Twenty-Nine

Although I know its just a number,
when it comes around it's still a bummer.
It's conceded but I know I'm fine,
though I'm turning twenty-nine.

Birthdays, birthdays come and go,
people make such a show.
Even though I have no fear,
I'll be thirty, in just one year.

I'm still alive, one year older,
cocky, arrogant, and much bolder.
My body's shot, my back, my eyes,
but now I know, I'm old and wise.

There's Something About Mary Soundtrack Lyrics

Artist: The Foundations Lyrics

Song: Build Me Up Buttercup Lyrics

***

Why do you build me up (Build me up)

Buttercup baby just to let me down (Let me down)

And mess me around

And then worst of all (Worst of all)

You never call baby

When you say you will (Say you will)

But I love you still

I need you (I need you)

More than anyone darlin'

You know that I have from the start

***

So build me up (Build me up)

Buttercup

Don't break my heart

I'll be over at ten

You tell me time and again

But you're late

I wait around and then

I went to the door

I can't take any more

It's not you

You let me down again

***

Baby Baby

Try to find a little time

And I'll make you happy

I'll be home

I'll be waiting beside the phone

Waiting for you.

***

Why do you build me up....

To you I'm a toy

But I could be the boy

You adore

If you'd just let me know

Although you're untrue

I'm attracted to you

All the more

Why do I need you so Baby Baby.....

***

ooh ooh ooh

Why do build me up .....

A Moveable Feast

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.

- Ernest Hemingway to a friend, 1950


I don't remember exactly when I fell in love with Paris. What I do remember is that it was much before I actually visited the city. So, I am quite troubled by the recent turn of events in that city.

Paris has served a backdrop to many great books, movies and so on. Some of them remain absolute favourites in spite of many years having gone by since I first read, saw them. Paris, I have realized is a city used frequently by novelists and film makers to capture a certain magic, which people often associate easily with. Parisian women are beautiful. Men grumpy. And that's ideal. Walking around in Paris- including many which do not make it to the picture postcards, is an experience by itself. Sitting at a cafe and watching the world go by is an experience in itself, any where in the world. But somehow when you do it in Paris, there is an extra charm about it. Paris is the one city in the world where I have walked all day without feeling dead at the end of it. It is the one place where however long you stay you still have never had enough of it.


But today Paris BURNS. For the second week running. It burns like any other city in the underdeveloped world with the establishment completely at sea. Needless to say people have started pointing fingers, accusations fly and things look murkier by the hour.

The first stories which emerged, were mostly misleading failing to capture the seriousness of the situation. When I first heard and saw the news, I too dismissed it as a flash in the pan- probably a bunch of disllusioned young men who don't quite share Mr. Hemingway's opinion of Paris. But now as days go by and stories emerge it no longer remains a passe. Instead , it brings to light certain core issues, which need to be addressed not only in France but almost everywhere else. That of illegal immigrants.


When I first visited Paris, I was amazed with the ease I got into the city. Didn't even need to get my passport stamped. In any case, I walked into the Police Station in Gare du Nord and insisted that it be done, just for the sake of recording my landing in the city I have loved so dearly. But that's besides the point. France has always been a haven for immigrants from all over North Africa, mostly from the territories it once colonized. There was little it could do then- when the wars were fought in Algeria. There have been fingers pointed at the French police machinery (which in my opinion is not at fault in this case), as also at politicians, and even at Islam and its purported links with terrorism.

Now there have been many discussions and theories concerning Islam, democracy and terrorism. There are differing views on this subjects- some of them quite substantiated. Initially, I was impressed but not quite convinced by paper by Khurshid Ahmad titled Islam and Democracy: Some Conceptual and Contemporary Dimensions. It is deeply incisive and extremely well written (http://www.ips.org.pk/publications/Perspectives/Vol2/Chapt3.pdf). It argues that democracy as we know it now is essentially a western concept and has evolved in accordance with the preferences of the western society. It also goes on to say that religion as a concept itself is very different in the western and the eastern world. For instance and here I quote:

"Islam is not a religion in the limited sense of the word, as the term is used in Western philosophic and religious literature. Literally meaning submission, it stands for man’s total submission to the Will of Allah (SWT) and a firm commitment to pursue all His Commands and Guidance."

Overall some could interpret the entire paper to read that Islam and democracy cannot coexist is a western definition of the concept.

However, of all the readings that I have done the most pro-Islam stand comes surprisingly from the USIP in a paper published in Sept2002- almost a year after the 9/11 attacks. (read: http://www.usip.org/pubs/specialreports/sr93.pdf). And today I am more convinced of the stand. The paper quashes theories such as the one above, and says that all the ill that is associated with radicalism is not an outcome of religion, but the social evils that are present in the states most afflicted by it. I quote again:

"The explanation of why so many Muslim countries are not democratic lies in historical,political, cultural, and economic factors, not religious ones." and else where- "Dysfunctional, corrupt,repressive states are neither willing nor capable of reform. Apathy and despair breed radicalism."

Oh... once again I am digressing from what I set out to write. Just got busy with someone who wanted to buy some Turkish bond- whoa! I realize that I am no theologist, and in most cases my opinion is formed more by what I read than what I experience. But what I am trying to say is- and which is why I mentioned my experience during my first visit there. Illegal immigrants and immigrants at large are a function of dissatisfaction at home. France has historically been an easy destination for such. However, the random entries becomes a regular and soon we have a ghetto. When I say immigration- I don't just mean the types across borders. I mean encroachment, I mean territorial tendencies... the works.

Actually, I am distracted. Will continue later.

Seasons in the Sun

For many, summertime memories linger long after the beaches have been cleared.

Meg Moore.

==============================================================

In all my depression with Two Lives, while writing my last post, I forgot to mention the remarkable book which provided sufficient recluse and recovery. I turned yet again to an author of Indian origin, Jhumpa Lahiri. It is quite flattering to note that most Indians who attempt to write in English are either Bengali (my mother tongue) or have a deep connection with Calcutta. I looked around my parents' house and found The Namesake, lying seemingly unread. The book had been much talked about and again came widely recommended. I ran through a few reviews and commenced.

From the very begining I could not help but feel positively about the book. The story of displaced Indians in America, trying to find a foot hold, has been the favourite subject of many an author. The story of displaced Bengalis even more so. I still recall reading, somewhat laboriously "E Paar Bangla, O Paar Bangla (Bengal - This Side and Bengal- That Side), in my childhood. It is a dreamy world that for those who followed the rote- "Go west, young man" and went. The initial bewilderment giving way to hard practicality, the desire to hold on to one's roots, the dismay when their offsprings smirk at the mention of annual holidays to India, everything seems too much to be just laid aside and not written about. It is a melancholic truth, and I might say that Ms. Lahiri has provided it the place in literary history that it deserves.

I quite enjoyed reading the book, and even identified at times with the protagonist Gogol Ganguli, a second generation American (not that bit), who finds his way about the east coast, going about life, not realizing that he is really looking for his roots. The phenomenon of displacement, the overpowering desire to find an identity as distinct from the one inherited by way of parentage which struggles with the deep seated realization that "you are not the same as them" is to me the central theme of the book. The other characters of his generation- his sister and wife, also go through similar motions and emerge with very different consequences. It is proof that while an individual is the sum total of his experiences, there are things such as a collective soul, and how we emerge finally from such trysts, eventually determines the character of a person.

Now, to some other thoughts which have kept me busy through this long hiatus. For the first time in my life, this summer, I came across a person, briefly, whose memories have lingered long after the beaches have been cleared. I met her through a matrimonial post, not really at the behest of my parents. The thing that struck me then was that she played the piano- something that I wish my parents had made me learn. If things had gone well (not that they turned too bad eventually), we would have been in a marriage arranged by ourselves. However, for various reasons, things did not progress towards that end. Abruptly, after about a few weeks of acquaintance, we decided to forget the original purpose and well, vanished from each others' lives, as is expected in such matters.

However, memories linger. And I realized somewhat later, that I did feel a certain warmth towards this person. She was great to talk to, though somewhat impatient- in a very charming fashion. We shared hordes of common interests, shared affections for certain books, movies and songs. Holiday destinations. Foot wear. And bar designs. Each time we spoke (and it wasn't too often or too much), we realized that we had something more in common than one would ordinarily expect. Prima facie all the likeness was in junta things- books, movies music. But as we spoke, at least I realized that there was something more- even as she accused me of pointing out these similarities just to endear myself. Eventually, and not because of her accusation, but because they were all too frequent, I stopped mentioning the likeness.

When we did depart, and I think at that point of time I was more Yes than No, and she the other way round, she managed the show really well. I would send messages to her, very irregularly and at very odd hours, in a slightly inebriated state, and she would either reply politely, or at times ignore, sending a message by itself. I think she pulled it off really, really well. Soon I deleted her number from my phone book in order to avoid such embarassments. There were still a few messages from which the number could be retrieved, but then of course that wouldn't be on impulse. Eventually, I was more No than Yes.

It was unlikely that She and I, could have cohabited. We were much too alike. She said it would not be unlikely that we were twins separated at the Kumbh Mela- the once every 12-years Hindu festival where more people assemble alongside a river than the population of all of Europe. My patience comes at a premium, and so did hers. Most conversations were not without interruptions, and the two dates that we had were not really the best in my life. However, they were all mildly amusing, and somewhat unsettling. One doesn't pick up the phone to speak to one's own self. Intially, such likeliness is endearing, eventually, I know for a fact that I tend to frustrate everyone who has anything to do with me.

But yes, memories linger. Not in a mush way, but well... I don't really have the words for it. I don't even think I am sure of it. In fact I am not sure how long or how frequently. But some times I think it would be a nice idea to just meet (she lives a stone's throw from my house) and chat- or just call. Its not that I am lonely or lack female company. That comes to me even without design, by the vurtue of my profession, and the number of years spent in this city. Why even last night, when I walked in to njJBTB, my weekly watering hole, alone, I ran into some one I could gladly share the table with- as I often do. She is a "nice" person to know and these days the kind of people who I like spending time with is short. My list of non-professional acquaintances is basically Good Times people and the Connection people. The latter list is much shorter. We were connection personified. But by the time I go through the messages folder and retrieve Her number, circumstances prevail- the impulse passes. Sometimes I do message, and some times there is even a reply these days, but our lives do not afford us these certain luxuries- I have little time from my work and the other things I dabble in, and She- Me thinks has a rocking social life already.

But yes... memories linger.

==============================================================

Another love has come and gone

And the years keep rushing on

I remember what you told me before you went out on your own:

"Sometimes to keep it together, we got to leave it alone."

So you can get on with your search, baby, and I can

get on with mine

And maybe someday we will find , that it wasn't really

wasted time

Wasted Time, Eagles, Hell freezes Over.

==============================================================

"Can angels lie spine to spine?" Raheen wonders to herself. "If not, how they must envy us humans."
-Kartography, Kamila Shamsie

==========================================================================

Four and a Half Books.

Been travelling for a long time, mostly on a holiday. Been around a bit and some evidence of that is already on the blog. But also been reading a bit, and reading does tend to send me through this set of emotions. At least some of it. The following part may contain spoilers.

The first of my Three and Half Books is Never Let Me Go. Started reading somewhere over the Bay of Bengal, on my way to a far east Asian desitnation. Frankly, I hadn't read any Ishiguro till then but always taken in by the alluring titles of his books- Never Let Me Go, Remains of the Day, An Artist of the Floating World, The Unconsoled and of course, A Pale View of the Hills. However, I have always strongly believed that one writes best in one's native tongue. That's a flawed analysis, but it is just one of my idiosyncracies. However, there are exceptions, but that later.

I finally bought Never Let Me Go one Sunday afternoon, when I was feeling particularly soft and touchy. The name just stuck - and the deal was done. However, it hung about on one of the bookshelves for weeks before this trip came on and I had to pack something for long distance in-flight reading. The book was nice and it didn't really turn out to be not letting go in the way that I thought it would be- you know man-woman-relationship-mush. It was a very nicely written book, especially, since it touched a topic which I knew very little about. The book is essentially about human cloning and honestly I didn't figure that in the first 50 odd pages. You can imagine how confused I was with the way things were going.

It is about 3 persons from a school of clones who are reared for for organ transplants. They go about their early lives in much the same way as we would- reading, writing, painitng, crafting and so on. However, they are also made to understand the grim prospects that await them later on in life. Herein lies the first salvo of the book- the way in which these little facts about the futures are presented to them. A little bit before they can gauge the full impact of the disclosure. And by the time they actually do, it is as if they have known it all along and thus reconciling to that fate is not so difficult. I think in our world too, very often our friends, parents and colleagues reveal sensitive things to us at a stage where we are yet to comprehend their significance.

Later on the book goes on to explore another aspect which is also extremely interesting. The book explores whether clones have souls or not, and that for me was the central theme which remains with you long after the last lines have been read.

The best thing I liked about the book was the handling of an issue as sensitive as this. The subtleity, without really taking sides, was quite interesting. Nevertheless, it leaves the reader thinking and that I consider as its greatest achievement. Moreover the language in use is the very best and the few descriptions of the English countryside takes your breath away.

The second book I read, despite my contempt for Indian authors writing in English was "The Hungry Tide". It came frequently recommended in a series of "Who's reading what" mails. The book is about the tide country- the Sundarban delta region and the lives of people there- and however every thing changes once an ABCD marine biologist lands up to conduct research on local dolphins. There she meets with another visitor- a translator by profession, who has come down to meet distant relations. The book delves into relationships, political conflicts, nature and every thing else. Quite readable ("How does one forget words? Do they just fall from one's memory like dead birds from the sky?") but nothing really like the next book I read.

I had never never read Amitava Ghosh and neither do I intend to after I finished The Glass Palace. Sometimes when you read a book, you realize that it was that one book that was supposed to be the swan song for this author. The one book which is the culmination of a lifetimes memories, of stories heard. A book that took a millenia to brew and years to pen down. The Glass Palace is just that. Set in Rangoon, Malay, Calcutta and Ratnagiri the book follows the life of Rajkumar to staert with and then his family, over a period of over a hundred years as they go through the cycles of struggles and prosperity. The book also touches upon the life of King Thebaw Burma's last emperor, exiled to live his days in Ratnagiri. It is a big and beautiful book and elicits dismay from the reader at its completion.

The best part part about the book is something which after reading Hungry Tide have come to associate with the author- his tendency to store grand, slow and idyllic discourses for the first half of the book and then breeze thorugh the story in the latter. It is an interesting style and certainly helps in a book the size of The Glass Palace. However, this tool is far more effectively used in this than in any other. In fact the best part of the book is that last chapter, wherein having breezed through the events of the life of so many, the author delivers a salvo, whose parallel I am yet to come across. So much so- the last line changed my perspective of the entire entire book and answered so many questions.

You may ask, why I choose not read any more of this author. Of course there is nothing definitive about it, but it has more to do with the next book that I begun reading.

I bought Two Lives with much fanfare, considering the coincidence of the timing of its release with my annual holiday a divine intervention. However, much as I admire Vikram Seth I couldn't manage to get beyond the first 200 odd pages and that too with great effort. There is little in the book by way of a story and much of what I read was largely about the Holocaust. It is ironical, since the Holocaust is the one event in history which I am deeply interested in. However, I have read too many fine and deeply moving accounts of what I consider Europe's darkest period, to be impressed by Seth's narrative and find it out of place in his book.

Seth is brilliant when it comes to creating a vast multitude of characters and spinning a web of his grand story around them. He has the ability to hold his reader and characters together as one through an interesting mix of rythm, play of words and imagination. It is a talent which is rare and some thing that he uses to the hilt. Unfortunately, not so this time around. It delves too deep into history without providing any new insights to any half-intelligent reader. He meanders around the lives of two real life characters, without realizing that real, real life is after all not as interesting as the fictional one. It is not too say that people have not lived interesting lives, but that they only serve to inspire writers into weaving stories around them. It is flattering to have a story written about your life, but it is a much better read if the real you emerges only in pieces and the rest is all that you think would have made your life interesting (for instance, FPS, The Glass Palace and why even, A Suitable Boy).

Personally, I have very little interest in other peoples' lives. It was a disappointment. It lies on my shelves- half-read alongside Tokyo Cancelled, which has suffered a similar fate.

===========================================================================

John Keating: We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman,"O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

Dead Poets Society

===========================================================================