Brethren of Beloved Books

Books have always been my best friends since my childhood. Though I didn't specifically buy them, I treasured the ones I got as gifts and prizes at school. I read and reread them. I was afraid to lend them to my friends, chances were high they might lose them and return only the apologies and not the books. But it did happen one day. A cousin with his own huge collection asked for my storybook. Putting myself in his position and understanding that there is nothing called 'enough books', I lent the book to him. I never got my book back. It was a thin, long book about 20 pages, an illustrated version of a story about a crow and the bread crumbs it followed. Maybe it was 'Hansel and Gretel', but couldn't relate to it. I searched bookstores, and even now after the advent of the internet, used keywords to track the book online, but nothing reminded me of the story in my book. I was heartbroken.

After that, the other books were all stored in a secret location, until recently. I was forced to give away my precious childhood possessions during my house shifting. I was tricked into this by saying that someone will love them much more than I do. My collection included the hard copy of “Bunny Tales - A collection of bedtime stories”, The Hound of Baskervilles, The Great Expectations, Sarada Devi’s biography (Illustrated), The Black Beauty, Gulliver’s Travels, English textbooks of all my schooling days and a few more.

I never faced the problem of giving away my school textbooks or readers, as we called it then, as they were mandatory for everyone to have at school. But my collection so tender and yet profound should need a proper owner. So after careful consideration, I gave them to my maid’s kids. They were around 5-7 years old and will find a friend among the Big Ear and the Long Foot Bunnies.

In our family, textbooks were revered. That is why they were passed to everyone year after year for 4-5 years till they reach the end with the entry of new syllabus. Or maybe it was just a cost cutting. But will the kids consider my collection worthy to read and reread or will they end up in the dusty attic. I regretted I should have added them to my current collection. I inquired my maid about this and she replied that the kids loved the books especially the illustrated ones. But knowing that they are in good hands, gave me satisfaction.Good, I smiled.

Months passed and it was the rainy season. I was over with my concern about my books. But my world turned upside down when I saw some kids making paper boats with the pages of Great Expectations. I was shattered when the found the book with just its outer cover and no pages. I wouldn’t shout, I couldn’t explain. I simply told them books are to read but not to make paper boats. I gave a serious stare and walked away to the utter disappointment of the kids.

I walked in the same water that was strewn with boats, taking care not to stamp one. They were moving quickly, seemingly happy about the newfound freedom, while I was still trying to figure which page was it and what story happened in it. As I walked in despair, I took the next lane only to find a couple of eager kids scampering in the rain. I stopped and looked at them in awe. They were collecting the paper boats coming from the previous lane, unfolding them, wiping them on the dry towel and drying them in the veranda. I smiled a big smile. Here continues my legacy and I knew where my books would go from now on. They were the kids from the neighboring building and thus we became soul mates. What you deserve you get. A person gets a proper book and book gets a proper owner.

The Daughter That Changed The Course

When they said shh and shh, she laughed a little lower

As she grew up, they trained her to cover.

Why she didn’t ask, why they didn’t say!

Aside they said when the son brought a trophy,

While the bigger one she brought lay astray.

They gave her clothes but not the best,

They gave her education but not the best,

Because only the son shone among the rest,

Because a daughter is anyway meant to depart.

Kind they were all in bringing her up,

Just intended her life to bring her kids up.

They bought a wife to their son too,

Taking the victim and the ransom too.

And made another generation start,

While the previous' effort stood shamefully halt.

The poor daughter sought freedom in marriage,

Alas! But entered the similar arena.

Neither her father nor her mother,

Neither her husband nor his mother,

Did attempt to search for her happiness.

While they thought she had the best life,

They were not a pinch aware of her strife.

To survive is what they thought her life should be,

To live is what she learned from them.

She didn’t duck her face anymore,

The daughter that laughed lowly,

Now showed her kids to laugh loudly.

At times when education was bare minimal,

She made it a home ritual.

The daughter that dressed for others,

Taught them to dress for themselves.

She defied the elders, broke the rules,

Created chaos, left the old fate behind

And created one with her own hands.

She tasted the freedom she had longed for,

For in her own hands, it lurked!

Review of Scion of Ikshvaku by Amish Tripathi

“Lakshman held his peace even as his shoulders drooped.” Sentences as these is why we should read Amish Tripathi - Goes the first line in my notes. I guess this is the most positive line in the entire notes that followed.

It did appear that Amish learnt one magic trick and used the same in all his shows. I totally loved the Shiva Trilogy. With the same love, I bought this book. But it has nothing to offer, no story, no language, nothing to take away. I hardly felt my heart race, as it often did during the Shiva Trilogy.

Story:

Amish is no master of imagination and the same concepts from Shiva trilogy like Somras, Vayuputras, Astras, Nagas are all borrowed here. As a result the plot takes disastrous turns.

Amish took the old Ramayan, added the hot topic of the decade, feminism. He desperately tries to add feminism in tribal women, Kaikeyi or Roshini. But he fails real badly many times and sexism shouts loudly.

The initial chapters go really, really slow. I don’t see a natural flow in the stories. It’s like connecting random stuff from past with recent happenings. He tries to create suspense in the stories which fall flat. 

If Amish had kept his audiences in his mind, the final outcome would match the standards of school kids. There is often reminder of Ram’s unfortunate entry into this world, the ages of the princes, Ashram names of the princes, the way blood clots which indicates that person in alive while tortured. He spoon feeds you the details of the story just like a school teacher to the kids.

The introduction of Sita to Ram would sound perfect for the dreamy girl who wanted bedtime stories to dream about but not to today’s independent girl who can easily find out the pseudo-feminism.

Characters:

Amish created shallow characters, they all are quite obvious. Lakshman is always the suspicious fellow, Ram is always right, Dasharath is no more the strong man he once was, Roshni is an independent woman, Kaikeyi is manipulative, Manthara is cunning, Sita is strong, Urmila is dedicate, Kaushalya is timid, Sumitra is smart and so on. These single words are enough to describe the characters and any more sentences in the book doesn’t add any more to them. For example, in chapter 2, Lakshman is Ram’s protector and even in chapter 16, the former is the same.

Ram and Sita’s characters are a little intriguing.

Amish’s linked Bharat’s character to Lord Krishna, I don’t understand the need for it.

If I go with my blind understanding, Sita would be shown as the next Vishnu instead of Ram or maybe it’s just a ending punch line to attract crowds.

I see a strong connection between the situation when Asuras asked to leave the country to India-Pakistan partition. Asuras can be related to terrorists according to Amish’s explanation, shouting “Our God is the One” and attacks they often make around the world.

Language and Writing:

The vocabulary is boring and lots of words are repeated. It is written in a plain, simple, bland way. There is no magic in his sentences. Additionally, there are many grammatical mistakes. Here and there we do find some new words, but that we could gain by daily newspaper too.

If the editorial team had worked well enough, the effort of reading at least ¼ th of the novel would have been reduced.

Very little intelligent writing is done in the form of shallow philosophy.

Pros:

The strong point of Amish is his description of events of action, like combats, fights, war. Just as they go on he reveals to our eyes, step by step.

He has another strong hold on architectural descriptions.

Cons:

Amish unleashes his true nature, the patriarchal one in chapter 25. There are some sentences in the book which I liked so much that I highlighted them. And there are some sentences that hated so badly that I wanted to scratch them off the book. Page 284 - “who didn’t compete for exact equality but were complementary, completing each other.” in the next line he says, “two halves of a whole”, won’t that make both the halves equal?

In the time when we are trying to erase and rewrite stereotypes, Amish repeats the Delhi gore action to action. Just like the perpetrators thought they should teach women a lesson, Amish didn’t find any feeling in him to contrast them. Create a independent, courageous, bold woman and then teach her a lesson.

Rating:
2/5

The Great Indian Bride

And she scrubbed her face again and again
       up and down, left and right;
As if it is going to make the man 
      at her doorstep deserve her.

She tried to look thin so that it matches 
      his academic achievements
She changed her name to match
      their relucting stars.

She put on makeup, thicker and thicker 
   to make his family her own.
She wore high heels to reach 
   the expectations of onlookers.

As she bit by bit changed, at this moment 
   of pride of both the families,
She realized she had already lost
   the freedom of the past to 
     the luxury of future.

The Tree That Bloomed For Itself

Long, long ago there was a tree in the humble, barren adobe of an Indian. The tree had pale green leaves and a broad trunk, but no name. Initially, no one knew what to name it, as it was the first of its kind on the face of Mother Earth. The villagers saw it grow from a thin, short plant to a tall, strong tree. They crushed its bark and found them of no use. They smelt its leaves and found it no good for food. And so they decided it was not worth naming; except for one little boy who watered and patted her now and then.

The poor tree was conscious of all the humans’ deeds as she looked at the passersby with her kind eyes. But no one looked or observed her; rather they took her as a nothing. The tree felt very lonely, for she has no friends. She decided, “I will make them love me.”

The tree thought day and night for the next few days and one day came up with an idea. She turned all of her leaves to dark green, thinking that it will attract the attention of the locals. With hopeful eyes she waited the entire night. The moon shone over her lustrous leaves and she felt her beauty even in her veins. The next morning, everyone gathered around the tree, but only to look at her awfully. They commented that her end is near and disregarded her completely. Out of disappointment, the tree slowly shed tears along with her leaves. The grief was so intense that it turned the deep green leaves to pale lifeless yellow and sucked life out of them. And so, they shed one by one, disowning the tree itself. In that pile of withered leaves, the little boy and his friends jumped and played all day. The tree was happy; if not elders, at least the children loved her.

The little boy loved her more and more by the day. He talked to the tree and told her all sorts of stories that happen around the village. The tree and the boy soon became very good friends. But the tree still felt a dearth of acceptance among the villagers; she always wanted a family.

One day the tree explained her heartache to her friend. The boy after a lot of thought, brought up a new plan. He explained to the tree, how Prem, a villager liked his wife, Radhe’s new sari. He praised that its blue color highlighted against her fair skin. Taking a cue, the tree was as usual ready to experiment. After a few days, the tree started blooming with lovely velvet flowers. The little boy gathered everyone and showed them how beautiful they looked. She felt like a queen adorned with flowers on the top like a crown. Just as everyone turned to look at her flowers, a strong wind blew and all of them landed on the ground. The villagers sneered at her weakness and dismissed her altogether. The boy felt sorry for her.

Days and months passed, but the tree did not stop her pursuit. As her leaves grew thick and her branches big, she turned into a home for many birds and resting halt for humans. But the humans instead of thanking the tree for the shade, blamed her for the bird droppings. She soothed herself saying that at least the birds loved her.

One day she learnt from the little boy that food is a way to man’s heart. One fine day gave a produce of nice tasty berries. The tree felt, at last, she might be of some use to them. One by one the villagers ate all of them and said those berries couldn’t satiate their hunger. The tree was not disheartened. Instead of saving up her resources, she readily bore big, pulpy fruits for them. But unfortunately, one afternoon, while an old man jerked the tree to get a fruit, it accidently ended up on his head, injuring him. The tree took the blame for no mistake of hers. With this, she only believed her intentions of winning the love of the villagers is never going to happen.

Having lost all her hope, the tree even stopped trying. Then one day, just like all other days, she was observing the scene before her. Radhe was quarrelling with her mother-in-law over a trivial issue, they shouted at each other for a long time. And at the end of the day, it was clear that the chaos in the afternoon didn’t alter the love between Radhe and Prem. Prem empathized with her and soothed her mood. The tree thought of this for all day. And finally decided that no matter how perfect we are, others tend to dig out our flaws and how many ever such flaws they point out, we are still lovable to the others.

And having found herself perfect in every way, the tree started embracing the truth that once you stop worrying what the world will think of you, your life will become that much easier to live. Decidedly, she bared all her leaves for a few months, blossomed for another few months, carried juicy fruits later and changed the colors of her leaves now and then. And that’s how the seasons arrived and changed as per the tree’s wish.

In an early morning, as if it couldn’t get any better, the old tree saw small shoots all around it. 

I'll Learn

Leave me in the presence of pristine nature, 
that reflects beautiful green grass and bright white light,
I will turn into a poet.

Leave me with those saints and sages, 
who like to talk and listen, who do not hurry or worry, 
who believe and live in heaven,
I will turn into one among them.

Leave me without these materials and machines, 
without these loosely bound human relationships, 
I will become your loyal servant writing 
every single poem, singing every song for you.

And with one simple glimpse of outside world, the Lord of my love,
I can't keep one single promise of the above.

The Writer That Just Woke Up

During the early 2000's, when I was an ardent reader of the Hindu, the column named my "My husband and other animals" by Janaki Lenin caught my attention. It drove me insanely crazy with its magnetic name. I thought I should too be that creative when I write something, if at all I write. I had all kinds of expressions on my face when I read that article every Friday. I smiled, I stared into the newspaper, I opened my mouth, I laughed, I wondered but on the whole I enjoyed. I loved some the articles so much that I read and read and reread and reread them till the next week. These articles by Janaki Lenin inspired and influenced me to write. I am specifically not an animal lover, nor do I enjoy the sweet and sour chemistry of a couple, but this able writer created a wonderful union of both. But what interests me is the English - my hero. 

I guess every one of us has a passion from the very beginning. It's always on the back of our minds and at the last on our lists. But my passion was magically struck by these articles. From my childhood, I read every bit of newspaper, an English one, with great interest. I highlighted the words I didn't know, my dad encouraged me to do so. I never ever took a look at any other newspaper than the Hindu, which is an epitome of perfect English language. I had many paper cuttings as a child of articles, lessons on grammar, idioms and many more topics. I copied the accent of actors in foreign movies. I used to use such words in my sentences which the friends of my age never understood. I wrote poems, long and sometimes senseless ones. I collected tons and tons of proverbs. I still have all of them. But in these 15 years, wasn't my ardent love for English ever suspected? But who would expect, after all, I have even been a coin collector, a puzzle- solver, an artist, a chatterbox, a craftsperson, a topper in the class; in short the jack of all childish trades.

But ya, one day the ice broke or rather, the heart broke and words came flowing. And I wrote far better than I thought I would. My writings were initially very intense and strong in their sense. They opined my anger, pain, love and other emotions more profoundly. But I gradually neutralized the tone of my writings. From poems to reviews, to musings, to thoughts of mine and thoughts of mine about others, everything was well taken care of. 

I had had my share of hurdles as a writer. There were no ideas, sometimes the right words didn't occur and my writings went bland. And after that no more writing happened. But a good old friend asked me to write for her blog recently. I said I would write either for myself or for money. And so, I started writing again. For myself. 

After spending some time thinking of the reasons for that hiatus, I realized I set my goals wrong. I aimed at writing a novel or to write something that could be printed by bigshot publishers, to write something that brings praises and prizes. And that immense pressure created the writer's block in my mind. But I realized my ultimate goal is to write. On the days I write I smile more and I am 99% the happy me, but oh that 1%..

Kallu by Volga - An English Translation

Maa says I have beautiful eyes. She dabs them fully with kohl. My sister-in-law praises, "The black kohl on your fair cheeks; the black kohl on your white eyes - how adorable and glowy are they."

True that my eyes are big and beautiful, but what's the point - that Ramu has eyes as small as the leaves of tamarind leaves, I am ten years old and so is he. In fact, I am ten days older than him. But, I haven't seen even a portion of the wonders he has seen in our town. The other day, there was a huge fight in the street. I ran out of the house and stood there watching, among the crowd. Out of nowhere my brother appeared and dragged me into the house.

"How did you, being a girl, without any fear stand in that ruckus?", said Maa,"my heart is terrified just by hearing those voices". "I wasn't afraid", said I, only to invite more scoldings and anger. My brother loves the cowardice his wife. It makes him happy. He frightens her and laughs heartily when she recedes. She too is no less in her cowardice. Every other minute she shuts her eyes in fear, saying that she is scared. Even after a few pleas to open her eyes and see that nothing is wrong, she hardly dares to do so. She too has big beautiful eyes, but she likes keeping them shut for most of the time. 

When we take a walk in the street, both Maa and my sister-in-law do not raise their heads at all. They stick their eyes to the ground. Is there anything more worth watching on the ground than around the streets? Even if there was, for how many ages do we have to see the same old ground? They miss all those vibrant views of the streets. Maa in turn, scolds me. "Why do you stare around? Walk with your head low and look only at the ground," she would say knocking me on my head. Oh, God! I can not walk that way. If I don't look around the street, how can I ever know anything. Will Ramu who roams all day and all night on streets, would consider me? But he too doesn't know many things. He doesn't know that it is enough for women to see just a few things, not all. But Maa knows all this very well. It seems we should not look at our own bodies exploringly. Maa gets paranoid about those looks. According to her, we should not see or stare at men, especially in our growing years. Now, I have been playing with Ramu, but after two years, I am not supposed to. Then, if I spot him anywhere, I should walk away into the house. If I see him on the street, I should not look at him directly, but only raise my eyes without lifting my head. Padmakka, who is our neighbour does just the same. When I asked her why does she see things that way, she explained that such kind of looks adds elegance and beauty. But, I am still not capable of throwing such looks at others. I don't know when will I learn it. Ramu can never get it, even with his best efforts.

Tears should be ready in a girl's eyes, it seems, to flow out. The other day, Maa was complaining about our neighbour that she is stone-hearted and never sheds a tear. According to Maa, women should keep their tears on the hand, should they be needed. I get anger, but not tears. Whenever I am scolded I get angry. But in the case of my sister-in-law, she gets hurt and cries. It's then that my brother calms down and asks her to stop crying. But she still cries her eyes out. Whenever my brother and she have a fight, it is her who always cries, but never my brother. The same is the case with Maa and Paa, it is always Maa who should cry. But I don't like crying, it makes my beautiful eyes lose its sheen. And, it spreads the kohl all over my face. I swear I am never going to cry.

Whatever we see, we should not react, it seems. Whenever I see a basket of mangoes in Paa's hands I feel like jumping with joy, but I am not supposed to. Till the mangoes make it to my plate, I should not be excited, as per Maa's dictum. I should eat them only then with proper composure. I ask, what is the point of seeing my favourite mangoes, without jumping of happiness?

Also, I should not shout when I see anything that angers me. It happened one day that, while Kalyanakka was returning from college, a boy fell down from his bicycle and couldn't get up. There was no one around in the street. So, she helped the boy get up and stationed his cycle by a pole. She helped him jerk his leg to lose the spasm. The uncle who lives next door watched all this and told Kalyanakka's father his own version. Her father beat her, saying that how can she hug a stranger on the road. When she told what had happened, he shouted, "Why didn't you simply walk off rather than doing all this social service?" He too was my uncle, but I stopped answering to him after this incident. 

When we see something, we should respond, right? If not, what is the use of seeing it? If it is same to see and not see, then what is the point of even seeing? If I say so, Maa only asks me to shut up. My eyes should be shut. And my mouth should be shut. 

Once, my brother's colleague visited us; her laugh was adorable. But it is a surprise that she didn't have either the dot on her forehead(Bindi)  or kohl in her eyes, yet she was beautiful. All the time she was with us, she was smiling brightly. But Maa and my sister-in-law didn't like her. Without a Bindi and a chain around her neck, her face looked sluttish it seems. I asked her again and again,"Maa, is she really not beautiful?" She said, "I felt she looked disgusting without a Bindi - I can't admire a woman's face without it." When I grow up, will my eyes too become like Maa's? In that case, I won't be able to see a thing. 

"Why do only your eyes see all kinds of things?" asks Maa. But to Maa, nothing is visible. What less is visible too is none of her concern. Why do women's eyes behave like this? 

The Book I Wrote

I write and write,

In a book that's not right.

The cover boasts and brags,

The content breaks and bores.

I sit and write of a far off kite,

That flies and flutters with all its might.

It climbs up and goes down.
It takes leaps and it takes turns.

In a cloud it forms storeys and storms,
With a flair it chisels the air.

Till it reaches the end of its merry fair,
Until it reaches the top of the sky.

"But why," cried the kite, 
"Should sky be the limit?"

I said, "As went ageless fables."
And thought, now is the time to change the tables.

Who can tell the kite,
After the flight, comes the halt,
After the rise, comes the fall.

Instead, I scribbled on my heart, 
"After the fall comes the rise"

As I wrote and wrote, 
In a book that's right.