garnered. However, I was still tempted to write about it - more as an exercise in writing and expressing my thoughts on a topic that always feels incomplete and hard to verbalize. But I don’t plan on submitting the post for fear of marring the beauty of my imperfect expression with the pressure of competition :)

Nature has wired our basic instinct to notice and appreciate that which is helpful to our survival and to the proliferation of our genes. We love flowers because flowers help bees, bees help flowers, and the flowers, the delicate, helpless looking wonders help the ecosystem, and in turn, us. This delicate, yet robust and marvelous chain of support that sustains the planet is beautiful. The unfailing rhythm of Nature that masterfully orchestrates so many interconnected cycles of energy transfer is beautiful. Everything about Nature and its wired instincts in us follow symmetry as the benchmark of beauty. The symmetry of seasons, of night and day, of shapes and sizes, of colors and textures, of movements and sounds, even the fury of disasters - is beautiful. The lesson that Nature teaches, that of Karma, of the unforgivably generous effect of every single minuscule activity - is a beautiful lesson to ingrain. Nature - its specimens, its rhythms, its harmony, its symmetry, its evolution, and its endurance - embodies real beauty. Nature is as is - truthful, quiet, elegant, simple, unadorned, and yet gorgeous.

But this definition is an ethereal one, one that cannot be used in every day practical scenarios, when one tries to understand beauty to live life contently and meaningfully. We often grapple with the question - what makes a person beautiful? When I was very young - as a kid of six or seven, I believed that anyone with fair, creamy skin was beautiful. Cliched, yes. But it was a revelation to me, then. It was my first ever comprehension of the term “beautiful”. Going by the remarks of family, friends, and teachers, I narrowed it down to skin color (or lack of one). And realizing the absence of that precious attribute in me, I spent the following few years retreating into shadows of self-doubt and vanity as I became keenly aware of the unspoken attitudes of those around me. I started hearing this phrase far too often - “This color will not suit you”. So I found myself shrinking into subdued colors, slinking behind vibrant girls who could wear bold colors. But surprisingly, I accepted myself more easily and readily back then - the beauty of being a child. Thanks to my parents for nurturing my interests, and teaching me the value of inner-beauty. Good manners, grace, piety, and purity, my mom said. Intelligence, hard work, undying spirit, and altruism, my dad said. And I clung onto these values, which were mere words to me, hoping I will one day come to understand them and their beauty better.

Today, I do wholeheartedly realize the value of those words. A person is most beautiful for the humility, kindness, empathy, compassion, and generosity they exude - both within themselves, and outside themselves, showering others in their brilliant radiance. They are even more beautiful human beings if their minds are sharp, intelligent, curious, and most importantly, open. The human body can never be perfect in terms of the shallow definition of physical symmetry and flawless skin. But one might still keep aspiring for these in little ways, for somewhere buried in our subconscious, Nature’s instinct lingers, and it flares up now and then. Such mild feelings are harmless, I say, even inevitable really. The need to present oneself as a clean, sheen, and fit individual will always reside. But it is not a quest for beauty, it is an expression of the self to indulge in fleeting “feel-good” moments, when the task of beautifying the soul gets too difficult and abstract at times. Those who have conquered the difficult task of beautifying their inner-self are magnificently beautiful people for sure. Such beautiful individuals learn to accept and love themselves and those around them, for who they are.

Finally, when it comes to my perception of beauty in inanimate objects, I have two metrics - one is color, and the other is emotion. I love colors, and cannot live without them. I’m mesmerized by everything that reflects a bright or pastel glow. I’m glad I’m born a female, for I can lavish myself in so many colors without being scorned or judged. Why color is associated with gender, I don't know. But I live and breathe in colors. They are my reprieve in the daily routine of stress and work. They define beauty in a very materialistic, at the same time, ethereal sense.

Finally, anything that evokes a pleasant feeling, emotion, thought or memory, is beautiful to me. I love Art for the beauty of its varied expressions. And some objects, no matter how ragged and decrepit they turn with age, are souvenirs of memories and feelings we want to hold on forever. Their beauty increases with the number of experiences they share with us in life. These objects become keepers of the treasures of our life experiences. But sentimentalizing on material aspects should be kept on check. It’s beautiful if the mind develops sufficient detachment to merely outwardly recognize the beauty of these objects without getting sentimentally attached to them.

It’s beautiful to see how we coexist with Nature and with each other; that despite the squabbles, the violence, the intolerance, the competition, the greed for power, control, and the immense amounts of ignorance, we connect over the need for love and survival.

Reflections: East, West

2011-05-22T14:42:00.002-04:00

The book is a collection of short stories - stories from the East, some from the West, and finally a few that touch upon the amalgamation of East and West. Rushdie, in his characteristic style, tries to bring out the core elements that define the Eastern and the Western sides of the world, and in what ways the two sides come together, resulting in some successful communions and some disastrous ones.

Why this sudden interest in books by Salman Rushdie, you may ask. I have made up my mind to read the Booker of Bookers, his masterpiece, Midnight’s Children. I need to find out for myself why the book is so hailed. But I am extremely intimidated to start it. So, I am “easing” myself into his style of writing by first picking all the “low hanging fruits”, so to speak. I was a little disappointed with The Enchantress of Florence, although his writing was wonderful. But I am sorry to say that this book disappointed me in both the content, and the writing. Although, a short book, I took more than a week to read it, because my attention struggled to cope with the words and the story. However, I did like two stories - the first and the last, especially the last one. The last story deals with the fusion of East and West. Rushdie tells the story of immigrants torn between their homeland and their adopted home. His characters are sharp and distinct, and his words are sparse, yet strong.

His assertion is that while the East teems with mysticism, spiritualism and organic, rustic culture, the West primarily struggles to get a grounding on all the former elements in order to anchor the abundance of freedom and liberty they are lavished with. Both sides long for the attributes of the other side - well, the grass is always greener on the other side. Reaching a middle ground is easier said than done - people usually resort to extremes, or unfortunately end up mixing those aspects that are not meant to be “fused”. The dilemma regarding what to adopt, and what not to is as prevalent in the West, as it is in the East.

While the themes are interesting, barring a few stories, the majority of the stories were vague and a little too dense for my liking.

If the glass is full...

2011-05-20T14:35:00.006-04:00

Don’t make someone a priority in your life, if you are just an option in their life.

It took me years to come to terms and accept this piece of advice. But my dearest and closest, still struggle with it. I am frustrated with all the hours of talking, cajoling, and more stern-talking. I want to shake them and scream into their ears, in the hope that they will let go. But I can’t. But I can scream into one other space. This space - which is like the highest peak of the highest mountain. When I cry and scream, I have the feeling of venting to the whole world, yet I know there is no one but me in this vacant and still space. I can hear my words and screams echo down the silent spaces, but I know an ear or two will eventually pick up the ripples of sound, and I’m grateful for the mock-belief of shouting into the ears of the Universe.

Me and my dear ones have always been the “unpopular” ones, among family and friends. We try to fly under the radar, blend into the surrounding, and never make a splash. I, for one, am happy being so. That’s who I am. But trouble is, it isn’t pleasant to be ignored all the time - or most of the time. Especially when one wants to, nay craves to, share their love, affection, and hospitality with someone who has far too many adoring friends and family, that they are forced to pick and choose. When they choose, it is not us, surely not the unpopular, low-profile ones.

Trust me, I feel your angst. But you need to understand this, accept this as the way of life, and let go. It is not a reflection of your self-worth, it is not a reflection of their regard for you, nor is it a matter of hue and cry that you need to so fiercely compete over. We don’t know how to demand the spotlight on us, and it is not worth the clumsy effort of trying to. You can even bring down the moon, and I can stand by your side and help you collect all the stars, but it is still not enough - for they have already made their choice! Why such a choice, you ask, over and over again. Because their plate is too full, I keep saying.

And the more harder you try to capture it, the faster the sand slips out of your closed and strained fist, right? Does that image help?

A person once told me, when you try too hard to share your love and affection with someone who is not keen on receiving it, you descend to the state of a beggar - down on your knees begging someone to receive all the things you can offer. When ideally, the person who gives should only give to those who are willing to receive. Or even more ideally, we should give without even expecting someone to receive it, let alone reciprocate it. Expectation is the evil which ruins the value and beauty of giving. If the latter is too philosophical, stick to the former practical saying. Besides, it is not fair to demand or force your offer on anyone.

There are far too many people in the world who are in dire need of the love you can so generously offer. Channelize it their way, instead of forcing your way through the current channel, which is fortunately, already brimming and bursting! If the glass is already full, find another one to pour your love into.

Make peace, please. Spare us the agony, the unwanted negative energy. This is not a competition. Even if it were, it is not worth winning.

Political Correctness

2011-05-16T10:21:00.001-04:00

I'm not sure if this is a cultural phenomenon, or something related to individual traits. Many don't realize there is a difference between being frank, and being brutally frank. One can be frank and honest, yet convey their thoughts in a refined, politically correct manner that targets the problem to be solved to the mutual satisfaction of both parties involved. However, I come across many Indians (I may be wrong) who literally speak their mind out and hurt people, or put their foot in their mouth with a politically rude/incorrect remark, when they attempt being "frank". Their remark takes the attention away from the core problem. In a professional setting, it is embarrassing when you see people do this time and again, albeit in a harmless fashion. It is even more bristling when some others inquire if this trait is cultural. Although my first reaction was to argue that this was just yet another personality trait, further thought has made me wonder if the roots are indeed cultural.

Before people start pouncing and tearing at me, let me clarify. I am not stereotyping. My thoughts are probably shaped from the experiences I have had while growing up in my city, neighborhood, and family. I welcome your thoughts to broaden my perspective.

In my family and the place I grew in, people usually refrained from direct confrontation. Maamis and uncles are astute in the sly game of subtle slights, and indirect comments and allusions. The receiving party either broods in the hurt, buries and nurses the grudge, retaliates in an equally cheeky manner, or complains and gossips to the so-called sympathetic "friends". A disagreement is never resolved in a direct, honest fashion. Due to the game of indirect and behind-the-back gossips and repartee, even a small and inconsequential disagreement builds up and blows out of proportion after years of accumulated grudges. When people eventually confront - the scene is pretty nasty. People will be frank - but crassly so. This is the model of "frankness" we build in our head.

Culturally, we are taught to not be rude, or speak up to "elders". However politely we address concerns to "elders" or even neighbors, the fact that we open up a problem so directly and expect a solution, is taken as an affront. The norm is to let the problems fester till it cannot be tolerated anymore. Basically, we are brought up to be coy and "nice" (often by faking it), and have little training in being honest and direct.

Here comes the problem. When we are put in an environment where people are painstakingly politically correct AND direct, we poor people are lost. We realize the need to be direct, but we have no training, and no clue on how to present and word our direct remarks in a polite, constructive manner. Unfortunately, to us, direct means rude and blatant. And that's how we spit out our words, and claim on being "frank".

I admit that even I have been tongue-tied in the past. I have taken hours to compose a tough email. I would marvel and collect professionally worded emails that demanded improvements, out-rightly rejected, or addressed an important concern with the party's work, with such polite and honest flair. I tried to fit it all into a formula so that I could assimilate it, and emulate it (for instance, talk of the positive aspects, the potentially positive aspects, then mention the unpleasant in a direct but polite manner). But diplomacy cannot be squeezed into a formula. It is a gradual cultivation of your thought process, speech, and mannerism.

Smooth-talkers are blessed indeed. And I realize there are Indians who are savvy and glib speakers, as there are Americans who are rude and blunt. But, I'm not sure if my experience with the role played by culture has any influence on most people I see straining their professional relationships. If so, I'm wondering if we need to hold a special orientation on diplomacy and political correctness.

Or, as many are bound to say, let's not bother about the fluff, and keep calling a spade, a spade, and not care a hoot about the relationships soured and severed.

Unheard Melodies

2011-05-11T09:42:00.000-04:00

The past weekend, we watched the movie The Bridges of Madison County. For the very first time.

Yeah, I do have the distinct feeling of having spent the majority of my life under a rock. And as expected, the husband censured and lamented over Francesca’s “shocking” promiscuity and resignedly resorted to playing Angry Birds. I also surprised him by not entering into my usual "righteous" discussions on morality. Instead, I was weeping.

I wept for many reasons, but none of them has anything to do with the film resembling my life in any way. A cautious disclaimer ;). For seeing my tears, the husband was rattled and was rethinking his decision to leave me all by myself during his upcoming official trip. So, yeah, I cry because the world’s sorrow is my collective sorrow and all that.

I wept in appreciation of Meryl Streep’s performance - tears of awe and respect. Next, I wept that I was grown up enough to understand infidelity; to not judge or scorn it. I shocked myself by even empathizing. Anna Karenina did that to me. And now, this movie. Finally, I wept because the notion of romantic love is indeed fickle. The only sure way of preserving the fire of passion is to leave it stranded, and unattainable. Just the memory of not being able to attain it, elevates the romanticism and sustains the longing. As Keats said, “Heard Melodies Are Sweet, but Those Unheard Are Sweeter”.

As much as I long for peace and harmony, I see that our lives are indeed more interesting and fully lived when the horizon is always colored by some challenge, or smudged with some imminent uncertainty. Life in general, becomes more worth living because we then cling to a “purpose”- an idealistic one. We try to savor the best of what the present offers, focus on bigger elements, realize with clarity the most fundamental things that truly matter, and those million and one extraneous things which were previously picked on, but that don’t count in the harsh light of impermanence.

That said, I still strive for Happily-Ever-Afters. The more the challenge, the more tenuous the certainty, the more the idealism.

Reflections: Bombay Time

2011-05-09T17:12:00.002-04:00

I’m sure someone has noticed my recent trend in books. While previously I was guarded and lukewarm towards books written by authors of Indian origin, these days, I’m making up for my indifference by diligently scanning the library for the very same authors. I have to say that I am pleasantly surprised, both with myself and with the authors. Looking back at the books I have enjoyed and admired in the last few months, I’m thrilled to find that most were written by authors of Indian origin. I have been stirred and awed by the stellar writing prowess of Manil Suri, Abraham Verghese, Anuradha Roy, Salman Rushdie, and Indu Sundaresan. I’m proud of them, and of their beautiful writing that inspires and teaches. Therefore, I find myself in a quest to seek out books and authors that I have ignored for so long; to explore a genre I previously shunned out of the fierce protectiveness I felt towards my own country, home, and people, of the agony of reading about them in a less-flattering light, and of the fear of unearthing uncomfortable memories.

I’ve heard plenty of glowing praises for Thrity Umrigar, so I picked this book of hers. Let me cut to the chase before I embark on my rambling and state that Umrigar is yet another author I would go hunting for in the book racks.

This novel follows a different style of story-telling. It tells the stories of the different occupants of Wadia Baug, an apartment complex in Bombay, housing a well-knit Parsi community. In the throes of their late middle-age, the members of the community nostalgically look back at their lives and wonder at the early dreams, hopes and happiness their lives held, and the detours and disappoints that fate threw their way to break their wings of hope. Despite the uneven bittersweet journey they traveled, they were grateful for one robust pillar of support - the friendship of the Wadia Baug community. The novel is a seemingly simple story of the importance of community and companionship. But the stories are heavily layered with so many aspects of life, especially of life in Bombay.

This is a character-driven book, as some people would classify. The book teems with interesting characters, reminiscent of people we know, of people we probably are turning into, and of people we have struggled to understand. What I respect and marvel at is Umrigar’s honest and insightful psychological appraisal of these people. Despite the characters’ numerous flaws, she shows us the true person they are at heart. She articulates my hypothesis that people are inherently good, and even, simple. Yet, they become complicated, and sometimes reprehensible, because of the disappointments, tragedies, and painful experiences they are forced to go through. They continue to live life as their vulnerabilities, insecurities, guilt, regrets, and wounds threaten to never heal, and fester just under the surface.

For instance, we admonish and hate the gossipy, old woman in the neighborhood, but have probably never taken a moment to consider how her life had been before she became so; why she seems to unfailingly provide food and help when you need it; and why your parents implicitly trust her with their house keys, despite her petty talk and inquisitiveness. Or why the “apartment board” never fires the inefficient, ill-tempered, weak, watchman. Every person has a story, a reason for why there are they way they are. With a little empathy, and a little consideration, we look into the unsoiled person within them. Although we will continue to resent their flaws, their stunted maturity, their cloistered thinking, their intrusion and comments on your life, we need them just as much to establish a community and rely on their basic (sometimes, well hidden), harmless, good nature. We realize, grudgingly at that, that our quintessential Indian neighborhood does indeed do more good than the secluded islands of the western residential communities.

Digested Thoughts: Although at times I felt there were a tad too many characters and stories to keep track of, Umrigar beautifully unwraps the stories of six different Parsi families, and their connection to the Wadia Baug apartment complex. The stories cannot be more real, and honest, and they each involve the role played by Bombay - its boisterous, harsh, unforgiving part. They also shed light on subtle Indian customs, traditions, and its social and political dynamics that complicate life needlessly. As much as Umrigar emphasizes the benefits of being part of a community, she also brilliantly and subtly shows the flip-side. If we wrap ourselves too very tightly and comfortably in the safe cocoon of our little ethnic community, we remain ignorant, indifferent and callous towards the rest of the world operating around us. Secluding oneself within a community is just as bad as being intolerant of other communities. We all need to realize that we are part of something bigger than just our tiny community. It is important to connect with all of humanity, as being part of one big society. This is especially true of India, where there are a million different sectarian groups, that we tend to see ourselves as total strangers if we so much as move to a different religious neighborhood within the very same city. This feeling of being an alien if we step two streets away from our community, is the cause for communal tension and violence.

Anyway, to wrap up, I enjoyed reading this book, especially the character analysis, and will definitely recommend it. Umrigar's writing is simple, but evocative and insightful.

Reflections: An Atlas of Impossible Longing

2011-05-06T13:15:00.001-04:00

Seeking solitude and a niche for himself, Amulya moves to the idyllic village of Songarh, and sets up a factory that manufactures authentic herbal potions from the unique plants of the region. As much as Amulya appreciates Songarh, his family, especially his wife, dearly misses the bustling life of Calcutta. Her loneliness is an implacable longing. The longing starts there. Each person has his or her own deep longing, and grapples to fill the void caused by it. Due to the stringent rules imposed by a complicated social structure, the characters realize that their longing is almost impossible to be quenched. So, they move on and live through life, trying to swim against the currents, until they resign themselves to the path charted by destiny. Anuradha Roy has crafted a moving story and real-to-life characters that leave a strong impression on the reader.

My thoughts on the book are sparse, but the feelings it has evoked, and the images it has burned in my mind, are far too many. The story takes us through three generations, spanning from the 1920s to the 1950s of India. Roy delicately weaves the political and social shifts in this time period into the story. It is subtly and expertly done to vividly show the marked changes these bring about in the lives of the characters. I loved the tight-knit integration. And the sheer breadth of social and political issues she seamlessly covers, is remarkable. She covers caste system, the pitiable treatment of widows, the hindu-muslim rivalry, the cut-throat nature of survival in Calcutta, the impenetrable distance between the English and the locals, the colonial hangover, infidelity, and the dynamics of an orthodox family. It might seem like she went through all the essential check-list items on India, but her execution is impeccable and everything neatly and naturally falls into the story. Nothing is over-done. Her prose has an under-stated elegance in conveying these heavy themes. Through her precise and sensitive descriptions, she captures the heart of India, and Indian families.

Her writing is beautiful - it has a quiet flair to it. Her words are used sparingly, but aptly, to draw her characters and emanate their thoughts and feelings from the pages. Her characterization is brilliant. Although it’s been two days since I finished the book, I still retain crystal clear images of the characters and the settings. And I’m sure I’ll carry these quaint images with me for a long time to come, even if my memory of the story fades.

Digested Thoughts: I loved the book from beginning to end. There was never a moment when I lost interest, and easily continued reading for hours together in the wee hours. The book touched a chord in me. The main characters were personable, and the writing was sublime. I thought long and hard about what rating to give this book, for I realize I’m a bit of a tough-cookie when it comes to giving the highest rating. But I guess the real test of a good book is in its capacity to touch you, and live with you in your thoughts, even after the last pages. When such a book sits on my shelf, I would often pull it open to randomly read a few passages and revel in the writing and setting. For these simple reasons alone, I think this book merits the highest rating I can bestow.

Reflections: The Thing Around Your Neck

2011-05-02T16:14:00.001-04:00

I started reading Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus a couple of years back, but given my mental state then, I couldn’t stand the distressing nature of the story and abandoned it half-way. But I did like Adichie’s writing that I sought another book of hers - something that didn’t have to do with wars, and I was left with this book of short-stories. I quite liked the book, but back then, I hadn’t yet stumbled into the phase of recording my thoughts on every book I read, so I just shelved my thoughts. However, I was reminded of the book when recently, I came across this TED video of Adichie’s talk.

Just a short while ago, I had written about my curiosity to know about the person behind the pen/words. Quite surprisingly, Adichie’s voice and speech were exactly as I had imagined. I was impressed by her confidence and measured words, which made clear she was of substance. Her speech was on the dangers of stereotyping and narrowing one’s perspectives because of the kinds of stories the media (books, television, movies, Internet) chooses to concentrate and perpetuate. All through her talk, I was reminded of the many different insightful stories she had written in this book. So, although this post is about two years late, better late then never, I told myself.

People in developed countries have certain common images and impressions about developing countries - poverty, unrest, illiteracy, disease, violence, and corruption. They are not wrong. It is indeed true that cows languish on Indian roads, and every street corner is likely to have a crude little temple teeming with superstitious people. But to latch onto just these, and assume that the country is made of cows and superstitions, is gross ignorance. To eradicate people’s stereotypes, their ignorance, misunderstanding and oversimplification of Africa, Adichie presents twelve different stories of Nigerians.

Through a host of well-defined and different characters, Adichie shows that there are Nigerians who are well-educated, well-read and refined, who own good cars, travel abroad, are distinguished authors, journalists, university professors, and doctors. She also writes about those who are riddled with poverty and struggle to make a living as shunned immigrants in the US; those who stray from education due to the ravaging influence of war, violence and communal disputes; those beguiled women who find themselves as dependent wives to their partly Americanized, over-bearing, chauvinistic husbands; those ambitious immigrants who succumb to the illusion of milk and honey; those young girls who grow to hate their own brothers because of the excessive favoritism they receive; those well-meaning elders who cloister themselves with misguided notions of culture, and end up oppressing and subjugating women.

Every story is honest, and speaks volumes. The stories on immigration, the conflicts between cultures, the dilemma of going back home, the violence, communal riots, and deep-seated belief in complex values, go across borders and ring true to anyone from a developing country. I could relate to almost every story, but my most favorite was The American Embassy. It says a lot when you get moved to tears by a single short-story. I thought it captured Africa (or rather Nigeria), and the relationship between the US and developing nations, in a nutshell.

Although some stories might seem a little abrupt and incomplete, what impressed me most was the simplicity of Adichie’s words, and the vivid, and perfect characterization that the stories achieve despite the parsimony of words. I can never do that, and I commend authors who can powerfully capture the insights, and the million and one hues of the characters and the story through simple, honest words.

Digested Thoughts: I enjoyed reading this book of short-stories. The stories are simple, honest, and powerful. They truthfully speak the unheard stories of Nigerians. Adichie’s simple and solemn writing does not try to dim any rough edge.

Reflections: Shadow Princess

2011-04-29T12:05:00.000-04:00

To the uninitiated, Shadow Princess, is the third book in a series that fictionalizes some of the powerful, albeit, hidden personalities of the Mughal dynasty. The first two books - The Twentieth Wife, and The Feast of Roses, narrate the colorful life of one of the most influential and impressive women of the Mughal Empire - Jahangir’s twentieth, and most beloved wife - Nur Jahan (or Mehrunissa). In this third book, Shah-Jahan (Jahangir’s rebellious son) is the sovereign ruler of the Mughal lands, who is shattered at losing his dear wife, Mumtaz Mahal (Arjumand). He struggles to cope with his heartbreak, and diverts his sorrow to the construction of the most spectacular tomb for her - the Luminous Tomb (or the Taj Mahal). At his time of distress, he banks on his strong and clever daughter, Jahanara, an uncanny reminder of his wife. Shah Jahan’s dependence on Jahanara is so immense, that the pristine and loving bond between father and daughter gets besmirched due to treacherous rumors. Yet, the bond never wanes, and Jahanara resolutely stays by her father’s side, till his demise. Although Jahanara has receded into the shadows of history texts, this book pulls her out and spills out her story.

Although I read the first two books last year, I had no curiosity or interest in reading the third (and I think, final) book of the series. The deceit and greed of the Mughal time period tired me. I knew what to expect from this book - the repeat of events. Greedy Aurangazeb snatches the throne, imprisons his ill father and kills his brothers. History surely repeated in the Mughal dynasty. However, what re-piqued my interest was the last book I read - The Enchantress of Florence. Salman Rushdie’s descriptions of the Mughal era made me thirsty for more, and who else but Indu Sundaresan can deliver astounding descriptions of Mughal life.

And so, I grabbed this book. The writing quenched my thirst suitably - more than adequately. Almost beyond the point of satiation. I think Indu Sundaresan has mastered the art of writing about the Mughal era - her words are poetic, romantic, and extremely elegant and beautiful. Her florid writing seems to make any scene, even the most mundane, scintillating and interesting. This is partly due to the artistic and poetic touch she gives to every detail - be it a landscape, a person, a building, a tiny artifact. Particularly, her prose shines with the meticulous details she carefully and artfully uses to describe the Taj Mahal, and its construction. I am a person who usually never pays attention to details (well almost, never). I gather the big picture and then move on. But writers like her, kindle the romantic poet in the reader. The words make us skew our rigid (boring) perspectives just a little; to slant our eyes to see the cast of colors and shadows thrown by a plain oil-wicker lamp, or to squint at the afternoon sun lighting up a garden in a million different shades.

So yes, having dedicated a whole effusive paragraph to the writing, let me get to my quibbles. I hate that I’m starting to sound like a pompous, pretentious, know-it-all book critic, but I have to say that while the writing was impressive, it didn’t capture the characters or the story well. Jahanara was described almost identical to how Mehrunissa was. I find no difference between the characterizations of the two women - both were smart, strong-willed, beautiful, influential, and bold enough to go against tradition and create scandals. If at all someone clipped a section from one of the books and asked me to identify the woman being described, I would be at a loss. Almost all the characters had the same “voice” of the narrator - all their dialogues were erudite and poetic, and it was unrealistic to me. There was no distinct characterization, except probably for Aurangazeb; even Shah Jahan started resembling Jahangir. This might partly be due to the domination of third-person narration in the book. This may have still not been problematic had the narration not focused excessively on the romantic details. The story itself was like a small fruit, sitting inside layers and layers of flowery, extravagant husk. For instance, the description of Jahanara walking down a corridor in the palace easily ran up to (and sometimes more) than two whole pages, while Aurangazeb’s final coup and displacement of Shah Jahan and his brothers, also comes to around two pages. Since there was so much narration and little dialogue or interactions in comparison, parts of the book sounded like a history text - a lyrical one, though.

Despite my quibbles, I surely appreciated reading about Aurangazeb and Jahanara. Until now, I hadn’t paid attention to the fact that Aurangazeb was a staunch Muslim, who went against the principles of tolerance and secularism that his predecessors had embraced. In stark contrast, Jahanara was ahead of her times, well read and balanced in her views. However, it is ironical that Aurangzeb, a man who was so steeped in social and religious propriety, committed categorically callous and amoral deeds by killing his own brothers and snatching the Empire from his ailing father.

Digested Thoughts: It was interesting to read about Princess Jahanara, and the construction of the Taj Mahal. Indu Sundaresan’s writing is always a treat, but I wish the lovely writing was wielded to give more depth and flair to her characters and the historical events.

Reflections: The Enchantress of Florence

2011-04-28T11:07:00.000-04:00

A man with cascading yellow-colored hair, donning a multicolored leather coat, strides confidently into the lavish court of the great Mughal emperor, Akbar. He calls himself by many ambiguous names, charms the emperor with his wit, his pleasing scent, and his mysteriously magical stories. At a time when the Emperor is longing for company, and for intellectual discussions on religion and life, the questions of which were stirring his soul, the yellow-haired man makes himself the Emperor’s listening board and confidante. He soon earns the name, “Mughal of Love”. Yet, Akbar’s mind is not at peace, for this strange man was slowly unwrapping a story about his grand-aunt, Babur’s bewitchingly beautiful sister, the supposedly banished princess, the enchantress, Qara-Koz. The implications of the story were profound - it meant that the strange man in multicolored clothes, bearing an Italian name, could be a half-Mughal. The weight rested on Akbar to cull the truth from the story.

The book is no doubt, alluring. It crafts an incredibly imaginative story, combining fact with fiction in a way nobody would have previously considered. The woman who was cast away from the Mughal lineage finds her way to Florence, Italy, after passing hands from the Shah of Persia, who had earlier captured her and her sister as conquests of war. This enchantress, Qara Koz, lights a flame within the hearts and minds of the people of the Mughal land. Merely through a story, whose truth nobody could ascertain, the persona of the enchantress creeps into people’s lives, making them curious, cautious, anxious, jealous, suspicious, and venomous. A mere wisp of a thought floating from a story, had the power to corrupt and fascinate. The Emperor is however, obsessed. He passionately adores his grand-aunt, completes missing gaps in her life and personality, and gives life to the figment of his imagination. To him, she soon started to exist in life, much like his other imaginary, but most beloved wife, Jodha.

This, in essence, is the main take-away from the book. Akbar’s imagination, and the will of his thoughts were so strong and vivid, that he could give life to a fragment of his thoughts. Reality blurred with illusion, the boundaries bled into each other and reversed roles. That which is real, fades away in the background, while the illusion, comes alive. It might seem silly and hallucinogenic, but that’s how most of us live our lives. We selectively snatch aspects of reality and ignore several others. We form a cohesive story out of the little bits of reality we piece together, extend and complete the missing pieces with a favorable, imaginative bent. Once the will of our imagination solidifies, we become blind to reality itself. This is how half-baked, rigid opinions are formed, and then stagnate, impervious to any form of rational intrusion. This is also how most of our likes and dislikes of people are born.

Surely interesting. However, as an anticlimax, Rushdie’s words were not as layered or deep, and I didn’t have to wait till the end of the book to glean this. The symbolism or message, so to speak, was obvious from the first few chapters of the book. I relished these initial chapters, and even thought so far as to consider this as one of the best books I would read. But, a huge but at that, I was disappointed. The story meandered far too much. It was convoluted and bizarre, but didn’t convey much, or so I think. There was plenty of potential in the initial part of the book - wonderful questions on God, Religion, reality and the Human Ego, that Akbar muses on. But sparing a few wise sentences, none of the questions were developed or integrated into the story.

The book also hints at the need for tolerance between cultures. The story highlights Akbar’s tolerance and openness (specifically, between the East and the West). Akbar viewed the integration of new ways of thinking and living to be paramount for the development of the human race. Rushdie fabulously portrays Akbar’s progressive attitude. His personality was sketched well, and the Mughal Empire was tantalizingly described and brought to life.

I never thought I would say this, but Rushdie’s prose was a delight to read. I finally understand why he is extolled for his word-plays. His sentences are simple, yet complex, sparse, yet lush. Although I lost interest in the story, I latched onto the book to read the prose. Of course, I also harbored some measure of curiosity to learn how the story ended, if at all Rushdie had a surprise waiting there. But there was none, or so I think. I can never be sure after reading Rushdie’s books.

Digested Thoughts: It is worth reading the first 100 pages of the book - for the clever writing, and the threads of wisdom and wit. Beyond that, I found the story stretched out and without much meaning. Qara-Koz’s tale was enigmatic, and incestuous. I don’t understand the need for, and the import of the latter part. So, in comparison to Rushdie’s other works, I would rate this book as surely not as interesting or deep. If you’ve read this book, please share your thoughts and educate me on the other aspects I’ve missed.

Reflections: Madame Tussaud

2011-04-18T14:08:00.003-04:00

Madam Tussaud’s wax exhibition has earned exceptional fame and praise for over two centuries, that it is now regarded as a Hall of Fame. I have given a thought or two about this successful entrepreneur who skilfully brought the art of sculpting to mainstream entertainment. But I had no idea this person lived during the tumultuous time of the French revolution. It is fascinating that she both survived the terrible upheaval, and also successfully established her trade from France to England, to now all over the world. If her wax museum is still uproariously popular all over the world, it is a testament to her sharp business acumen and unrelenting ambition. For these reasons, Michelle Moran’s historical fiction on Madam Tussaud's life during the French revolution promises to be an interesting read.

As expected, Moran defines Madam Tussaud (or Mademoiselle Grosholtz before her marriage) as a fiercely ambitious and determined woman. Her uncle took her as an apprentice and trained her in sketching and wax-sculpting, and with his help she ran a wax exhibition which displayed life-like models of the royals, politicians, noblemen, and philosophers. She focuses her life on improving and popularizing her wax exhibition, constantly innovating and exploiting people’s innate curiosity of celebrities and their life. When King Louis XVI and the Queen Marie Antoinette visit her museum to view the wax models of the palace, and of themselves and their family, they are so impressed by Marie’s (Madam Tussaud's) talent, that they invite her to teach wax modeling and sculpting to the King’s pious sister, Princess Elisabeth. Marie is thrilled at the publicity and recognition her exhibition elicits due to this offer, that she eagerly takes it up to teach the Princess, despite the growing unrest and frustration of the people towards the royals. In fact, some of Marie’s friends are openly against the King and the Queen and are plotting a revolution to bring about a constitutional monarchy.

Moran makes it seem like Marie’s support and sympathies are with the Royals, due to her close friendship with Princess Elisabeth. The King and Queen are shown as earnest nobles who were cast in an unfortunate light due to rumors and ignorance. My quibble is that I don’t understand this perspective; I failed to get an objective and complete picture of the Royals. The ostentatious nature of the royal life comes through Moran’s prose, and the reader can sense Marie’s slight disapproval of their high-handed nature and pampered life when her own family struggled to put food on the table, yet it isn’t clear why she still sympathizes with them. To justify it to her friendship with the Princess was not entirely satisfactory to me. Perhaps she thought the punishment meted out was far more severe than what they deserved and was therefore sympathetic?

While the revolutionary “rationalists” had good ideas and principles on equality and liberty, history tells us that this plan went awry and they turned into barbaric murderers. Moran describes the morbid and grisly crimes that were perpetuated by the very same rationalists who condemned the Royals for their mistreatment of the masses. Marie was forced to make death masks (wax models) of several prominent non-patriots (the ones who favored the royals). She was given the grim task of using their severed heads to sculpt masks that served as warnings to people, and reminders to progeny. It is hence understandable that Marie was repulsed by the revolutionaries, but I would have still appreciated more information on the Royals, their various deeds which incited the people, and the reasons for Marie’s support towards them.

My second crib with the book is that Marie’s character was quite flat. Moran brings forth her shrewdness, feminism and ambition, showing how she risked her love and her own life to remain in France for the sake of her exhibition and her mother. But there was no character development beyond this determined facade. Marie’s passion and her struggles through the “Reign of Terror” don’t have any soul to them. It felt like Marie was simply narrating the French Revolution, rather than her life during the revolution. Although the book was 400+ pages, I felt there was so much more missing about Marie, in terms of her personality. I was especially disheartened that the last pages of the book were rushed, and important parts of Marie’s life were condensed to a couple of sentences. I felt more satisfied with the epilogue than with the entire book. That's not a good sign.

Digested Thoughts: The book holds promise, but it was a disappointment to me. However, there are plenty of rave reviews for it on Amazon, so my point view may just be a quirky rarity. My main disappointment is that none of the characters were well-defined. Marie didn’t come alive as a person. She was portrayed as a cliched ambitious woman, and didn’t have a distinct personality of her own. I can’t come to terms with Marie’s superficial recounts of her struggles and her unfortunate task of molding severed heads. I understand that Moran wanted to signify Marie’s strength, resolve, and her numbness towards death and morbidity, but it wasn’t executed well. Due to this, I found the writing to be abrupt and without much feeling. But I did learn more about Madam Tussaud, her life, and the French Revolution than I remember from textbooks, so I’m glad for the learning experience.

"Vain"Glory

2011-04-15T10:26:00.004-04:00

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I find Yahoo’s headlines and local news to be quite entertaining, even if they are not really of much substance. I usually click on links that flash “10 home remedies for headache and beautiful skin” or “The top 10 cleanest cities in the US”, or “The 10 highly safe neighborhoods in the US”. Once in a while, I’ll be tempted to read about the 3 year old who saved her mother, or the 10 year old who threw herself in front of a truck to save her little sister. And every time, I’ll be surprised by the breadth of scintillating news that Yahoo rounds up.

This morning, I found an irresistibly plaintive news flash - “Bullied child gets plastic surgery”, and the picture of a cute little, freckled child smiling at me. I had to read the story:
http://news.yahoo.com/video/health-15749655/bullied-child-gets-plastic-surgery-24902719

At the end of it, I was shocked. Beyond belief. Honest to God, I did not find anything wrong with the kid’s ears! I am out of words to condemn such perpetuation of vanity! Maybe it isn’t vanity - perhaps it is the pressure to conform to standards of acceptable beauty? I understand the pains of being bullied, but for ears that stuck out a little? Really?! I ADORE such ears! And know quite a few (kids and adults) with those Simba-like ears, who lead content, confident lives.

I don’t want to judge and jump to conclusions - but was this the right approach to save the kid’s feelings and development of positive self-esteem? Cosmetic surgery - the panacea to body-image related self-esteem and confidence issues? And to instill this in a 7 year old, who is soon going to enter the inevitably harrowing years of adolescence and has to cope with teenage insecurity? At 14 she may think her nose isn’t perfect, or her skin isn’t flawless - what is her solution going to be? More surgery? Such stories once again point to the western world’s vain illusion of a perfect body, and its stubborn obsession with it.

Besides, bullying never stops in life. One can’t “escape” it by altering one’s body - over and over again. Children should be taught coping strategies that reaffirm their worth, despite minor external quirks. I may be wrong, but from the video I got the sense that the mom was more insecure and harried than the child. There are ways to focus on brighter, positive aspects of the child, and to channelize the child’s growth in constructive ways that establish confidence and security.

Encourage her talents, support and help improve them, make her feel valued for possessing those talents, let her qualities and traits build her confidence, reinstate that external appearances do not make one’s personality or success in life. But be empathetic all the same. I know that brushing away a sensitive issue like this by waving it off stoically won’t work. Be creative and explore ways in which the kid can feel all the more beautiful and confident - compliment her often, get her flattering clothes, a nice hair-cut. Teach her that she can use little cosmetic accessories to express herself. But don’t magnify a quirk in front of her impressionable mind and innocent eyes into a horrible humiliation. That’s a terrible, irrevocably bad example to set. The more I think of it, it’s the mother’s self-esteem/insecurity issues that are being acted out on the daughter. I am aware that every mother loves her child and would do anything to protect the child. Although well-meaning, sometimes, mothers do make mistakes and put their child under an unnecessary knife.

I’m not arguing that cosmetic surgery is never an option. Cosmetic surgery is a blessing for children born with cleft lip/palate, or those who get disfigured from accidents, suffer burns, etc. Although one can still argue that cosmetic fixes aren’t necessary, I don’t think it’s fair to let the child (or adult) deal with so much pain, if surgery is a viable solution. One should know where to draw the line - as always.

In this world of needless vanity, a time when anyone can be made to look good with fashionable clothes, fitting hair-cut, and skillful make-up, this story is a striking example of the kinds of values being passed onto the next generation.

The Face Behind Words

2011-04-12T17:30:00.004-04:00

Do you judge a book by its cover?

I know, I know. The politically right thing to say (especially if the “book” in question is actually a person), is “No, of course not. I remember an incident from Mahatma Gandhi’s life when......”
Yes, true. There are intellectuals and humanitarians who have waxed eloquently and articulately on how constraining, judgmental, irrational, and rash our views are, if they are formed primarily on the external impressions of a person - how one looks, dresses, talks, and carries themselves.

But some people are truly the same - in and out. They are so incredibly transparent and frank in everything about them, that you sometimes wished they surprised you now and then. However, I hardly meet such confident and genuine personalities. Due to my belief that human beings are inherently “good” or “nice”, and that they are exceedingly complicated, I never ever judge anybody based on my first impression. I think Shrek nailed it when he calls himself an onion - he succinctly conveys my meandering thoughts which obviously lack the vivid imagery and punch that an onion brings to mind. Everyone has multiple layers of themselves. Individually, no layer gives a complete picture of the person. Although there may be a few rotten (or unpalatable) layers to a person, on the whole, I believe that the composite is hardly ever completely corrupted or foul. Every person has at least one shred of “good” or “pure” layer in them, and I try to focus on that part of the person. Many disagree and tsk-tsk at my idealism, but despite several unkind experiences with people, I still maintain this stance.

Anyway, I have as usual gone astray from the point of the post.

In this electronic age dominated by the internet revolution, it has become even more complicated to understand a person (or most of their layers), from what and how they choose to project themselves through Facebook, Twitter, blogs, and other online media. Scholars have aptly named our Internet persona as our second-life. The Internet is a favorable portal through which we can adopt any number of avatars as our alter-ego would like to manifest.

Such online profiles fire an irresistible curiosity in me. It is in my nature to want to analyze people, deconstruct them, and fit them back into cohesive segments that logically point at their behavior, motivations, thought process etc. Yes, I am a “psycho-nerd” as my husband calls me. Besides, there is this little part of me which is curious about the role of intuition and gut-feeling - haven’t you ever wondered how a person would look based on their voice? Oh, that’s such a favorite “hobby” of mine - it encompasses all possible permutations and combination between faces, names, voices, words, and personalities. I convert basic human curiosity into a profound detective work ;). In the online arena, since I like to read blogs and people’s thoughts, I usually (involuntarily, most of the time) start collecting bits and pieces of clues that trickle out of the posts and begin my jigsaw puzzle, eking out a few “assumptions” here and there to fit some corners.

Sometimes, I come across blogs that move me, awe me, or well, revolt me, that I instantly let down my guard, don’t pay heed to my “layer-theory”, and immediately put a face, and a personality to the words and thoughts. Reading just a few posts gives me the assured feeling of knowing the person so well that I can mentally extend the missing layers and construct a picture that fits my model. The surprise is that, no new post will ever contradict my model. If there are contradictions, my mind rationalizes it, justifies it, and I invent new, unknown layers to this persona. I am mostly blissfully unaware of reality, for I have hardly met or interacted with people whom I get to know only through their blog. I smugly thought a blog - a medium which allows one to express their thoughts (being higher-order stuff and all that), was the “purest” filter in the online world to give us a real peek into the person behind the words.

Nope, not really. I never learn that words are - just words, to most people. Even if there is no pressure to write those words down, even if the written word is supposedly more powerful and "straight-from-the-heart". It is indeed easier to type these days than to talk to people. Just as how the words that float so smoothly out of many a mouth should be passed through multiple sieves before trusting those casually thrown out morphemes, it is necessary to take the impulsively-rattled-out words with a grain of salt.

One can be the most astute, razor sharp, analytical philosopher who can dissect arguments and articulate brilliant theories in their blog, but that doesn't necessarily translate to how well this philosopher applies their skills to manage their life - one can't be shocked if this philosopher were to act in the most irrational manner possible in their own life. Similarly, a person who seems generous, empathetic, sensitive, and intelligent, need not be compassionate or altruistic all the time, or even at the most crucial of times. Their traits are mainly in principle, in theory, in random shapes that form words. Everyone does indeed have their multiple layers, which no abstract medium can faithfully help us get to know.

For instance, what would you, kind reader who has waded through my post and got to this point, assume of me? Among other unmentionable expletives, a chatterbox, a rambling, incorrigible talker, perhaps? Haha. I am incorrigible yes, but surely not a talker, unless you dangerously let loose an interesting point of view in front of me.

It takes years of direct, face-face, real-life interaction with a person to unearth most, if not all, of their core "layers". The complexity of human beings will never cease to surprise me. Nor will my thrill and suspense of putting together a face from a voice, or a voice from a face. Even if I have failed almost all the time.

Reflections: How I Became a Human Being

2011-04-07T13:50:00.005-04:00

Mark O’Brien fell victim to Polio at a very young age. Since then, his condition only kept worsening, despite his lingering childlike hopes. His spine curved, the muscles in his limbs atrophied, and his lungs deteriorated, making him dependent on an unwieldy iron lung (a respirator of sorts) to breathe. Mark was shuttled between hospitals and his home for the predominant part of his childhood and teenage years. But his burning ambition to be independent and to make a living on his own, drove him to pursue admission into University of California, Berkeley’s Undergraduate Disabled Students’ Program. After much struggle, he got in and successfully graduated as an English Major. Having a penchant for literature and writing since his early years, he converted his interest into his livelihood. He worked hard to establish himself as a freelance writer and journalist. More importantly, he toiled all his life to establish himself as a human-being - a person worthy of love, respect and regard. Mark’s memoir is much more than inspirational to me - it is a touching account of what Independence, acceptance, and respect in society means.

I am always interested in issues surrounding one’s identity - how identity is felt and worn by an individual, how this gets perceived by society, how society’s perception feeds back and tinges one’s awareness of their identity, and then the ways in which one chooses to project it. Mark’s words are full of these identity feedback loops, and the title of the memoir fittingly describes his angst. In an Utilitarian sense, a disabled body screams of “low-utility” in every segment of society - professional and personal. Mark’s battle, and that of several others, is to go against this stream of thought in a society that is Utilitarian at its core. It is shameful that people who can’t contribute to society in the same ways as able-bodied people, are indeed regarded a little less human, and are afforded less humane treatment. Starting from the ways in which one looks at such a person, to the conversations (if at all) they have with the person, they are made to feel so different as to not even think of belonging to the same class of species. Mark’s memoir is a plea to correct political policies that doom the lives of disabled people suffering such indignities to their identity, wasting away their lives and minds in institutions and hospitals. The US has come a long way with its Disability Act, but many other societies still live in the dark.

There are three other aspects of this memoir that really touched me (some of which I have already stressed before)

1. The misconception surrounding independence and incompetence
When physically challenged people talk of their desire to be independent, they are often misconstrued as being in denial, and not facing reality. True, the extent of independence and privacy that they can hope for is different from what an able-bodied person can experience. But by independence, they mean the right and freedom to express themselves, choose between options, decide for themselves, and control the directions of their life as much as they can. The unfortunate misconception that a crippled person faces is that of mental incompetence. People hardly want to ask permission, or provide choices to a person in a wheelchair, who projects the image of helplessness and physical incompetence. Our animalistic brain assumes that a physical challenge equals low brain power. To break such stereotypical molds, we have several highly accomplished scientists and artists who repeatedly assert that the physical state is no reflection of the agility of the mental state. It is a fatalistic approach to keep dictating the lives of those with a severe physical disability, using the insensitive argument that they anyway have far too few choices in life to contend with, and heaven forbid, they shouldn’t be hoping for more.

2. Bravery versus fearlessness
Mark’s memoir is extremely honest. He cringes when people call him brave, probably because the word discounts his struggles, fears, and frustrations, and seems to put him in an uncomfortable spotlight that emphasizes that he is not “normal”. But, I liked a definition of bravery that he eventually comes to accept. Bravery doesn’t mean fearlessness. Bravery is when you decide to do something, despite the fear it causes you. This applies to everybody and to most of our actions. We constantly fight against our fears, to rise above it, and accomplish that which we really want.

3. The Disability spectrum
Everyone is “disabled” to some extent, in some form or the other. No one is perfectly able-bodied or able-minded. But all of us crave for love and acceptance regardless of the condition of our body or mind - acceptance is vital in the basic hierarchy of human needs. It helps to connect with this primal need for acceptance when we consider people who are shunned due to their physical state.

I will end with one of Mark’s poems about his breathing through an iron lung:

Grasping through straws is easier;
You can see the straws.
“This most excellent canopy, the air, look you,”
Presses down upon me
At fifteen pounds per square inch,
A dense, heavy, blue-glowing ocean,
Supporting the weight of condors
That swim its churning currents.
All I get is a thin stream of it,
A finger’s width of the rope that ties me to life
As I labor like a stevedore to keep the connection.
Water wouldn’t be so circumspect;
Water would crash in like a drunken sailor,
But air is prissy and genteel,
Teasing me with its nearness and pervading intensity.
The vast, circumambient atmosphere
Allows me but ninety cubic centimeters
Of its billions of gallons and miles of sky.
I inhale it anyway,
Knowing that it will hurt
In the weary ends of my crumpled paper bag lungs.

It is remarkable that Mark kept breathing and living despite his numerous existential questions and frustrations, until his lungs finally gave in. Jessica Ju’s interesting documentary on Mark’s colorful life won an Oscar in 1997. It is heartening that Mark did eventually get recognized as an interesting human-being worthy of getting to know.

Recording Moments in History

2011-04-02T20:21:00.001-04:00

Being vaguely aware that I have something called a blog, where I write about this and that every now and then whenever I fire up my laptop and shush him away, for the very first time in history, my husband burst into an excited exclaim as I started furiously spitting out my previous post, wearing a heavily contorted expression on my face.

“Are you writing about India winning the World Cup in your blog?!”

Not sure if it was my serious expression that clued him in.

Since I have certain mild feelings of guilt at shouting, “No!! Get Out”, and since I can’t erase his deflated, crest-fallen expression and constant whining about my lack of sufficient enthusiasm and excitement about India’s win, I am dedicating two sentences for him.

Yaaay, we won!! What a miracle that we could see and share this historic moment of triumph and pride!

The Me in Me

2011-04-02T19:31:00.001-04:00

Like a graceful bird cutting through the sky, the thought gently glided by and perched firmly onto my mind, fluffing and wrapping its gossamer wings around me. Now, I constantly feel the feathers hugging me; a shivery flutter of reminder at times, and at times a warm shawl tugging at my neck. I have sensed this presence growing heavier on me in the last several months, that I can no longer ignore or shrug it away.

Feeling the contours of this thought, I recognize its familiarity and ingrained truth. It doesn’t feel like an epiphany, for there was no bolt of realization that pierced me. The thought steadily took form and alighted on the right part of my mind at the right time, goading me to face the truth that I have stopped being “me” to someone very dear.

Having pondered for inordinate amounts of time on what constitutes the self, the core of an individual independent of the body, I have come up with numerous theories. I have always looked at myself and have been able to connect with that “inner me”, to justify these theories. But I have never tried to verbalize, in precise words, in terms of traits and characteristics, who this “inner me” is. However now, when you, the very person who felt and knew “me” even before I became a complex mass of cells and developed any semblance of awareness of myself, accuses me of changing, bemoans the loss of the “true me”, and no longer wants to get close to this “different” me, I am forced to try and find words to make sense of this conundrum when “I” no longer am "me" to someone.

I have been told (in not so many words) that I have changed in many ways - the way I look, the way I dress, the way I talk, the way I behave, the way I act, and the way I think. And they are all true - I have indeed changed in all of these areas. I have to concede that you're making a genuine and valid point about “me” not being “me” anymore. Besides, it is true that the above attributes are the main identifiers of a person, or a personality, and it’s dubious for one to assert that they are still innately the same despite all these changes to their external and internal self. But how can I grasp at that fuzzy feeling of identity choking my guts, how should I yank it out and show it to myself and you, and say - “Look I am the same!”

Change is an unavoidable consequence of life. I tell myself that although I have indeed changed, it is more of an evolution, even an improvisation. True, I haven’t “improved” in so many aspects, and have surely fallen back on many, but I realize that my changes were with the aim of bettering myself and my survival. Isn’t such a betterment of myself a good thing? I remind myself that I worked hard to discard some stubborn old ways and pushed myself to the edge to develop vital characteristics - such as a thick skin, and the ability to talk well, talk right, and talk smart to the right people at the right place, at the right time. And yes, my thinking process has changed in leaps and bounds, thanks to my books, my education, and the cherished people around me who have prodded, kindled, probed, hammered, and stretched the limits of my thinking. It follows that my behavior, actions, and speech have accordingly reformed.

In essence, I have been growing, experiencing, realizing, evolving, and maturing. I tell myself this is part of life. I am glad that I could shed off the persona of the painfully shy, wide-eyed, all-trusting, guileless eighteen year old. Yet, you, whose love and approval I value and crave so much, remain stuck in the memories of the eighteen year old and the three year old, who saw the world in black and white, and regarded the virtue of unquestioning obedience as the mantra of life. I don’t know how to make you see me, as I am now, and as I have always been - connected to you.

Whimpering on this side, I want to argue that the core of my interactions, my love, affection, and concern for you have never changed. But the arguments are endless. Like the old philosophical riddle of the sock with a growing hole - I don’t know if the several new pleats of yarn that are stitched in to patch my old holes will make me a brand “new” sock. Can I hang onto the last frayed thread and still claim - I am the same old me? Or can I argue that no matter what type of different yarns I am weaved in, no matter the colors, the patterns, my blueprint is always the same - I am still a sock. The sock you knit. Of a certain structure, and of a certain purpose, and that will never change.

Reflections: Who By Fire

2011-03-29T15:47:00.005-04:00

Who by Fire is a contemplative novel on guilt, forgiveness and acceptance. As you probably are wondering, the first thing that jumped at me was the intriguing title of the book. Since the novel is based on a Jewish family that is choked with guilt and hurt, the title is derived from the Rosh Hashanah prayers. Along the lines of the Christian belief of Judgment Day, the Jews believe that on Rosh Hashanah, God inscribes the deeds of every man and woman, and on Yom Kippur (the day of Atonement), their fates are decided and sealed:

“How many shall pass on, and how many shall be born. Who shall live, and who shall die; who in his time, and who before his time; who by water, and who by fire; who by sword, and who by beast; who by hunger, and who by thirst; who by earthquake, and who by plague. Who shall rest, and who shall wander. Who shall fall, and who shall rise..."

Onto the story. The book follows the derailed lives of Ash, Bits and their mother, all of whom are still suffering the loss of the youngest child of the family, Alena. Following Alena’s disappearance, the shaky family structure crumbles. The dad abandons the family, the mother constantly despairs and unintentionally stifles her other children with her paranoia and sorrow. Due to lack of emotional support and low self-esteem, Bits resorts to mindless sex as her painkiller. And Ash, the young boy laden with guilt, takes to religion and spiritual belief for comfort. The book starts with all these characters in their varied stunted states, and takes the reader through the arduous journey that the characters take to get to a place of acceptance and peace.

Diana Spechler realistically portrays her characters - their anxiety, sorrow, guilt, and pain come across well in the story. I could sympathize with all the characters floundering in their own ways to patch up the holes in the family fabric. Although the book is surely morose, it has a strand of positivity wrapping itself around the characters. The story is character-driven and doesn’t have a plot as its focal point, so it does move slow. But despite the heavy focus on the characters, I didn’t find them to be that well-defined. I thought Ash’s character was the most well-drawn.

As one of the main themes, Spechler delves into the calming benefits offered by religion during difficult times. I appreciated that she handled this theme in a balanced manner - she shows the inherent hypocrisies and the ways in which religion can be made into a disgraceful charade, but she also heavily emphasizes the role religion/spirituality plays in finding peace, acceptance and meaning in life. As I have mentioned several times before, I believe that religion can be a constructive belief system which can help us handle tragedy and move on to live life, responsibly. It is acceptable if one has to take a few misguided turns before figuring out the crux of such beliefs, and understanding what the “right dosage” of practice is. This is precisely what Diana demonstrates.

Digested Thoughts: The book deals with interesting and realistic themes on coping with loss and guilt. Although most of the book was grim, and it was frustrating to see the characters flee from reality, the ending was optimistic. I also liked how Spechler nicely showcases the varying shades of religion. However, I struggled to get involved in the book, and unfortunately the writing didn’t sustain (or augment) my interest. Finally, I wasn’t entirely satisfied with the way Spechler handled the topic of Orthodox Judaism being perceived as a stringent “cult” by some. So in all, although it was an interesting read, for the most part, it didn’t leave an impression on me.

Reflections: Haunting Bombay

2011-03-21T13:48:00.001-04:00

The Mittal family lives in a huge bungalow in post-independence Bombay. Maji is the resourceful matriarch of the family, who rules the household with an iron-fist, much to her daughter-in-law’s chagrin. When Maji tragically loses her daughter during the violent aftermath of India’s partition, she brings in her infant grand-daughter, Pinky, to be raised in the bungalow. Pinky is not accepted by her aunt or uncle, and is lost in her own frustrations till she discovers a skeleton in the family closet.

Built during the colonial times, the Mittal’s bungalow is a relic of the beautiful and intricate colonial architecture. The bungalow houses both the Mittal family’s precious heirlooms as well as its darkest secrets. Every evening, for the last thirteen years, the members of the household religiously lock the children’s bathroom by sunset and unlock it only upon sunrise the next morning. Nobody gives any explanation for this, and the elders panic if this ritual is not faithfully followed. On a sultry night, with the approach of Bombay’s monsoons, the bathroom door is opened. A vengeful spirit enters the household and haunts the members till the family confronts its role in the buried secrets. The book tells a vivid tale of downtrodden souls seeking justice and redemption.

Those who know me well are sure to be surprised that I read such a book. I’m extremely sensitive to the topic of supernatural/paranormal phenomena, and I can get far too easily disturbed and spooked. The worst part (at least to me) is that I went from being rational, to now being confused, thanks to some of my friends ;). So when I read such stories, my “rational” bolsters and shields of denial just weaken all the more. But I read this book only because my sister-in-law, an avid reader herself, gave me this book with the assurance that it wasn’t as scary and was a good read. I went by her words, and although I never thought I would say this (especially after my sleepless nights and my imagined fears in my own bathroom), I am glad I read this book.

This is not just a spooky, ghost story. The story contains strong, social topics, which are usually brushed under the carpet. Although the issues plague the whole of India, they are especially relevant to Bombay, and predominantly represent the darker core of the glamorous city. I thought it was creative of Agarwal to use a morbid theme as a vehicle to communicate these issues. And surely, these issues haunt the reader as much as the story. I don't want to discuss anything more here, for it may act as spoilers to the gripping suspense.

Additionally, Agarwal subtly interweaves the Indian family/household dynamics into the story. The book offers a decent peek into the various traditions and cultural influences on family hierarchies, and also shows the distinctions in class status between the family and the domestic helps. The ghost aspects bring to fore the several different kinds of superstitious beliefs that Indians staunchly hold onto. This made me uncomfortable, because the last thing Indians need is a reaffirmation of the million and one superstitions that continuously wreak havoc on their personal lives. And many of the social “evils” that percolate due to such superstitions, struggle to get resolved. Personally, it brought back suppressed childhood warnings - such as my grandfather’s insistence that we cousins shouldn’t go near mango or tamarind trees after sunset. I have to concede that I don’t know how far rationality can take us to comprehend such beliefs and mysteries.

Digested Thoughts: The book is sure to be an entertaining and gripping read for those who like the spooky genre. Objectively speaking, the story isn’t scary and is not at all gory. But if you’re like me, and get disturbed by the mere idea of the paranormal, you should stay away ;). The mystery is very well wrought. The suspense is tightly paced and is complicated to the right amount. Shilpa Agarwal’s writing is impressive, considering this is her debut novel. Since I liked the book for its focus on really poignant social issues, I think it was worth reading the book!

Reflections: The Piano Teacher

2011-03-10T11:33:00.001-05:00

This is yet another book set during World War II. I guess I’m in one of those phases where I consciously (and subconsciously) keep stumbling on books and movies of a certain theme. I see myself almost at the tip of the saturation point, so hopefully I’ll soon move out of this theme soon.

Claire is a classic English woman - stiff and prejudiced. She is insecure and timid, not really knowing what she wants in life. She just seems to know that she wants to get out of her old, impoverished home and her critical mother. So she marries Martin and enters Hong Kong in the early 1950s. She soon finds employment as a Piano teacher to the wealthy and Westernized Chens. When she finds herself wetting her toes in Hong Kong’s elite social-circles, she abruptly plunges into an affair with an English man who is hardened and scarred by the war. The story moves around this mysterious English man’s past during the war, and the conspiracy around the Chinese Crown Collection which the Japanese were trying to pry from the English, while the English had themselves “legally” appropriated it from the Chinese.

As I have confessed before, I have been a pathetically poor student of History. Since this book was my first introduction to the political intrigue surrounding the Crown Collection, it was informative on that regard. It was also refreshing to get an account of the Western immigrants’ (particularly the status of English and Americans) prisoner-of-war conditions and struggles in Hong Kong when Japan raided the place. Regardless of which countries were fighting against which, and which ones called themselves “super-powers”, civilians across the world have suffered terribly. Particularly, immigrants stuck in other countries were in a harrowing limbo. These parts of the book were well researched and served as a good history “lesson”.

Lee also depicts the multicultural and highly westernized aspects of Hong Kong, even back in the 50s. Claire’s ignorant notion that none of the Chinese in Hong Kong knew English, and her surprise upon meeting many who spoke fluent and good English, reminded me of the constant “compliments” Indians receive in the U.S - “Why, your English is quite good!”. While many of my friends find this patronizing and infuriating, I don’t read too much into it. But reading Claire’s thoughts, as a prim and astonished English woman who couldn’t comprehend how people in other countries could speak her language as well as she could (or even better), irritated me. Through such succinct and sharp descriptions, Lee conveys entire paragraphs worth of History, ignorance and social notions. I admire Lee’s brevity in portraying such clear and vivid episodes which highlight the effects of war and the changes in the social and personal mentality of the diverse people that made up Hong Kong.

However, her brevity and subtlety come at a high cost. It makes her characters flat and boring, and her narration extremely choppy and vague. I was reminded of Mani Ratnam’s style of direction where actors abruptly say a few vague (but usually powerful) words for dialogue and leave it at that. This style does work in the visual medium, but it utterly fails in prose. This is my biggest problem with the book. I understand the the beauty behind subtlety, but when executed improperly, clarity suffers. Also, Lee's writing doesn’t define the characters, so I was unsympathetic to most characters, particularly Claire. I would argue that Claire is most certainly not the protagonist of this story, and her role can be likened to that of the flashy, substance-less heroines who star against Rajni Kanth. I found the round-about justification of her part to the “conspiracy” exceedingly silly and senseless.

Digested Thoughts: Although I was tempted to rule this book off saying I didn’t like it, I decided on a “kindlier” rating, because the History in this book was informative (yes, I can hear you say that you can find better books in the “History” section of a good library). The story suffered because of Lee’s writing style, but she did nicely bring out the moral/ethical dilemmas that surface and affect people during tragic circumstances when one’s survival is at stake. In addition, I appreciated her portrayal of Hong Kong and its elites during the war and post-war time period.

Reflections: Cutting For Stone

2011-03-07T18:21:00.001-05:00

Marion and Shiva Stone are twins born to a demure and pious Indian nun in a Missionary hospital in Ethiopia. Their birth is incredulously scandalous, miraculous and tragic. Their rumored father, the ingenious and recluse surgeon, Dr. Stone, disappears after their birth. The twins are lovingly raised by two other remarkable doctors of the hospital, but Marion’s life always has a void staring at him. Although the twins are born identical, they couldn’t be more different in their attitudes towards Life. They are mirror images, the yin and the yang, the polar opposites that attract and fit snugly onto each other to form a unified picture. When they come together, they make a beautiful composite individual, but when apart, they are incomplete. Where one is rational, the other is irrational and emotional; if one is conventional, the other is a maverick. Marion Stone, the “irrational” twin, tells the epic story of their birth, childhood, their jaded entry into adulthood, and the chain of events that lead them to understand themselves better, and learn the mystery behind their birth. In this moving medical drama, Verghese creates a compelling story and unforgettable characters that are masterfully etched by his stunning writing.

I never thought I would be moved by this book to write such gushing sentences. The book is definitely hefty - both in its size and the weight of the story. The pace of the book is slow and labored with graphic surgical/medical details, which to a squeamish non-biologist like me, is quite hard to read, conceptualize and visualize. I found myself getting distracted every now and then, and was re-reading sentences and paragraphs - surely not a good sign of writing, you might think! But there’s a haunting quality to the book that doesn’t let the reader close its covers. The writing, the story and the characters grow on you to the extent that by 60% of the book you wonder how you let yourself get distracted by such beautiful words and striking characters! I found myself re-reading sentences again, but this time, to admire!

Abraham Verghese is an accomplished doctor and Professor. So given his background, it comes as little surprise that he has drawn his characters with such meticulous attention. He patiently explains the story as if he were talking to young students about a convoluted medical case. He takes his time to set the fundamentals straight - he defines each character like they were different organs that interact with each other and lead to the complicated medical condition (the condition is the resultant story). He explains the history of each organ, the unique functions and characteristics of each, goes on to give symptoms of how a certain organ failed, how it affected certain other areas, why it brought out certain unexpected repercussions, and finally how all of it culminated in the condition, and what it led to. But in essence, he beautifully narrates the story of Life, and he dissects and presents the psychology of each character. Every time I wondered how a certain episode or surgery was related to the story, I got the answer by the end of the book. Every little seemingly irrelevant detail is indeed tied to the story, and in defining the characters. You understand the mechanics of the characters so well that the story becomes riveting and the characters turn real. This is really the mark of a good piece of literature - the mark of a Classic. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky are exasperatingly slow and detailed, but you realize why they were so when you find yourself immersed in a world that seemed incorrigible a little while ago!

There are so many aspects that Verghese surrounds in this novel - starting with the unique bonds that twins share, to the inevitable consequences of a dysfunctional society, let alone a family, on the attitudes of the young. He sneaks in the political and social conditions of Ethiopia, subtly hinting at the need for change by demonstrating their horrific impacts on lives. Verghese also manages to do something phenomenal - while he dispassionately talks of the human body like it were a machine that ran into problems and had to be fixed, he also brings in a surreal romanticism to the art of surgery. The “morbidity and mortality” aspects of surgery are ameliorated by his poetic sentences, that even a person like me who swoons on seeing blood could appreciate and sense the passion and zeal behind the “art” of medicine. I also take a bow to him for bringing out the absolute necessity for a compassion-centric approach to physician-patient relationships and to the healing process. He writes in his website, "I wanted the reader to see how entering medicine was a passionate quest, a romantic pursuit, a spiritual calling, a privileged yet hazardous undertaking. It's a view of medicine I don't think too many young people see in the West because, frankly, in the sterile hallways of modern medical-industrial complexes, where physicians and nurses are hunkered down behind computer monitors, and patients are whisked off here and there for this and that test, that side of medicine gets lost." These words elevate my regard and respect for him. “He saw empathy as a way to preserve the innate empathy and sensitivity that brings students to medical school but which the rigors of their training frequently suppress.”

I should again dedicate a few words to appreciate Verghese’s writing. It was spell-binding towards the end of the book. His words carry elegance and insight, and are deeply moving.

Digested Thoughts: This book has surely crept into my list of fond and favorite books. It takes time to get into the book and its setting, but it’s worth the investment. Yet, the only reason why I’m being stingy and not awarding it the 5-star smiley is because the “mortality and morbidity” details of the book were a bit too heavy for me, despite their pertinence to the story and the beautiful lessons they conveyed.

Reflections: Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

2011-03-01T17:03:00.003-05:00

Henry Lee is a second generation Chinese living in Seattle. The story starts with Henry reminiscing about his life during the early 1940s - the “war years”. It was the dreadful time during the Second World War when the catastrophe at Pearl Harbor capped the hostility between Japan and the US, and Japan was actively at war with China. At such a time, there was a China town and a Japan town within Seattle, with each neighborhood rivaling against each other, and the Americans ostracizing both. One can imagine how much more exceedingly difficult and frustrating it would have been for a second generation Chinese to live in a time and place that was so prejudiced, hostile (and ignorant) about Asians in general that Henry’s dad made him wear an embarrassing button that said “I am Chinese”. Bullied by the white kids, pressured and addled by his parents’ stance that he should adopt just the right amounts of Americanism to fit in, but should remain a Chinese at his core, Henry grows up as a lonely, misfit. But when he meets Keiko, an elegant Japanese girl at school, they come together out of the deep understanding of their shunned states, and strike a bond beyond friendship. But it didn’t help that Henry’s father, a radical Chinese, hated the Japanese, and the US Government rounded up all the Japanese into concentration camps. As an old man, Henry looks back at his bitter-sweet memories of his first love and the pangs of hurt and separation as he comes across the ancient belongings left behind by the numerous Japanese families that were hounded and taken to concentration camps.

The heart of the book dwells on the tender romance between Henry and Keiko. Similar to many other stories that have reached a greater height of poignancy because of the History surrounding it, the tragedy of war makes the story more special. Jamie Ford has very realistically brought out Henry’s personality. As American as he is in terms of his progressive attitudes, he is a devout Chinese when it comes to his conventional grounding on duties and moral responsibilities. It is a spitting portrayal of most second generation immigrants, especially of Asians.

Although I found some parts of the story to be a bit saccharine, I appreciated the overall pragmatism of the story. That’s how life is. But the pragmatism was balanced with the right amounts of sentimentality. And it always warms my heart to read about bonds that last despite the ravages of time and memories. Ford also depicts how distant most civilians are from wars and political turmoil. People are often put into buckets because of their race, and not for who they really are. It was stirring to read about the perplexed Japanese who were legal Americans with no ties to their country of origin, being forced to pay a hefty price for their ancestry.

Digested Thoughts: This is a very quiet, reflective read - reflective in terms of the History, and quiet in terms of the pace of the book, and the gentle romance. This is the kind of romance I like - old-fashioned and deep. Almost reminiscent of Pearl Buck’s The Hidden Flower, in terms of the feel of the book. The dewy and misty backdrop of Seattle adds to the tranquil, poignant feel!

Reflections: Water for Elephants

2011-02-24T09:29:00.001-05:00

Jacob Jankowski is a ninety three year old man rebelling against the rigid confines of a residential home for the elderly. He struggles to cope with his decrepit body and his slippery mind that fazes in and out of his unforgettable past. Jacob recalls his time as a veterinarian in a Circus in the early 1930s. His memories are a bitter-sweet mixture of fondness, sorrow and guilt, but the past unwaveringly haunts him to somehow help him make peace with it. In this story, the reader gets an inside look at the unglamorous backstage of a Circus - starting from the hierarchical segregation of its people, the cut-throat survival tactics, the conniving politics, the pitiable lives of captive animals, to the bits of humanity and camaraderie that surface amidst much cruelty. The story is an explosion of romance and drama that is sure to reorient our perspective on Circus performers.

I actually have been to the Circus only once, and even that is a very hazy memory. In general, my parents and I have primarily felt only pity and sympathy for the human and animal performers, rather than any awe. Especially in developing countries like India, the concept of human or animal rights hardly exists in such trades. So going into this book, I had the same mental-model of a Circus as the author presents. Although it wasn’t much of a surprise in that regard, it still shocked me. You get punched by the brutality of the story. When I started the book, I was so drawn into the setting and the characters that I wanted to watch the upcoming movie based on this book. But after reading about the violence and callousness, I’ve decided not to. I get easily affected by disturbing visuals of gore. When I have enough of such images floating translucently in my mind, why make them more real and graphic by watching the movie. Or so I tell myself now :). Let’s see how tempted I am when the movie comes out!

The aspect that I was most impressed with was the characterization of the old and crabby Jacob Jankowski. Sara Gruen garners the human elements of the story by her exceptionally good characterization of the old man. She pays attention to every single detail of the experiences and angst of an old man abandoned in a place that no longer acknowledges him as a person with an identity, a personality and even a spectacular past. Jacob is transformed to a real, living person. More than the Circus, it is this parallel thread that is precisely and sensitively portrayed. I would be tempted to watch the movie just to see if the actor pulls off this role!

The book is obviously well-researched, for Gruen incorporates real incidents and accidents from history into this story. Gruen also does justice in bringing out the pitiable lives of vagabonds during the Great Depression, who scurried through life and braved through indignities, just to scrape pennies. Although the story definitely takes the glamorous sheen off the notion of a Circus, it is an absorbing story of survival, humanity and the heart-warming bonds animals and humans can share.

Digested Thoughts: The story makes for an emotional and engrossing read. Gruen’s writing is commendable, and her characterizations are excellent. This is an interesting read on the life of Circus performers. It makes one respect the value of survival and of course, our cushion of financial security!

Reflections: Luka and The Fire of Life

2011-02-22T12:03:00.005-05:00

Since I loved reading Haroun and the Sea of Stories, I began reading its sequel, which is also Rushdie’s latest book, Luka and the Fire of Life. This book is a sequel in that it has the same core characters and settings, but is not an extension of the story of Haroun’s adventure. Luka is Haroun’s younger brother and is the apple of his parent’s eyes (especially his father’s), as his birth seemed to have stilled the notion of Time for the aged couple. Luka yearns to go on a magical adventure similar to Haroun’s and eagerly awaits such an opportunity. Little did he realize that he had to be careful of what he wished for. When his dad, the famed story-teller Rashid, falls ill, the onus of reviving him falls on Luka’s shoulders. Luka desperately races into the World of Magic to steal the Fire of Life for his father.

This is again a fun, fantastical adventure on the surface. Salman Rushdie creatively incorporates the notion of virtual reality in this adventure, as Luka’s quest for the Fire of Life is represented as a game he has to play in the World of Magic. In this age, most of us have gone through several vicarious experiences of traveling in magical/dangerous lands, taking the avatar of heroic princes, intrepid warriors and ruthless soldiers and battling our way to win the precious gem, treasure or the beautiful princess! The real-to-life experiences are sometimes so vivid, it becomes hard to separate our real identity from that of the virtual avatar. I got the sense that Rushdie was hinting at the possibilities of Life if we started focusing on the virtual platform as being more real than our “real” lives. If so, we would start viewing most things in our “real” life in terms of virtual-symbols and elements of fantasy, thus causing our perception of reality to be colored by magical/fantastical hues. Luka’s adventure to save his father seems to be a combination of Luka’s and his fathers’ vivid imagination, since the boy is an avid gamer, and the dad is a brilliant story-teller.

However, the core theme of this story is not as straightforward as I found its prequels’ to be. Perhaps, there is no new theme other than the importance of story-telling and imagination (just as its prequels’), and this is meant primarily for young adults (as some reviews seem to say). But I find it hard to agree...if it’s magical realism, I am bent on finding the abstractions to “realism”. If anything, this book has a lot more convoluted and deep references to reality than the previous book. And I don’t think they are mere word plays on Rushdie’s part.

My hypothesis is that the Fire of Life is the symbol for the ephemeral spark within us that defines our unique Life. A certain crackle of spark and fire within us fuels our drive to live, and keeps us alive. When Rashid’s fire (and life) was receding, his son tries to bring back that fire. But where is that fire located? Is it in the depths of our mind? Or locked at the bottom of our heart? Perhaps we can learn about this fire only during that defining moment in the past when we came to life? If so, can we travel back the River of Time to get to that moment? Our memories get us only so far into the past... beyond that we get stuck in oblivion. How do we cross that chasm? Luka seems to travel into that point of Infinity beyond the realms of memory, to fetch the Fire of Life. And this entire journey happens within Rashid’s mind (at least that’s what made the most sense to me). Rashid’s mind wills him to fight through his illness by imagining a magical adventure that takes place in a world he created in his mind. The adventure makes him focus on the aspect that matters most to him, and that energizes his will to survive. To Rashid, the Fire of his Life is Luka himself - the apple of his eyes, who seemed to have coagulated Time for him. It can also be argued that in addition to Luka, Rashid's unparalleled talent to tell stories is his main goal that keeps his Fire burning.

Salman Rushdie hence applies Einstein’s notion of Time, as a dimension that is relative. If we choose to not let Time hang on us and learn to live in the moment, notions of past and future don’t constrict us anymore. At the end of the day, all our life’s battles are against Time, aren’t they? All of Rushdie’s word plays are quite a treat as he explores the various phenomenon of our mind - the source of knowledge, wisdom, creativity, imagination, dreams, memory, identity and ego. I am not sure if I’m viewing everything as related to the mind and the psyche, but the last two books of Rushdie’s definitely seem to explore the depths of the human psyche. Again, I may have read too very much between the lines, as always.

Digested Thoughts: Although I’m giving this book the same rating as Haroun and The Sea of Stories (due to the obvious limitation of employing a rating heuristic), I enjoyed the latter much much more than this book. I liked the simplicity of Haroun’s adventure. While Luka’s was interesting as well, I found it a little more murkier to decipher. I still am not sure if my understanding of the book and its themes are anywhere close to Rushdie’s intentions! But according to me, it sends an optimistic message that we can conquer our fate, and win the battle against Time, if we can keep our inner Fire fueled.

Reflections: Haroun and the Sea of Stories

2011-02-18T10:28:00.013-05:00

This is my first Rushdie read. I know, how can I call myself a reader without having read Salman Rushdie for so long. Well, I was extremely intimidated by his books, confident that I would never grasp his dense themes. Further, it's in my nature to stay away from books/authors/situations that carry controversy. And finally I have never completely understood the genre of “magical realism”. I find it easier to just call it fantasy. Anyway, silly reasons that they are, I finally read a book of his. And I’m happy that I started with this book - a simple, not-so-celebrated book that I could enjoy, appreciate and interpret without much literary pressure.

Haroun is a young lad living in a city so sad and dismal, factories manufacture sadness. His father, Rashid, is a talented story-teller who can craft the most ingeniously imaginative and bizarre stories that burst with optimism and happy-endings. Haroun marvels at his father’s unending imagination to come up with new and creative tales. It seemed like a faucet of ideas were being turned on in his head to gush out all the stories. However, an unfortunate episode soon leaves his father tragically empty of stories. Haroun slowly realizes that there indeed is a vast sea of stories streaming with the world’s collection of all stories, which is facing a crisis. In his quest to return his father’s story-telling ability, Haroun enters a fantastical adventure to save the Ocean of Stories.

On the surface, the story might seem like a children’s fantasy fable. But being a Rushdie book, this is not so. It’s completely allegorical... with most characters and episodes being metaphorical. He provides Hindi/Urdu names to his characters, making it a tad easy (and fun) for Indians to interpret the story and its layered meanings. Despite a layered narrative, the entire book is very fluid, and is actually comical and heart-warming! In addition, Rushdie’s word play is quite clever and witty, and adds to the light-hearted feel of the story. It also gives a unique character to the book.

Although there could be several interpretations of the story, here is my reflection or interpretation. The underlying theme of the story is on the unending potential of the human mind, or rather, on the unending boundaries of human imagination. Our brains are brimming with a vast sea of neurons carrying so many different streams of thoughts (both ours, and that of others). These streams collide, intersect and combine in so many billions of different ways and patterns to give rise to new ideas and creations, that it seems like humans will never ever run out of creativity or new thoughts! The mystery behind such ceaseless creativity is an unknown process (or as Rushdie puts it, it is a P2C2E - A Process Too Complicated To Explain :)). So in essence, we all carry the potential to subscribe, and draw from our inner “Sea” of stories and ideas. But most often, we either struggle to find the “on” switch, or we let depressing circumstances throw a wrench into the waterworks (too many puns, I know :)). We also constantly let the inner streams get polluted by our stringent, non-imaginative side of the brain. As one hemisphere (of the brain) tries to be creative and imaginative and weaves stories and ideas, the other “rational” hemisphere of our brain tries to critique and conform our thoughts to plain, concrete facts. The rational hemisphere believes in austerity and parsimony - encouraging thoughts and words only when necessary, and only when absolutely in line with reality. But just as opposites complement one another, it’s more profitable for both hemispheres to work together, rather than work against, or work separately from each other. In this story, story-telling ability and speech (freedom of speech) compose one “hemisphere”, while silence, muteness and the curbing of verbal expression is the other “hemisphere”. So, I interpreted freedom of speech to be freedom of expression and imagination.

Rushdie basically states that our fears, negativity and stipulation to stick to facts fog our imagination, but they are no match to the profound human will, and the bountiful fountain of our imagination! He provides his view that imagination and the ability to look through colored glasses, is as much a necessity for a healthy mind, as it is a luxury for dreaming. I was quite impressed that the seemingly simple story was embedded with such depth of meaning! I may have read too much into the story, but well, my imagination was kindled and it soared and pattern-matched :).

Digested Thoughts: I loved the book - its fantastical story, its deep meanings, and creative narration! I can well understand and agree why Rushdie is celebrated. His writing is simple, yet very intelligently crafted. This might seem like an endearing story for children, while it teases the adult's mind to break down the clever metaphors. The book spells the necessity for freedom of expression - even at the level of origination of thoughts, and the freedom we give our thoughts to seek uncharted areas of our imagination.