"And ever has it been, that love knows not its own depth, until the hour of separation", -Khalil Gibran
I was talking to C today, a person who makes the darkest day glow with laughter.
"I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to apply to all these damn corporate jobs because I feel like I should, and I have loans and debt and when I finally I get my offer letter, after having gone through anal probes and coma-inducing case interviews, I'm going to look at it and then look at my wife and she'll say "Is this what you really want to do?" and I'll die a little bit inside and take the job".
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
youth?
What happened to our youth? What happened to lugging around dog-eared copies of Catcher in The Rye, quoting Shakespeare, spending hours in couches in Starbucks intellectualizing poverty? What happened to the urgent necessity to enter new worlds, be disruptive forces, change an order, to be giants in a field?
Thursday, September 20, 2007
losing
I just wanted to say that today (roughly) marks the end of 1 year in the States. I would like to commemorate it by listing the following things I have not lost AT ALL!
a. ATM card. (Average loss of twice a year- to three times a year).
b. Mobile Phone (average loss of also twice a year)
c. Pen (Average loss of about five times a year). I have not lost this pen AT ALL. I only own one pen so it would be a disaster if I lost it.
I have also recently acquired a blackberry. Game over.
a. ATM card. (Average loss of twice a year- to three times a year).
b. Mobile Phone (average loss of also twice a year)
c. Pen (Average loss of about five times a year). I have not lost this pen AT ALL. I only own one pen so it would be a disaster if I lost it.
I have also recently acquired a blackberry. Game over.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Journey By Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
pathetic!
back stateside and OMG as a dear friend would say. The pace has consumed me already. Still haven't unpacked, everything is in a mess, and away this weekend and another dear friend is in town tomorrow for a few days and OMG. Such is the pathetic state of affairs that I am reduced to ordering underwear online. Irretrievably sad.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
back in beantown
Back in Boston and oh so blue! The only thing that redeems it is J coming to town and R potentially getting her act together to come to town too... Otherwise it looks like a long dreary fall ahead weather wise. Class wise, I am determined to learn something, against the odds this semester so am going to focus on infrastructure, trade and the Middle East as well as a Start a Biz in a Developing Country. Its 30 celsius here so at least the weather is holding up. Feeling decidedly antisocial and not going to the usual round of parties celebrating the return of school. Oh, I'm decidedly getting older... SIGH!
Monday, September 03, 2007
enthee-yah.
So. One more day left and what are the things I am going to miss about India and not miss? Here are the moments.
Missing (terribly)
a) I never thought I would say this of all things, but I will miss the heat that sticks to you like silk, that smothers and frees.
b) The autorickshaw wallahs and the conversation about life, the movies and politics (in that order).
c) The television channels full of random masala songs of half naked women and men with brains the size of their pecs all in high-gloss high-blare fashion
d) The people, hospitality, kindness, graciousness, everything that is South Asian and Indian.
e) The food. Searing curries, larger than life organically grown vegetables (a tomato that tastes like a tomato, chicken that's been reared on whatever chickens eat in the wild)
f) Last, but not least, the head wiggle. Enough said.
Things I will safely un-miss until the next time
a) The pollution. Thought Colombo was bad but India takes it to another level.
b) Idlies. I hate the damn things and will not miss them for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
c) The redefinition of customer service. You know what I mean.
d) The revolution that the human body is capable of staging in India (i.e. the various things I have fallen ill with in such an impossibly short space of time). It is amazing biologically what can happen when things go wrong with the body. Emotional angst is no comparison to physical pain.
e) the total lack of privacy.
Missing (terribly)
a) I never thought I would say this of all things, but I will miss the heat that sticks to you like silk, that smothers and frees.
b) The autorickshaw wallahs and the conversation about life, the movies and politics (in that order).
c) The television channels full of random masala songs of half naked women and men with brains the size of their pecs all in high-gloss high-blare fashion
d) The people, hospitality, kindness, graciousness, everything that is South Asian and Indian.
e) The food. Searing curries, larger than life organically grown vegetables (a tomato that tastes like a tomato, chicken that's been reared on whatever chickens eat in the wild)
f) Last, but not least, the head wiggle. Enough said.
Things I will safely un-miss until the next time
a) The pollution. Thought Colombo was bad but India takes it to another level.
b) Idlies. I hate the damn things and will not miss them for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
c) The redefinition of customer service. You know what I mean.
d) The revolution that the human body is capable of staging in India (i.e. the various things I have fallen ill with in such an impossibly short space of time). It is amazing biologically what can happen when things go wrong with the body. Emotional angst is no comparison to physical pain.
e) the total lack of privacy.
Friday, August 17, 2007
tamil cinema
Iconic moments in tamil cinema
« I’ve been thinking about number one most iconic moment for a long time. In my mind, it has to go to Nayakan, and the last scene, when he dies, shot, in a Godse-like moment, by his disciple, a child he had brought up himself. He dies, falling face forward, with his hands up, asking for forgiveness, that a court of justice has already given him, but God may deny him. And in that moment, his life is narrated in flashback, the compromises he has made, the soul he has sold in order to gain power and dispense his moral version of justice to those who are unprotected. Was it worth it? Was he right? Do the wheels of justice grind slow but exceedingly small?
« Number Two. Another Kamal Haasan moment. In Salangai Oli, when the woman he has loved has had her deserted husband come back, and his love is never spoken. And he turns to drink and his extraordinary talent is driven to waste. And on the plank of wood, above the well, he dances in the rain to one of cinema’s most evocative songs, and says, never expecting to see her again, naan vallkaiodu kovarm ellai, annal kaathal ennai kaathalikavillai. (I am not bitter with life, but love did not love me back). And she comes out in the rain, bereft and she extends her hand, and there is a flash of lightning and he sees her.
« Number Three: When Devaraj, the minor don asks Rajnikant (in the single best role in his life followed, perhaps by Baasha), why? Why did you give up your brother, your mother for me? Why? And he says, because you are my friend. And chills go down the spine. It is a very Lutheran stand: Here I stand, I can do no other. And it is both obvious and astonishing at the same time.
« (In the same film, is another moment, when Shobana tells him that her father wants to marry her off to someone else. And he asks, angry, was I the one who came and said I liked you? And he’s shouting at her, and she’s crying and she leaves him, walking through the cavern of two rocks, and she doesn’t turn back, and all his anger is a mask for how utterly bereft he is, sitting there as she walks away from him. )
« Great dramatic comic moment: In Agni Natchathiram, when Karthik is loafing, sitting smoking, one leg up on the parapet, arm lazily over an upraised knee, a leg dangling downwards, just loafing basically and Nirosha pulls up in her car, dressed in a tribute to Marilyn Monroe, and she leans over her steering wheel, with her dark skin setting off the white dress and hair cascading and mouths I love you. And he is so shocked, he nearly falls off the parapet and is like telling his friends and then she zooms off in her car and he gets on his motorbike and follows her (which is a funny twist on the typical guy going: I love you for no rhyme or reason).
Others?
« I’ve been thinking about number one most iconic moment for a long time. In my mind, it has to go to Nayakan, and the last scene, when he dies, shot, in a Godse-like moment, by his disciple, a child he had brought up himself. He dies, falling face forward, with his hands up, asking for forgiveness, that a court of justice has already given him, but God may deny him. And in that moment, his life is narrated in flashback, the compromises he has made, the soul he has sold in order to gain power and dispense his moral version of justice to those who are unprotected. Was it worth it? Was he right? Do the wheels of justice grind slow but exceedingly small?
« Number Two. Another Kamal Haasan moment. In Salangai Oli, when the woman he has loved has had her deserted husband come back, and his love is never spoken. And he turns to drink and his extraordinary talent is driven to waste. And on the plank of wood, above the well, he dances in the rain to one of cinema’s most evocative songs, and says, never expecting to see her again, naan vallkaiodu kovarm ellai, annal kaathal ennai kaathalikavillai. (I am not bitter with life, but love did not love me back). And she comes out in the rain, bereft and she extends her hand, and there is a flash of lightning and he sees her.
« Number Three: When Devaraj, the minor don asks Rajnikant (in the single best role in his life followed, perhaps by Baasha), why? Why did you give up your brother, your mother for me? Why? And he says, because you are my friend. And chills go down the spine. It is a very Lutheran stand: Here I stand, I can do no other. And it is both obvious and astonishing at the same time.
« (In the same film, is another moment, when Shobana tells him that her father wants to marry her off to someone else. And he asks, angry, was I the one who came and said I liked you? And he’s shouting at her, and she’s crying and she leaves him, walking through the cavern of two rocks, and she doesn’t turn back, and all his anger is a mask for how utterly bereft he is, sitting there as she walks away from him. )
« Great dramatic comic moment: In Agni Natchathiram, when Karthik is loafing, sitting smoking, one leg up on the parapet, arm lazily over an upraised knee, a leg dangling downwards, just loafing basically and Nirosha pulls up in her car, dressed in a tribute to Marilyn Monroe, and she leans over her steering wheel, with her dark skin setting off the white dress and hair cascading and mouths I love you. And he is so shocked, he nearly falls off the parapet and is like telling his friends and then she zooms off in her car and he gets on his motorbike and follows her (which is a funny twist on the typical guy going: I love you for no rhyme or reason).
Others?
seamus heaney
from his Nobel Prize lecture
One of the most harrowing moments in the whole history of the harrowing of the heart in Northern Ireland came when a minibus full of workers being driven home one January evening in 1976 was held up by armed and masked men and the occupants of the van ordered at gunpoint to line up at the side of the road. Then one of the masked executioners said to them, "Any Catholics among you, step out here". As it happened, this particular group, with one exception, were all Protestants, so the presumption must have been that the masked men were Protestant paramilitaries about to carry out a tit-for-tat sectarian killing of the Catholic as the odd man out, the one who would have been presumed to be in sympathy with the IRA and all its actions. It was a terrible moment for him, caught between dread and witness, but he did make a motion to step forward. Then, the story goes, in that split second of decision, and in the relative cover of the winter evening darkness, he felt the hand of the Protestant worker next to him take his hand and squeeze it in a signal that said no, don't move, we'll not betray you, nobody need know what faith or party you belong to. All in vain, however, for the man stepped out of the line; but instead of finding a gun at his temple, he was thrown backward and away as the gunmen opened fire on those remaining in the line, for these were not Protestant terrorists, but members, presumably, of the Provisional IRA.
*
It is difficult at times to repress the thought that history is about as instructive as an abattoir; that Tacitus was right and that peace is merely the desolation left behind after the decisive operations of merciless power. I remember, for example, shocking myself with a thought I had about that friend who was imprisoned in the seventies upon suspicion of having been involved with a political murder: I shocked myself by thinking that even if he were guilty, he might still perhaps be helping the future to be born, breaking the repressive forms and liberating new potential in the only way that worked, that is to say the violent way - which therefore became, by extension, the right way. It was like a moment of exposure to interstellar cold, a reminder of the scary element, both inner and outer, in which human beings must envisage and conduct their lives. But it was only a moment. The birth of the future we desire is surely in the contraction which that terrified Catholic felt on the roadside when another hand gripped his hand, not in the gunfire that followed, so absolute and so desolate, if also so much a part of the music of what happens.
One of the most harrowing moments in the whole history of the harrowing of the heart in Northern Ireland came when a minibus full of workers being driven home one January evening in 1976 was held up by armed and masked men and the occupants of the van ordered at gunpoint to line up at the side of the road. Then one of the masked executioners said to them, "Any Catholics among you, step out here". As it happened, this particular group, with one exception, were all Protestants, so the presumption must have been that the masked men were Protestant paramilitaries about to carry out a tit-for-tat sectarian killing of the Catholic as the odd man out, the one who would have been presumed to be in sympathy with the IRA and all its actions. It was a terrible moment for him, caught between dread and witness, but he did make a motion to step forward. Then, the story goes, in that split second of decision, and in the relative cover of the winter evening darkness, he felt the hand of the Protestant worker next to him take his hand and squeeze it in a signal that said no, don't move, we'll not betray you, nobody need know what faith or party you belong to. All in vain, however, for the man stepped out of the line; but instead of finding a gun at his temple, he was thrown backward and away as the gunmen opened fire on those remaining in the line, for these were not Protestant terrorists, but members, presumably, of the Provisional IRA.
*
It is difficult at times to repress the thought that history is about as instructive as an abattoir; that Tacitus was right and that peace is merely the desolation left behind after the decisive operations of merciless power. I remember, for example, shocking myself with a thought I had about that friend who was imprisoned in the seventies upon suspicion of having been involved with a political murder: I shocked myself by thinking that even if he were guilty, he might still perhaps be helping the future to be born, breaking the repressive forms and liberating new potential in the only way that worked, that is to say the violent way - which therefore became, by extension, the right way. It was like a moment of exposure to interstellar cold, a reminder of the scary element, both inner and outer, in which human beings must envisage and conduct their lives. But it was only a moment. The birth of the future we desire is surely in the contraction which that terrified Catholic felt on the roadside when another hand gripped his hand, not in the gunfire that followed, so absolute and so desolate, if also so much a part of the music of what happens.
lage raho munnabhai
Absolutely astounding. Sweet, sentimental, hilarious, true, inspirational, lovely and utterly Indian in all its sensibilities. Watched it last night, seamless blending between humour and poignancy, between love, devotion and of course Gandhianism. And Sanjay Dutt, truly exceptional and sweet in a comic/villain type role. Welled up at quite a few moments, for a comedy that I thought was going to be totally disastrous. Particularly touching was the sidekick, proving that old tales can be continually rejuvenated if done right. And so sad too, this man, condemned to six years in Arthur Road Jail, Mumbai, for illegal arms possession, this man who, despite his imposing build, would not hurt a fly or so it seems. Some people are just cursed, whatever they do.
Can't wait to watch the first Munnabhai M.B.B.S.
Can't wait to watch the first Munnabhai M.B.B.S.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
ending
"Happiness is when what you think, and what you say, and what you do, are in harmony" Mahatma Gandhi
I wish someone had told me that earlier. But I feel like the orthogonal change in my life is somewhat progressing towards this truth. I only wish I had more diligence and discipline to chart it so.
Only two more days to go in proper employment and then freed, again, to travel, to rest, to learn and to think.
I never promised you a rose garden.
I wish someone had told me that earlier. But I feel like the orthogonal change in my life is somewhat progressing towards this truth. I only wish I had more diligence and discipline to chart it so.
Only two more days to go in proper employment and then freed, again, to travel, to rest, to learn and to think.
I never promised you a rose garden.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
hmm.
Sometimes, all the hoopla disappears, the bustle and noise recedes, and the streets are quiet, as though a bombing just happened and a curfew had been announced. But its only Independence day, and millions have left the capital, to make pilgrimages to holy sites, to sit, enjoy and be at peace. And the silence is restful almost, just as it should be after a week of travelling cross country and beyond. The summer is drawing to a close, with only 3 short weeks to be spent backwater-hopping in Kerala with the fam, and then back to school, and all that that represents. I feel as though my heart has slowed down here, even though my body has been busy, and even though I haven't had a moment to myself really for more than a day. Its been good. Filling up the silences has been good, and things have healed. Or are beginning to. I don't know what the coming year will bring, but I am sure things will come together. It always does, right? Oh 20th of August.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
omkara
Back from a week in the north, where the colour, vibrancy, urbanization seem exuberant in contrast with this gentle South, of muted tones and temples, of stones, granite and rain, of safety and calmness. Watched Omkara at the Delhi Film Festival, an Indian take on Othello and it was remarkable to see how far along Indian cinema had come, in terms of mastery of plot, screenplay writing, authentic dialogue, setting and scenes and cinematography, while still retaining a uniquely Indian look, feel and sensibility. The movie was let down only by the acting, which unfortunately is where the Indian talent falls short, but there were some stellar performances that transcended script and directing. Particularly I think Saif Ali Khan who valiantly tried to come to terms with the script and Ajay Devgan who merely stalked around as a brooding general, both these performances missed the genius of the original writings, to show the complexity of these man, Othello and Iago. Nevertheless before the movie came on, Vivek Oberoi came out in person to talk to the audience for a brief Q & A and impressed us with his charm and sheer heart (something I think that every Indian person has) and gallantry, thus forgiving his innate lack of intelligence and sensitivity.
Monday, July 23, 2007
shantaram
Getting through Shantaram right now, despite the initial scepticism, a friend made me read the first page and then I immediately went and bought the 936 page doorstopper and am wending my way through it now, and reading it now, ensconced in the North, brings alive the beating heart of an India that I had never quite known I had known. It seems that it is very easy to fall in love with men who are in love with life and some people have a wisdom, born from having fought the difficult fight, without losing their hope or idealism. Despite its lack of literary talent (read discipline) and knowledge of literary grammar, yet, there is a honesty to the writing, a soaring romanticism and a deep understanding of life, through the author, who for all his faults, has never been afraid to live and to most of all, love. And what more could one want in a book?
"The voice, Afghan matchmakers say, is more than half of love".
" The past reflects eternally between two mirrors- the bright mirror of words and deeds and the dark one, full of things we didn't do or say"
"Sometimes you break your heart in the right way"
"The voice, Afghan matchmakers say, is more than half of love".
" The past reflects eternally between two mirrors- the bright mirror of words and deeds and the dark one, full of things we didn't do or say"
"Sometimes you break your heart in the right way"
Thursday, July 19, 2007
i love india
So, I love India.
I know its a tired cliche, and I've hated it on many an occasion too, but I actually adore the subcontinent. Who would've even thought for a second that I could live anywhere else except in this part of the world now that I have made it here? Of course I still think Sri Lanka is god's gift to planet earth, and that Eden like it has never existed before or after (and like Eden, its inhabitants are similarly cursed, but it seems as though wars are always fought in paradise). Am off to Delhi tomorrow for a week, and the bustling pitch of the north can be compared to the south, and the exuberant hindi spoke on the streets will ricochet off the extreme poverty (more so than in the South) and maybe I'll venture out to some teak/jasmine/coconut/rubber plantations armed with a survey and ask them ridiculous questions and maybe I'll fall in love with life all over again, because its home, and this craziness will always be home. And tonight I am going to watch shivaji and it'll be awesome and nothing in my life will capture my senses as much as an indian film, and that too a tamil film!
and a google quote seems particularly apt: play: work that you enjoy doing for nothing. which is exactly what I'm doing.
I know its a tired cliche, and I've hated it on many an occasion too, but I actually adore the subcontinent. Who would've even thought for a second that I could live anywhere else except in this part of the world now that I have made it here? Of course I still think Sri Lanka is god's gift to planet earth, and that Eden like it has never existed before or after (and like Eden, its inhabitants are similarly cursed, but it seems as though wars are always fought in paradise). Am off to Delhi tomorrow for a week, and the bustling pitch of the north can be compared to the south, and the exuberant hindi spoke on the streets will ricochet off the extreme poverty (more so than in the South) and maybe I'll venture out to some teak/jasmine/coconut/rubber plantations armed with a survey and ask them ridiculous questions and maybe I'll fall in love with life all over again, because its home, and this craziness will always be home. And tonight I am going to watch shivaji and it'll be awesome and nothing in my life will capture my senses as much as an indian film, and that too a tamil film!
and a google quote seems particularly apt: play: work that you enjoy doing for nothing. which is exactly what I'm doing.
Friday, July 13, 2007
excerpt
Paul Theroux from the Guardian's Great Escape
In the monsoon season of 1970, I boarded the MV Keningau in Singapore bound for Borneo. The ship was small, not much bigger than a ferry, the inexpensive way for rubber-tappers and their families to travel to the plantations of East Malaysia. They were down below - hundreds of them, off to work. I was sailing to Kota Kinabalu, for the fun of it, and also to climb Mount Kinabalu. In a few months, my wife would be giving birth to our second child, and this was a selfish and solitary jaunt, before I became fully engaged as a father of two. I also had the notion that this solitude would help me in my writing project at the time, a novel with the provisional title Saint Jack, about a middle-aged American who dreams of getting rich in Singapore. In my small bag with a change of clothes were my notebooks and my book for the trip, a hard-cover copy of VS Naipaul's novel A House for Mr Biswas. Because there were so few of us in first class, we all ate together: the captain's wife and his son; a planter's wife, part-Malay, and her small son, in the cabin next to mine; and a Tamil lawyer, travelling on his own - he was about my age, which was 29. What seems like a cast for a Maugham story was in fact a pleasant and sedate group. The captain and his family were friendly people but all of them chewed food with their mouths open, a family trait I have never encountered anywhere else. Some evenings, I played cards with the Tamil and the planter's wife, usually the game of Hearts. Then I became engrossed in the Naipaul novel, slipped into the life of the Tulsi family and its odd-man-out, Mohun Biswas. The novel is without mannerisms, seems almost not to have a style, yet is so detailed and humane, it offered me a whole world; and as with the greatest novels, it made me care. I memorised a paragraph beginning "The mind is merciful . . ."
"Paul's laughing," the planter's wife said from the card table.
"At a book!" the Tamil said.
I hardly noticed the voyage. Most of the time, I was in Trinidad with Mohun Biswas and Anand. I was dismayed that in a day or so I'd be finished with the book, and I thought - as young writers do - I could never write this. But the passion of this novel helped me see that I had my own novel to write.
In the monsoon season of 1970, I boarded the MV Keningau in Singapore bound for Borneo. The ship was small, not much bigger than a ferry, the inexpensive way for rubber-tappers and their families to travel to the plantations of East Malaysia. They were down below - hundreds of them, off to work. I was sailing to Kota Kinabalu, for the fun of it, and also to climb Mount Kinabalu. In a few months, my wife would be giving birth to our second child, and this was a selfish and solitary jaunt, before I became fully engaged as a father of two. I also had the notion that this solitude would help me in my writing project at the time, a novel with the provisional title Saint Jack, about a middle-aged American who dreams of getting rich in Singapore. In my small bag with a change of clothes were my notebooks and my book for the trip, a hard-cover copy of VS Naipaul's novel A House for Mr Biswas. Because there were so few of us in first class, we all ate together: the captain's wife and his son; a planter's wife, part-Malay, and her small son, in the cabin next to mine; and a Tamil lawyer, travelling on his own - he was about my age, which was 29. What seems like a cast for a Maugham story was in fact a pleasant and sedate group. The captain and his family were friendly people but all of them chewed food with their mouths open, a family trait I have never encountered anywhere else. Some evenings, I played cards with the Tamil and the planter's wife, usually the game of Hearts. Then I became engrossed in the Naipaul novel, slipped into the life of the Tulsi family and its odd-man-out, Mohun Biswas. The novel is without mannerisms, seems almost not to have a style, yet is so detailed and humane, it offered me a whole world; and as with the greatest novels, it made me care. I memorised a paragraph beginning "The mind is merciful . . ."
"Paul's laughing," the planter's wife said from the card table.
"At a book!" the Tamil said.
I hardly noticed the voyage. Most of the time, I was in Trinidad with Mohun Biswas and Anand. I was dismayed that in a day or so I'd be finished with the book, and I thought - as young writers do - I could never write this. But the passion of this novel helped me see that I had my own novel to write.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Oct 20 2004
from an old email.
Today, my world changed and my life was dragged along with it. It wasn't a big dynamic change, announced with lightning and moving tectonic plates, as one would imagine these things were. It was instead, a shifting of sands. The world as I knew it fell away from me for an instant, and when the clouds had stopped blurring everything was the same again, although imperceptibly changed. I had finally discovered who I was, and who i could never be again. I was a writer.
Whether time would tell me if I was good or not was irrelevant. Today I found out who I am. Whatever I had expected upon attending his reading, I had not expected this. I had not expected this instant awareness, this instant attraction. I felt as though upon meeting him, an old memory of mine was rewoken. I felt as though I had known him my whole life and I felt as though I had the rest of my live to devote to him. It is known that I am particularly susceptible to passions. But I knew his body too,his vigour, his quick movements belied the hyperawareness of a man not used to people or to society. A man uponst whom everyone else necessarily imposed themselves on. A man who I had fallen in love with when i was 16.I know that all this will seem incredibly fanciful, and melodramatic. A writer has to write a story about everything and this will seem one in a thread of many. but believe me when I say this, I had not expected this. I had expected to be provoked, to be stimulated, to see the head that had produced lines that were never to be forgotten,etched into my awakening mind at 16. I had not expected this... absolute knowledge.I could not take my eyes off him. He was home, as in Sri Lanka, a land he knew better than me, a land that he had written about much more evocatively than I could ever hope to do so, he represented the West, and its voices, but most horrifically of all, the thing I did not expect, was that he represented a Dutchman living in Asia. Of which all had one in common, the same alert piercing eyes, the same uneasiness with which they integrated into society, the same hesitance before they spoke ofthemselves. He reminded me most of someone I had once known deeply, of Home, of the war and of the book that had changed my life.
All this I could not tell him, although I wanted to. For the first time that evening he spoke of himself. And I could tell after he spoke, for he ended abruptly as though having spoken more than he had wished to, that it was as surprising to him as it was to me. He spoke of how he had started to write another novel set in Sri Lanka, but the voice and the structure was similar to Anil's ghost and so he had stopped. He spoke also of how he had gone back, how he had gone back after Anil's Ghost and how he would always continue to go back.I could no longer speak. The man's voice when he read of the history of stones, of writings in leaves of palimpsests, of genesis,of lives in Polonaruwa and places I thought only I knew about, for none of my friends or people knew this except my parents. And he said something that he didn't say to anyone else, this man of few words, this man who said it took him 2 years to read his own book out to the public because that was how long it took him to be comfortable with the own characters he had written. The man who had refused to talk about the work he was currently engaged on.Perhaps I am romanticizing as I am wont to do. but this encounter, I can only tell you in this moment, my life changed. I had gone into that room, thinking of being a writer, and I had come out, knowing that I wanted to write something that he would be proud of.
Today, my world changed and my life was dragged along with it. It wasn't a big dynamic change, announced with lightning and moving tectonic plates, as one would imagine these things were. It was instead, a shifting of sands. The world as I knew it fell away from me for an instant, and when the clouds had stopped blurring everything was the same again, although imperceptibly changed. I had finally discovered who I was, and who i could never be again. I was a writer.
Whether time would tell me if I was good or not was irrelevant. Today I found out who I am. Whatever I had expected upon attending his reading, I had not expected this. I had not expected this instant awareness, this instant attraction. I felt as though upon meeting him, an old memory of mine was rewoken. I felt as though I had known him my whole life and I felt as though I had the rest of my live to devote to him. It is known that I am particularly susceptible to passions. But I knew his body too,his vigour, his quick movements belied the hyperawareness of a man not used to people or to society. A man uponst whom everyone else necessarily imposed themselves on. A man who I had fallen in love with when i was 16.I know that all this will seem incredibly fanciful, and melodramatic. A writer has to write a story about everything and this will seem one in a thread of many. but believe me when I say this, I had not expected this. I had expected to be provoked, to be stimulated, to see the head that had produced lines that were never to be forgotten,etched into my awakening mind at 16. I had not expected this... absolute knowledge.I could not take my eyes off him. He was home, as in Sri Lanka, a land he knew better than me, a land that he had written about much more evocatively than I could ever hope to do so, he represented the West, and its voices, but most horrifically of all, the thing I did not expect, was that he represented a Dutchman living in Asia. Of which all had one in common, the same alert piercing eyes, the same uneasiness with which they integrated into society, the same hesitance before they spoke ofthemselves. He reminded me most of someone I had once known deeply, of Home, of the war and of the book that had changed my life.
All this I could not tell him, although I wanted to. For the first time that evening he spoke of himself. And I could tell after he spoke, for he ended abruptly as though having spoken more than he had wished to, that it was as surprising to him as it was to me. He spoke of how he had started to write another novel set in Sri Lanka, but the voice and the structure was similar to Anil's ghost and so he had stopped. He spoke also of how he had gone back, how he had gone back after Anil's Ghost and how he would always continue to go back.I could no longer speak. The man's voice when he read of the history of stones, of writings in leaves of palimpsests, of genesis,of lives in Polonaruwa and places I thought only I knew about, for none of my friends or people knew this except my parents. And he said something that he didn't say to anyone else, this man of few words, this man who said it took him 2 years to read his own book out to the public because that was how long it took him to be comfortable with the own characters he had written. The man who had refused to talk about the work he was currently engaged on.Perhaps I am romanticizing as I am wont to do. but this encounter, I can only tell you in this moment, my life changed. I had gone into that room, thinking of being a writer, and I had come out, knowing that I wanted to write something that he would be proud of.
ode to studio 60
the best scene in studio 60- the now officially defunct Aaron Sorking post-West Wing comedy? The scene where the black jazz musicians from hurricane-ravaged Katrina play music without lyrics to scenes of new orlean and the snow falls on the stage. The soaring notes of the trumpet and the softer deeper notes of the saxophone send chills down the spine. And then bradley whitford delivers his line: .....but you'd better get a head start because I'm coming for you.
another day in madras and I don't want to leave. prospects of clubbing madras style tonight. Yeah! any excuse to drink imported liquor at exorbitant prices, spend the night at the friend's place because I have a curfew of 10pm and wake up to die another day. And my eye is improving so I don't look like something out of a porn/horror film. Nice.
another day in madras and I don't want to leave. prospects of clubbing madras style tonight. Yeah! any excuse to drink imported liquor at exorbitant prices, spend the night at the friend's place because I have a curfew of 10pm and wake up to die another day. And my eye is improving so I don't look like something out of a porn/horror film. Nice.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
mumbling
I'll die as I have lived, with a book in my hand says manguel perhaps?.
I'm tired. and i want to lay down somewhere and i want the universe to stop spinning and I want the earth to slow down and I want to read and mull and not do much of anything else. except I have always dreamt of thinking, of having time to think, of walking and thinking and sleeping and thinking, but I only at best, have an hour to think everyday and that too only because I refuse to come to work after I get up and I lie in bed after a shower, with the fan whirring, thinking.
reading the reluctant fundamentalist now and while it is delicate it is not subtle and neither is it revelatory but resorts to narrating the cliched experience of fundamentalism, painting Princeton on top of it does not change it, nor imbue it with gravitas. madras is lulling me constantly to sleep and think I have also developed a mild version of madras eye. on another note, a conversation or two does not actually change reality, even if it offers the brief hope of choosing an alternate reality, yet in that choice between vectors, a whole host of other inevitables are at play and one can change some, but as lincoln said you can fool some of the people all the time and all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time. likewise with one's self-awareness and the inevitability of certain behaviours at the ripe old age of 26.
I'm tired. and i want to lay down somewhere and i want the universe to stop spinning and I want the earth to slow down and I want to read and mull and not do much of anything else. except I have always dreamt of thinking, of having time to think, of walking and thinking and sleeping and thinking, but I only at best, have an hour to think everyday and that too only because I refuse to come to work after I get up and I lie in bed after a shower, with the fan whirring, thinking.
reading the reluctant fundamentalist now and while it is delicate it is not subtle and neither is it revelatory but resorts to narrating the cliched experience of fundamentalism, painting Princeton on top of it does not change it, nor imbue it with gravitas. madras is lulling me constantly to sleep and think I have also developed a mild version of madras eye. on another note, a conversation or two does not actually change reality, even if it offers the brief hope of choosing an alternate reality, yet in that choice between vectors, a whole host of other inevitables are at play and one can change some, but as lincoln said you can fool some of the people all the time and all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time. likewise with one's self-awareness and the inevitability of certain behaviours at the ripe old age of 26.
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