"Vain"Glory

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

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

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

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

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. Having 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

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

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

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

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 reclusive 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, that plays 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 how people are unimaginably, horrifically scarred . 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

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

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

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 parents' 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 what 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 former 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.