tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-245747352024-03-23T11:34:06.058-07:00At Home, WritingMy learning curve as a writer. It's not just about writing, you know.Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.comBlogger100125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-60097521961290658332011-01-18T16:09:00.000-08:002011-01-20T08:35:34.189-08:00New Home<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Please join me at my new home over <a href="http://bhaswatighosh.com/">here</a>. Readers who subscribed to the blog feed will now have to hit the <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/BhaswatiGhosh"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Subscribe</span></a> button on the right hand side on the new site. Thanks for your association. </span></span><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-47509829790229563852010-11-28T18:22:00.000-08:002010-11-28T18:26:23.261-08:00Apu's Homecoming: Short Story<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-QujhUWX7xiydoksSfZZ7SSFsFmVQcyU4J4iVv4j7xhb_6sDqJLaj2vLgyO6DkEczZqI2-Fw1Gdo8nJZwJ6PnX3yHbL-3TbjPkxWqSxt9J-ZKw7ZKe6eBXbFwptTYiZK11KHk6g/s1600/000_1635.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-QujhUWX7xiydoksSfZZ7SSFsFmVQcyU4J4iVv4j7xhb_6sDqJLaj2vLgyO6DkEczZqI2-Fw1Gdo8nJZwJ6PnX3yHbL-3TbjPkxWqSxt9J-ZKw7ZKe6eBXbFwptTYiZK11KHk6g/s320/000_1635.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544792242769208674" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">A short story I wrote years ago has found its home. <a href="http://www.asiawrites.org/2010/11/featured-story-apus-homecoming-by.html">Apu's Homecoming</a> is up at Asia Writes, one of my favourite sites. Do read it and give your honest (yes, brutal will do) feedback. I would really appreciate it.<br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-68447352631111228802010-07-04T15:40:00.000-07:002010-11-11T22:37:26.992-08:00Death's Grief by Rabindranath Tagore<div style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note</span>: Recently, I lost a loved one to cancer. Though not born into our family, the person had become family for us, and the death only showed me how attached I had been, without ever realizing that when the person was around. As I grappled with this loss, almost unable to accept the reality of it, I turned to Tagore for some solace. The piece below, part of Tagore's autobiography, reflects how he himself felt the depth of grief following his sister-in-law's death, and how his heart finally found acceptance and even peace. Worked as a balm for me in these difficult moments.</span><br /><br />That there could be any gap anywhere in life wasn’t known to me at that time; everything seemed tightly knit within laughter and tears. Nothing could be seen beyond that, hence I had received that as the ultimate truth. Suddenly, when death emerged out of nowhere and, within a moment, created a hole in the middle of this very manifest life, my mind was totally puzzled. All around me, trees, land, water, the sun, the moon, the stars, and the planets firmly continued to be as they were, yet that, which amid them was just as true as themselves—in fact, which, the body, this life, the heart had, through a thousand touches, known to be even truer than all these supernal entities—when that loved one dissolved like a dream within no time, it seemed to be an utter collapse of the self! How could I reconcile what remained with what was no more!<br /><br />A darkness emerging from this pit attracted me all the while. I kept circling and returned to the same spot, looked at that same darkness and searched for something in place of what had been lost. Humans can never entirely believe in nothingness. Whatever isn’t there is untrue, and whatever is untrue isn’t there. That is why the effort to see within what can’t be seen and the search for acquiring that which can’t be had never stops. Just like a sapling, if bound inside a dark fencing, keeps growing upright on its toes in a desperate attempt to get past the darkness and raise its head in light, all my heart and soul, when suddenly fenced by a ‘not there’ by death, desperately kept trying to come out to the light of ‘is there’ within that boundary. There’s no greater misery than to realize that the path to cross that darkness isn’t visible within that darkness.<br /><br />However, in the middle of this despairing grief, a breeze of happiness would flow in my heart every now and then, taking me by surprise. The sad fact that life is not absolutely and inertly definite lifted a load off my chest. I felt joyous thinking that we aren’t imprisoned within the stone walls of unmoving truth. That which I had held on to had to be let go of. When seen from the perspective of loss, this evoked pain, but when I saw it from the angle of freedom, I felt spacious peace. That day, I, for the first time realized like a strange truth, that this world’s enormous weight balances itself with the give-and-take of life and death and flows in every direction thus; that weight won’t crush anyone with suppression—no one would have to bear the tyranny of a sole master called life.<br /><br />This apathy made nature’s beauty even more deeply exquisite for me. For some days, my blind attachment to life nearly disappeared—trees swaying against bright skies would rain a burst of delight down my tear-washed eyes. Death had brought about the distance necessary for viewing the world with completeness and beauty. Standing detached, I watched the world’s image on the vast backdrop of death and knew it to be beautiful.<br /><br />For a while at that time, a carefree attitude took over my heart, which was also reflected in my outward actions. I found it laughable to conform to the society’s courtesies by considering them to be a great truth. All that wouldn’t touch me at all. For a few days, I was completely oblivious to who thought what of me. I would just drape a thick shawl over my dhoti and wear a pair of chappals to go to Thacker’s shop for buying books. My meals were also characterized by haphazardness. For some time, my bed, even during rains and winters, remained on the balcony of the second story; there, I could see the stars eye to eye and meet the light of the dawn without any delay.<br /></div><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.forestpoetry.com/wp-content/uploads/sapling1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://www.forestpoetry.com/wp-content/uploads/sapling1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />Not that any of these was an austerity for practicing detachment. This was more like a holiday for me. When I found the cane-wielding teacher of this world to be a deception, I ventured to taste freedom by trespassing even small controls. If one fine morning one woke up and found out that the earth’s gravitational pull had lightened by half, why would one want to carefully tread the official path? One would, most definitely, wish to jump across the four-five storied houses on Harrison Road, and if, while enjoying the breeze in Maidan, one came across a monument, one wouldn’t even want to walk past it, but rather to leap over it. My condition was similar—the moment the pull of life loosened under my feet, I was eager to completely leave the beaten path.<br /><br />On the terrace of our house, alone at night, I would run my fingers like a blind man all over the night, in hopes of seeing a flag atop any peak in the domain of death or a letter or even some symbol etched on its black stone gates. Then, the next morning when light filled my bedding on the balcony, I would open my eyes and find the covering of my heart clearing away; I would find that the expansive view of life appeared as dew-fresh new and marvelous to my eyes as the way in which the world’s rivers, mountains and forests dazzle with the lifting of a fog.<br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Photo courtesy</span>: <a href="http://www.forestpoetry.com/">Forest Poetry</a></span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" face="arial" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></p>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-8134802821510380102010-11-10T18:18:00.000-08:002010-11-11T18:53:39.474-08:00An Award and some Revelations<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPMw7GVD4mNc0bQNnO2CgeTzbSH7V57a10L90daoP8Bk4tPU9Je5F6krEZfLWmo8XZimspybBgzB-ucK99Epsvw0A-ahMXnpaRlKQmhI_WaXHM3UykZlL0u1ERSlyVtZpoC0R1Q/s1600/honest-scrap5.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 110px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPMw7GVD4mNc0bQNnO2CgeTzbSH7V57a10L90daoP8Bk4tPU9Je5F6krEZfLWmo8XZimspybBgzB-ucK99Epsvw0A-ahMXnpaRlKQmhI_WaXHM3UykZlL0u1ERSlyVtZpoC0R1Q/s320/honest-scrap5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537754105691200130" border="0" /></a>The lovely and humorous Gargi hononoured me with the <a href="http://gargimehra.wordpress.com/2010/10/14/and-the-award-goes-to/">Honest Scrap Award </a>sometime back. As the recipient, I must tell you all ten things about myself. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Disclaimer:</span> The author shall not be deemed responsible for any boredom this post may cause.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><br /><br /><br />1) The first prize I ever won was for a recitation competition. I was in class (grade) I and bagged a consolation prize for reciting a poem by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swami_Vivekananda">Swami Vivekananda</a>.<br /><br />2) In class VI when I had to give up one of the two extracurricular activities of dance and music, I let go of dance. Music has stayed with me, ever since.<br /><br />3) It was in class VI only that any recognition of my writing came about. The perpetrator of this act was an essay I wrote about a trip to Appu Ghar, an amusement park in Delhi. Our English teacher, with whom I am still in touch, wrote "Good" at the end of it.<br /><br />4) As a Bengali, I am crazy about fish--possibly in any and all forms. Unlike many Bengalis, I am not so crazy about sweets. There, I said it.<br /><br />5) I wrote my first short story at age 14. It was in Bangla and was lucky enough to meet the approval of my immensely talented (and accomplished) author Grandma.<br /><br />6) A place I return to (and must keep returning to) again and again is <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2008/09/echoing-green.html">Santiniketan</a>. I wasn't born or raised there, but it's a heart's connection I haven't been able to explain or eliminate.<br /><br />7) The first trip I ever made outside my hometown was to the historic city of Agra. Fatehpur Sikri enchanted me even more than the world wonder, Taj Mahal.<br /><br />8) My technologically challenged brain causes me eternal frustration...Sigh.<br /><br />9) My first foreign trip happened in 2009, courtesy a translation Fellowship I won for my translation of a <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2007/07/in-conversation-with-ramkinkar-book.html">remarkable book</a> on legendary sculptor-painter, Ramkinkar Baij. I was in the lovely city of Norwich, UK, for two months.<br /><br />10) I met my husband through this very blog. He is even there on my blogroll. :)<br /><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-36268933080336570222006-12-05T04:42:00.000-08:002010-11-09T20:45:46.699-08:00Abiding Characters - I<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbPIK0zLb-bA52by59wR_trYawi8Ul2rE0UHsUkbaY5Hreffr1yr9TrijTyvqab7NY7n2PcqJNUtFkU_mSIMpzmZz_IOLjl9ZFOKXnfiRbFisfr5BpBIK89UJxURcmpjArPVm8Q/s1600/DSC_2463.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbPIK0zLb-bA52by59wR_trYawi8Ul2rE0UHsUkbaY5Hreffr1yr9TrijTyvqab7NY7n2PcqJNUtFkU_mSIMpzmZz_IOLjl9ZFOKXnfiRbFisfr5BpBIK89UJxURcmpjArPVm8Q/s200/DSC_2463.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515869713701851234" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" >Characters who live. Whose breath conjoins ours from the printed pages on which they appear. Who stay with us long after the book is closed, the story is forgotten. Abiding Characters. A new series. </span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Raicharan </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">From </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">Khokababu’s</span> Return</span><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"> by Rabindranath Tagore</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">First Signs:</span></span> Hardly anything strikes about Raicharan at first. He enters the household of his masters as a servant boy of twelve. His job is to look after a one-year-old baby. When this baby boy, Anukul, grows up into a man, Raicharan still remains his servant. Although his rights over his master wane once the latter gets married, the space for his unreserved affection is filled in by Anukul’s little son.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">What Endures:</span></span> Even though he is the quintessential servant, ever devoted to his master’s family, Raicharan's unwavering love for Anukul’s toddler, marked by rustic simplicity and endearing awe tugs at the reader’s heart again and again. There is no end to Raicharan’s marvel when the little boy learns to cross the threshold of his room even as he crawls. The servant is even more amazed when the baby utters his first words calling his ma "Ma", his <span style="font-style: italic;">pishi</span> "Pichi" and Raicharan, "Channa". He had in fact declared within months of the little boy’s birth that upon growing up, he will be a judge for sure.<br /><br />The decisive turn in Raicharan’s life and indeed in the short story comes when the servant accompanies his little master astride his stroller for a late-afternoon promenade. A clear day turns murky as the little child is lost to lure of the Padma River even as Raicharan is busy picking up flowers as demanded by his young boss.<br /><br />When the child’s mother sends people to look for the child-servant duo the same evening, they find a hapless Raicharan’s yowl—calling out for his junior commandant—tearing through the monsoon winds. However, the judge-to-be isn’t found, his mother accuses Raicharan of stealing her son, and the old servant leaves the household, unable to bear the burden of his guilt of leaving the child alone while plucking flowers.<br /><br />Soon after his return to his village home, Raicharan is blessed (or cursed as the perspective may be) with a son. Even though his wife dies during childbirth, Raicharan pays no attention to the newborn baby. As a reader, I was at once incredulous and shocked to read this part of the story. For who could think the affectionate man, who went out of his way to fulfill the tantrums of Anukul’s son, could be so dispassionate toward his own child? However, that’s exactly the cause of Raicharan's indifference; to him the child epitomizes deception, trying to claim the love that was the birthright of his previous master.<br /><br />Only when his son, named Phelna (meaning “rejected”) by his sister, starts crawling across the room’s threshold and demonstrates other signs of intelligence, does Raicharan take note of him. From this point, he begins seeing striking parallels between Phelna and Anukul’s dead son. Convinced that his son is a reincarnation of the dead child, he starts bringing up his son in grand style—buying him expensive clothes and toys and preventing him from befriending other village boys. As the boy grows up, Raicharan takes him to the city and enrolls him into a good school, while taking up a measly job himself. All this while, he raises his son like a prince. The boy takes a liking to Raicharan as well, but not quite in a son-like way. For, as Tagore writes in the story, “In his affection Raicharan was a father and in his service, a servant.”<br /><br />Years later, when Phelna reaches the age of twelve, Raicharan takes him to Anukul’s home. There, to everyone’s astonishment, he admits to having stolen Anukul’s son and presents Phelna as that stolen child. This dramatic revelation, while delighting the parents of the dead child, turns Anukul hostile toward Raicharan. The most ironic point in the story comes when Anukul orders his old servant to get out of their household and young Phelna, standing proudly along side his ‘parents’, asks his ‘father’ to forgive Raicharan. The boy’s suggestion to keep sending a modest stipend to the former servant is upheld by Anukul. Only, the money comes back from Raicharan’s village address. Nobody is found to live there any longer.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I like Raicharan despite: </span></span>his obsessive commitment to his master’s family, his near exasperating spirit of sacrifice, and his invitation to emptiness in his own life in order to fill the vacuum in his master’s household. I like him for the humanity he represents. Even if it remains unsung in the end.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 51, 0);font-size:85%;" >Khokababu = Term of endearment for little boy.<br />Pishi = Aunt (Father's sister). </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-1157386143705725692006-09-04T08:50:00.000-07:002010-10-28T10:16:40.173-07:00PAGLA DASHU (Crazy Dashu) -- I, By Sukumar Ray<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Deeds of Dashu<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Read Part II <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2006/09/pagla-dashu-crazy-dashu-ii-by-sukumar.html">here</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">By Sukumar Ray<br />Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh</span><br /></span><br />In our school, there was hardly anyone who didn't know Crazy Dashu. Even those who knew nobody was familiar with Dashu. One time, a new watchman came to our school; he was totally rustic. No sooner than he heard about Crazy Dashu, had he identified him. That's because from his looks, speech, and movement you could tell Dashu was a bit off in the head. He had big round eyes, unnecessarily long ears, and a scrub of scruffy hair. Whenever he walked fast or spoke in a busy manner, it reminded one of lobsters for some reason. <o:p></o:p></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">Not that he was foolish. When it came to arithmetic, especially complex multiplication and division problems, his brain worked rather well. Again, there were occasions when he reveled in duping us with such well-forged plans, that we were left embarrassed and stunned. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p>At the time Dashu or Dasharathi joined our school, Jagabandhu was famous as the "best boy" of our class. He was good in studies no doubt, but we hadn't seen a jealous wet cat like him. One day, Dashu approached Jagabandhu to ask him the meaning of an English word. Jagabandhu snapped at him without any reason, saying, "Do I have nothing better to do? Today I will teach him English, tomorrow I'll have to help someone else with maths, the next day another one would come to me with a new request. And I'd just go on wasting time on this!" A livid Dashu replied, "Hey, you are such a petty little rascal." Jagabandhu complained to Pandit Mashai, "That new boy is calling me names." Pandit Mashai* gave Dashu such a yelling that the poor fellow just went quiet.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Green%20Book.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/Green%20Book.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">Bishtubabu taught us English. Jagabandhu was his favourite student. While lecturing, whenever he needed to refer to the textbook, Bishtubabu would get it from Jagabandhu. One day, while teaching us grammar, he asked Jagabandhu for the book. Our friend immediately handed him the green-cover-wrapped grammar tome. As he opened the book, Master Mashai<span style="font-weight: bold;">^</span> asked grimly, "Whose book is this?" Broadening his chest in pride Jagabandhu said, "Mine." Master Mashai said, "Hmm, is this a new edition? The entire book has changed, I see." With that, he started reading, "Hair-raising detective tales of Inspector Jashobant." <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">Unable to understand whatever was happening, Jagabandhu just froze, flabbergasted. Master Mashai rolled his eyes devilishly and said, "So you are learning such higher things, <i>haan</i>?" Jagabandhu tried to mutter something, but Master Mashai cut him short and said, "Just shut up now. No need to act nice and good. Enough of that!" Jagabandhu's ears went red with shame and insult, and we sure were delighted to see that. Later of course, we learned that this was the handiwork of brother Dashu, who had replaced another green-cover book with Jagabandhu's grammar book.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Aamshotto%20001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/Aamshotto%20001.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">We always poked fun at Dashu, often ridiculing his intelligence and looks, right in front of him. I don't recall him getting upset about it even once. A lot of times, he would colour our comments and make up funny stories about himself. One day he said, "In our neighbourhood, whenever someone makes dry mango candy, I am in big demand. Can you guess why?" "Why?" We asked, "Do you relish mango candy?" He said, "Oh no, that's not the reason. You see, when they spread the candy for drying on the terraces, I go there and show my face a couple of times. That's enough to drive all the crows away from the area. So no one needs to guard the mango candy while it dries."<o:p></o:p></p><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0); font-family: arial;font-size:85%;" >* Pandit Mashai = Respectable term for teacher.</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0); font-family: arial;font-size:85%;" >^ Master Mashai = Respectable term for teacher.</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;"><span style=";font-size:85%;" >Enjoyed? Read Part II <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2006/09/pagla-dashu-crazy-dashu-ii-by-sukumar.html">here</a>.<br /></span></p><span style="font-family: arial;font-size:85%;" >Translated by: Bhaswati Ghosh<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Pagla+Dashu" rel="tag">Pagla Dashu</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Sukumar+Ray" rel="tag">Sukumar Ray</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Humor" rel="tag">Humor</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Bengali+Literature" rel="tag">Bengali Literature</a></span></span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:trebuchet ms;" ><o:p></o:p></span>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-83947085634948298632010-09-22T16:15:00.001-07:002010-10-27T20:27:01.853-07:00Framed Notes from Beyond<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0bcsL_maHFaKhZbV9CA6bRvjzBU2t8UW887eLiFU8E4adN8OhdrbUElk-vdCRdVR5cGuo4XTdkSqNzp7EV4ookrPcai8HBsLhLtmExmH87951671fPaCtuzz0AA85cuCbPEWeQ/s1600/ladakh-cover-full.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0bcsL_maHFaKhZbV9CA6bRvjzBU2t8UW887eLiFU8E4adN8OhdrbUElk-vdCRdVR5cGuo4XTdkSqNzp7EV4ookrPcai8HBsLhLtmExmH87951671fPaCtuzz0AA85cuCbPEWeQ/s200/ladakh-cover-full.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520141414481201538" border="0" /></a><b>Postcards from Ladakh</b><br /><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:85%;">By: Ajay Jain<br />Kunzum<br />Non-fic (Travel)<br />Price: INR 395, US $19.95, UK £11.95<br />Available at: <a href="http://ajayjain.com/2009/09/05/postcards-from-ladakh-my-new-book-is-out/">Ajay Jain's Blog</a></span><br /><br /><br /><br />Among the souvenirs I collect during my travels, picture postcards are recurring visitors. Besides being light in weight--both in terms of mass and price, these cards open mini windows to new worlds. Easy to carry, easy to share, easy to keep or frame--picture postcards have almost everything going for them. Well, almost. My one pet peeve with these cards has been the limited information one usually gets about the picture in question--mostly just a line or two and at the most, about a paragraph. <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2008/12/peep-peep-dont-sleep-book-review.html">Ajay Jain's</a> new book, <b>Postcards from Ladakh,</b> redresses this issue with commendable facility.<br /><br />With this book, Jain takes us inside the astonishingly beautiful yet often difficult terrain of Ladakh--among the remotest and most sparsely populated regions of India. Every page you turn is a new postcard--the picture on the left and Jain's notes on the right. As he notes in one of the opening chapters titled Ladakh, Circa 2009, "Start reading from any page," for you won't miss anything if you didn't follow the exact order of the postcards.<br /><br />The pictures grab the reader's attention right away, and once I had seen/read a few cards, I started imagining my own reading of the images before my eyes floated over to Jain's text. Since this world was as alien to me as that of tribes living in the Congo basin, my imagination couldn't stretch too far. That's where this book succeeded in style. It presented me with just enough information on each accompanying picture without overwhelming me with a flood of it or depriving me by sharing too little. Jain writes the notes in affable first and second person voices, generously interspersing them with wit, practical advice and most of all, his passion for the place.<br /><br />A big chunk of the postcards reflect Ladakh's Buddhist tradition, its intricacies, distinguishing features and sovereign influence on the local populace. Others highlight the region's flora, fauna, economy, history, and geology. The last few chapters are extremely useful for anyone planning a trip to Ladakh. In these, Jain provides an experienced traveller's tips on how to pack, how to move about and how to keep the environment clean. There's also an engaging interview with Ladakh's spiritual supremo, the Twelfth Gyalwang Drukpa. I found this a nice touch to this collection of postcards.<br /><br />I leave you now with an invitation to read this book and with some of my favourite postcards:<br /><br />This image, depicting an old apricot collector, arrested my attention for quite a while. Do you also find the wrinkles on his face speaking of an unknown, unknowable pain?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN54sHGMI4BM08Nq53-3eeZpZSMmC7tZCQXCd0OC0yJQLHZ83hUookQ1hyphenhyphenGkST9tWj7C0RkKQjRaVJ0xE7mbGF5zi1GGVlnE2FArDCEuWfA85owUHCG4hGzlM2TfPfgu4m9ynpGg/s1600/Ladakh+Postcards+003.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN54sHGMI4BM08Nq53-3eeZpZSMmC7tZCQXCd0OC0yJQLHZ83hUookQ1hyphenhyphenGkST9tWj7C0RkKQjRaVJ0xE7mbGF5zi1GGVlnE2FArDCEuWfA85owUHCG4hGzlM2TfPfgu4m9ynpGg/s320/Ladakh+Postcards+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520142086643892882" border="0" /></a>Rock art dating to the 6th century AD. On a single rock in the entire region. Intrigued to know more? Visit Ladakh to find out. Or just read <b>Postcards from Ladakh</b>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6PNBSvZUaq7oVSv-UBsOyff3dnl_TBfDb33hgYGHyTA3hfQ1VOZ4q8BE3uH9VmNVZydWaTjIVeilgOlWQuuYPJ4Xq8rL5TRjTAvBhbCQZBIAkEM1dvZLi5uGFwVQiFVPxkRi8A/s1600/Ladakh+Postcards+004.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6PNBSvZUaq7oVSv-UBsOyff3dnl_TBfDb33hgYGHyTA3hfQ1VOZ4q8BE3uH9VmNVZydWaTjIVeilgOlWQuuYPJ4Xq8rL5TRjTAvBhbCQZBIAkEM1dvZLi5uGFwVQiFVPxkRi8A/s320/Ladakh+Postcards+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520142242285552642" border="0" /></a><br />Stories like the one this postcard tells warmed my heart the most. It shows a bunch of happy little children who shared their bounty of sweet peas with the author, expecting nothing in return. Although he did reward them with chocolates, I suspect, he was the bigger winner.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJvx0AneB9sXPkwoPhDN9rrXB-TJbXt6BGy2g13vXzt0s2_q0CxQNGUFI-yoYPM-jVkU7VcgLI2mslzFxCEXI-EwY6dg0kgvsR2BI343cd0UUxnyQkdgV28FaDSFEVpSDc8fKfQ/s1600/Ladakh+Postcards+005.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJvx0AneB9sXPkwoPhDN9rrXB-TJbXt6BGy2g13vXzt0s2_q0CxQNGUFI-yoYPM-jVkU7VcgLI2mslzFxCEXI-EwY6dg0kgvsR2BI343cd0UUxnyQkdgV28FaDSFEVpSDc8fKfQ/s320/Ladakh+Postcards+005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520142388070499730" border="0" /></a><br />This all-religion shrine, situated in the harsh Siachen glacier is believed to bless its devotees, mostly military soldiers, with special "visions."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCJNbtCK4XP9essWLUY9Nfzp-LlLv_aUjJBcwfF-_HjAOL5JoX-tLPtoJrVM5AAMkE8dkgut9Y8iUZ0sqjE46xP9gOhhCi23hwD9SlAzYTxmy13LEWf4Waf0PvISOXTuMFjTwVIw/s1600/Ladakh+Postcards+006.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCJNbtCK4XP9essWLUY9Nfzp-LlLv_aUjJBcwfF-_HjAOL5JoX-tLPtoJrVM5AAMkE8dkgut9Y8iUZ0sqjE46xP9gOhhCi23hwD9SlAzYTxmy13LEWf4Waf0PvISOXTuMFjTwVIw/s320/Ladakh+Postcards+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520142603960711570" border="0" /></a><br />And lastly, this multi-image postcard about Himalayan marmots is just too good to be denied a mention. The author was lucky himself and shares his most entertaining encounter with these "adorable creatures," who are often a little shy of human presence.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolKiYyJvreiBiAOXI9lb2mMzKopWHzi0yq6-HlR7XzuRr0c-tO-vvIF-8bY59fJ8JLEQPc_zzUndW9tGqDhE_Dl8irurruQsPjwm3FV86b8XHGxdToocIkREphGkdaAAtQ4mPAg/s1600/Ladakh+Postcards+007.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolKiYyJvreiBiAOXI9lb2mMzKopWHzi0yq6-HlR7XzuRr0c-tO-vvIF-8bY59fJ8JLEQPc_zzUndW9tGqDhE_Dl8irurruQsPjwm3FV86b8XHGxdToocIkREphGkdaAAtQ4mPAg/s320/Ladakh+Postcards+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520142717508603362" border="0" /></a><br />The only additional feature I wished the book included is a glossary of terms. Some of the Ladakhi Buddhist references can get confusing, even with repeated reading. All the same, whether you are in a hurry or at leisure, <b>Postcards from Ladakh</b> is a perfect reading companion. It's also a smart travel guide without posing as one.<br /><br /></div></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-90954015615452004072010-10-06T17:20:00.001-07:002010-10-06T18:52:18.872-07:00Night Light<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">With the breeze of a sudden night<br />Comes the news of your arrival.<br />As I dive into the sea of slumber<br />You wake up,<br />Fusing the conscious with the unconscious.<br /><br />The night goes silent, draping a blanket of darkness.<br />You radiate<br />In your own light, intrinsic glory--<br />A star.<br /><br />At dawn, I wake up,<br />My feet touch the ground<br />There too, I see you—<br />In soft, full smile.<br />Footloose, the night’s star and the earth’s dust<br />Embrace, sway each other.<br /><br />I bow down, pick you up,<br />To give meaning to my worship.<br /><br /><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_e5KMy0w0CwM/TK0SQDlIEdI/AAAAAAAAAAU/l64X4ehnj_M/%5BUNSET%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="max-width: 800px;" /><br /><br /><b>Note</b>: Every autumn, as <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2006/09/pujo-manei.html">Durga Puja</a>, the biggest festival of Bengalis, approaches, a certain delicate flower blooms quietly in the night, spreading its soft fragrance all over. Since my childhood, this tropical bloom has awed me with its magical essence. In Bengali, we call the flower <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2007/10/humility.html">Shiuli </a>or Shefali.<br /><br /><i><b>Disclaimer</b>: I am not a poet and don't claim this is poetry. It's just a spontaneous expression, triggered by memory.<br /></i><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-1150224669791163392006-06-13T11:36:00.000-07:002010-09-15T16:09:19.041-07:00Latin America: A Journey Inside Out<b style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The Duo Hits the Road<o:p></o:p></span></b><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Ernesto-Alberto.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/320/Ernesto-Alberto.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Two friends, bitten by the itinerant bug and armed with little more than a Norton 500 motorcycle and the carefree craze of youth, embark on a journey across a continent. Nothing exceedingly extraordinary about that. The human spirit of adventure has seen a lot of heroic trips being undertaken by daredevil travellers. Yet, what is it about the journey of these two Latin American friends that pulls curious onlookers like me to follow their trail to this day? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">What is it about <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1876175702/102-4044163-1079351?v=glance&n=283155">The Motorcycle Diaries</a> that makes such a lasting impression on me and so many others? The fact that it isn’t just a travelogue, nor is it just another memoir of youthful impulsiveness; but that it’s a man’s inner journey happening hand in hand with the outer sojourn.<span style=""> </span>It’s also your own journey—as a reader and as a person. A bit surreal to describe in words. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This is not a story of incredible heroism, or merely the narrative of a cynic; at least I do not mean it be. It is a glimpse of two lives that ran parallel for a time, with similar hopes and convergent dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">[From The Motorcycle Diaries, by Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara]</span></span><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/The%20book.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/The%20book.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;color:red;" lang="EN-GB"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Indeed, Ernesto Guevara hits the nail on the head there, at the beginning of the book. When I first read The Motorcycle Diaries some three years ago, I knew little about Guevara. He was this t-shirt and poster figure, the epitome of “revolution.” I only knew him as a left-inclined man who stood and fought for the rights of the oppressed. In hindsight, it’s a good thing that The Motorcycle Diaries, and not one of his political pieces, was the first Guevara writing I came across. The book surprised me. For, here I saw a 23-year-old young man, going on 24, just like any other of his age—bursting with restless energy and the spirit of quest. I saw this young man poking fun at himself, his older pal, and their often unfriendly motorcycle. I found little or none of the political rhetoric that Ernesto Guevara came to be associated with, just a few years since making this defining road trip. And layer by layer, chapter by chapter, I saw the young man changing, until the end of the nine-month journey, when he seemed to have come of age and matured way beyond he could have imagined at the outset. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">On Celluloid<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/38m.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/38m.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And then last month, just like he had done three years ago with the book, my brother gave me the DVD of <a href="http://www.motorcyclediariesmovie.com/home.html">The Motorcycle Diaries</a>. I had pestered him a lot to bring home the movie. Yet, when it finally arrived, I didn’t show any urgency to watch it. I let it lie until my brother rang an alarm bell saying the DVD was a friend’s and had to be returned. That’s when I finally watched it. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Why this lack of interest? Did I think the film would be boring? No. I just felt sceptical about the movie because I wasn’t so sure the book could be adapted for celluloid without a measure of documentary-like info-dumping. And even though the book is written chronologically, it still has this scattered and fragmented persona, which I thought would make a film made from it less cohesive. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And this is why they say, don’t think about it based on what you read. Go, watch the film. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The silver screen version of The Motorcycle Diaries moved me just as much as Guevara’s own words had. In fact, there couldn’t be a better rendition of the book in film format than the one we now have from Director Walter Salles. It stands out for all the elements that define fine filmmaking. Besides being technically slick, it impacts the viewer at a very human level. That is where it’s real victory lies. It entertains you wholeheartedly yet leaves you uneasy by posing difficult but nagging questions through young Ernesto’s observations. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Film%206.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/320/Film%206.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><center><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;color:red;" lang="EN-GB" ><a href="http://www.motorcyclediariesmovie.com/home.html">http://www.motorcyclediariesmovie.com/home.html</a></span> </center><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;color:red;" lang="EN-GB"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></span><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;color:red;" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The breathtaking scenery first. Guevara himself does a fantastic job of describing the spots he and Alberto Granado pass by and visit during their epic journey through five South American countries—Argentina, Chile, Peru, Colombia, and Venezuela. The manner in which he shows a human intimacy with the immediate landscape can put a lot of fiction writers to shame. He talks of the sea as his confidant and friend that can absorb all secrets and offers the best advice, if only you carefully listen to its various noises. <o:p></o:p></span></div> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Film%203.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/320/Film%203.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><center><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;" ><a href="http://www.motorcyclediariesmovie.com/home.html">http://www.motorcyclediariesmovie.com/home.html</a></span></center><br /><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;color:red;" ><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p>That the filmmakers chose to shoot the film at the exact locations where the journey took place doesn’t just enhance its credibility, but also makes for exhilarating visual treat. Cinematographer Eric Gautier superbly captures the scenic charm of the places on his camera, often giving the viewer the feeling of being there with Ernesto and Alberto. And the landscapes covered are magnificently diverse—from the green of </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Argentina</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">, to the </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Atacama Desert</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Chile</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">, to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Peru</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">’s mountain tracks. I seriously want to see </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Latin America</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> based on what the film portrays. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The Light Side<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/che-dancing-big.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/320/che-dancing-big.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The Motorcycle Diaries is a testimony of Guevara’s brilliant sense of humour, something he is said to have possessed until the very end, even when he turned into a hard-boiled guerrilla fighter and a mass leader. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Alberto, unmovable, was resisting the morning sun’s attempt to disturb his deep sleep, while I dress slowly, a task we didn’t find particularly difficult because the difference between our night wear and day wear was made up, generally, of shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">[From The Motorcycle Diaries by Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara]</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Toward the end of the book, Ernesto lays out a neatly chalked-out “anniversary” routine he and his friend had devised to manage some food off unsuspecting people. The five-step program started with the two friends talking loudly with some local twang thrown in to pique the curiosity of those around them. A conversation would ensue, and our peripatetic friends would subtly enumerate their hardships on the road and then one of them would ask what date it was. As soon as someone told them the date, the other friend would let out a massive sigh, saying softly it had been a year since they started their journey, and they couldn’t even celebrate, they were so broke. Their “victim” would then offer some money, which the duo would refuse, before finally accepting it with reluctance. Their host then treats them to drinks. After the first drink, Ernesto refuses another one. The host persists, asking why he wouldn’t have another one, and after much requesting, Ernesto confesses that according to a custom in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Argentina</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">, he can’t drink without eating alongside. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">In the film, actors Gael García Bernal (Ernesto) and Rodrigo de la Serna (Alberto) portray the “anniversary” act hilariously before a couple of Chilean girls, about their age. I was in splits watching the duo performing their antic, mischievous innocence and the desperation to fulfil their stomach’s cries leading them to stand-up comedy brilliance.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The Humanist Emerges</span></b><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/youngman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/320/youngman.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;color:red;" lang="EN-GB"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">However, what set both the book and the film completely apart are the pertinent and often not-so-easy questions about the human condition. As Guevara and Granado travel farther and deeper, they have a close brush with the lives of the poor and exploited. This becomes possible because of the tramp-like nature of their journey for the greater part of the trip, since their bike breathes its last at a location in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Chile</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. As they hitchhike their way through the Latin American landscape, a lot of times aboard trucks laden with indigenous people, Ernesto realises the tremendous humiliation meted out to poor people across the continent—whether it be a mining couple they meet in Chile who are persecuted for the man’s “communist” leanings, or the abject conditions to which Peru’s native mountain tribes are relegated, or the hapless state of leprosy patients they visit at the San Pablo leper colony in Peru. Every instance of coming across such injustice pains young Guevara and his anger and frustration is reflected throughout the book. Director Salles brings out this sense of pain very well in the film. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It isn’t unnatural for a human to feel moved or sad at the plight of a fellow human. Most of us would feel the same emotions that Ernesto does. However, there are a few human beings, for whom the pain becomes so intense they can’t remain silent about it. Even though the book is primarily a record of Guevara’s and Granado’s journey, you can see Ernesto belongs to that rare breed of empathising human beings. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Che_Guevara_on_horse_small.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/320/Che_Guevara_on_horse_small.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The book carries tell-tale signs of the man he was to become later.<span style=""> </span>The man who would galvanise poor peasants across </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Latin America</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> to take up armed struggle for the life of dignity to which they had a birth right yet which was denied to them for lifetime after lifetime. And underlying the most violent of approaches he undertook as a guerrilla commandant was his deep love for human lives that had been rendered powerless through centuries of unjust subjugation. The Motorcycle Diaries—the book and the film--reveal this loving, soft-hearted man time and again. We see Ernesto’s vision of a United Latin America, when at a party thrown by the staff and patients of the </span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">San Pablo</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> leper colony to celebrate his twenty-fourth birthday, he delivers a speech saying “the division of </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Latin America</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> into unstable and illusory nations is completely fictional.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Yet, the maturity doesn’t happen overnight. The self discovery happens layer by layer, and here, the filmmakers pull it off with great sensitivity, without the slightest trace of sensational exaggeration. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/viaggio_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/320/viaggio_2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The symbolic nine-month journey is also a tale of immense physical grit. The two friends brave harsh blows of nature—from walking through a completely uninhabited stretch at pitch dark, to trekking their way through forests and the Atacama Desert, even as Ernesto falls prey to a series of asthma attacks (he was chronic asthmatic). <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The Motorcycle Diaries includes a few letters Guevara wrote to his parents. These lend a fresh dimension to the book, reflecting his close bonding with family members with whom he freely shares his disenchantment with the appalling conditions of the poor across </span><st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Latin America</span></st1:place><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Chillingly Prophetic…<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Although it’s difficult and unfair to pick sections of the book as favourite, the parts I found the most chilling were those in which Guevara envisions a future for himself exactly as it unfolds years later. Early in the book he says his destiny is to travel. Indeed, in the succeeding years, right up to his death, he travels and travels—across the world—from Russia to Asia and Africa. Only now he is shorn of youthful indulgence and is a champion for the voice of the proletariat. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And again at the end of the book, in the very last chapter, “A Note in the Margin,” Guevara gave me goose bumps, when he predicted his death. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">“…I knew when the great guiding spirit cleaves humanity into two antagonistic halves, I would be with the people…I see myself, immolated in the genuine revolution, the great equalizer of individual will, proclaiming the ultimate mea culpa.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">[From The Motorcycle Diaries by Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara]</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/guevara.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/320/guevara.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As insensitive as it may sound, perhaps it was only fitting that Guevara died young. He remains a youth icon through generations, although it’s sadly ironical that the ideals he stood for are now mere footnotes in history for the very people who use merchandise bearing his image. <o:p></o:p></span> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Ernesto Guevara would be 78 today (June 14). In my opinion, people like him don’t die. Only their bodies perish. Happy birthday, Che. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/che.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/320/che.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p>And a useless bit of trivia: Ernesto Guevara shares his birthday with yours truly. How old am I? Let’s hope like Che, forever young.</span></p><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Che+Guevara" rel="tag">Che Guevara</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/The+Motorcycle+Diaries" rel="tag">The Motorcycle Diaries</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Books" rel="tag">Books</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Films" rel="tag">Films</a></span>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-15535621576218216632007-07-13T11:06:00.000-07:002010-09-11T20:55:15.690-07:00In Conversation with Ramkinkar: Book Review<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDDZGQm4BRvV_cJ_KUgRgavtVep_hKIhayH3UrRT5nH5n5wgXWw5Rwem-HucNj7-OXoiWvorKnFJ1BfFvWKz-BCTwJlCG3t14wIVOWWiYQ1rf_LGDgXbHQEcbjoJGG9I1KfuRCQ/s1600-h/Fresh+Greens+II.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDDZGQm4BRvV_cJ_KUgRgavtVep_hKIhayH3UrRT5nH5n5wgXWw5Rwem-HucNj7-OXoiWvorKnFJ1BfFvWKz-BCTwJlCG3t14wIVOWWiYQ1rf_LGDgXbHQEcbjoJGG9I1KfuRCQ/s320/Fresh+Greens+II.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086959526892660130" border="0" /></a>Yes, I have <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2007/06/living-conversation.html">already blogged</a> about this book. But it’s worthy of two mentions, if not more. <span style="font-style: italic;">Shilpi Ramkinkar Alapchari</span> or <span style="font-weight: bold;">In Conversation with Artist Ramkinkar </span>ranks as one of the best books I have read in the last five years. The author, Somendranath Bandopadhyay sure knows how to bring conversations alive on the printed page. For, not one among the series of dialogues this book features reads like a well-structured interview or stiff intellectual discourse. The tone of the book, in itself conversational and informal, makes the animated interaction between the two principal voices even more life-like.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">The book’s most overpowering element is the close, personal, and honest view of Ramkinkar, the man. Here is a barber’s son, coming from a financially humble background, pulled by the charm of idol-making in his village, who reaches the zenith of India’s art horizon. This ascension is only a fraction of Ramkinkar, though. What makes it so remarkable is his complete obliviousness to the fame and recognition he achieves. The book presents layer after layer of this lovable artist completely shorn of materialistic or pride-geared ambitions, rooted to the soil for all his life, not overwhelmed while receiving honor, and unfazed in the face of the most shattering despair. I saw a simple man, who never considered himself any special when the whole world revered him as a genius. A man who felt the closest to the people of the earth—the santhal tribal folks—whom he loved and respected from the core of his being for their simplicity, hard working nature and joyful living. I saw an artist so innocent and unadorned that he cared naught for the ways of the civilized world. The same ways he sometimes found so uncomfortable to deal with he calls the people displaying those as “the ones that sound so out-of-tune. “ I also saw a man pulsating with the rhythm of life, radiating warmth, and uninhibited when laughing out loud. Although a book doesn’t carry sound, the power of this one’s words helped me imagine Ramkinkar’s thunderous laughter.<br /></div><br /><blockquote>Another day’s story. At the counter of Vishwabharati’s central office. (Kinkarda has) come to the cash section to withdraw his salary. While handing out the pay, the counter colleague politely informs Kinkarda that this would be his last salary packet. Kinkarda is stunned. He says, “Why, why is that?” “You retired a month ago. So…” Hearing that Kinkarda falls off the sky, “What are you saying, what will I eat then? So you won’t give me pay next month?” “No, sir,” the counter official informs awkwardly.<br /><br />Kinkarda dashes off to the Vice Chancellor’s house. Kalidas Bhattacharya, the VC, was having lunch. Hearing Kinkarda’s voice he rushes out with food-stained hands. After hearing the story he says, “You heard it correctly at the office. The university has to work according to its rules, you see; that’s the problem. But there are provisions for those who retire. You, too, have those. You will receive a pension every month. Besides that there’s provident fund, gratuity…”<br /><br />Kinkarda is elated. “Ah! I thought the same. There must be some arrangement. See, good thing I came to you. That’s what I was wondering, there has to be a way.”<br /><br />This man is strange. His anxiety and its release are both worth watching. His mind is detached from all things material. The fists are loose. In those loose fists he’s only held art all his life.<br /><br /></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">As endearing as it is to see the sculptor’s personality, it’s still not a full view. Without knowing Ramkinkar the artist, the full depth of his inner self isn’t fathomable. Again, the author brings this part of Ramkinkar Baij in all its glory. The conversations mostly hover around the artist’s works and the author’s keen understanding of them. We get deep into the mind and heart of a creator, learning how each of his works came into being—both mentally and organically. Someone who has no artistic acumen, the discussions on Ramkinkar’s finest creations fascinated me with every nuance leading to their origin. To learn that the figure of <a href="http://www.angelfire.com/electronic/awakening101/sujata.html">Sujata</a>, the woman who had served milk rice pudding to Buddha, had actually been inspired by a lanky student at Shantiniketan was not a let down, but a revelation. Especially when one learned the associated story of how the famous <a href="http://www.answers.com/topic/nandalal-bose">Nandalal Bose</a>, Ramkinkar’s <span style="font-style: italic;">mastermoshai</span> at Shantiniketan, advised putting a bowl on top of the woman’s head, transforming her into Sujata.<br /></div><blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">"Study isn’t done only with open eyes, but with the eyes closed as well. You see beauty with your eyes and with your heart. Only when the two meet is the seeing complete….Your eye’s vision comes near the heart’s, and the heart’s vision moves toward the eye’s. Somewhere in the middle they meet…But this meeting isn’t free from conflict, my dear, it has a lot of friction. And what remains after all the clash isn’t two any longer—the two then merge into One."</div></blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">In Conversation…</span>mentions how even Tagore acknowledged Ramkinkar’s genius. One day, the poet summoned the young artist to his room. When the latter answered the call, frightened and nervous, Tagore said to him, “So, will you be able to fill this entire campus with your works?” Probably the greatest prize Ramkinkar received (and he did receive some prestigious awards).<br /><br />While reading the book I lamented not being born early enough to see this humane, child-like, genius of a sculptor. But I am glad Somendranath Bandopadhyay preserved his essence so lovingly for me to cherish.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Note:</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"> </span>All quoted text written by Somendranath Bandopadhyay, translated by Bhaswati Ghosh.</span><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-90687833360984302822007-08-24T12:14:00.000-07:002010-09-11T20:54:30.533-07:00River Valley to Silicon Valley: Book Review<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://pics.librarything.com/picsizes/4e/16/4e16c73c0f3518f597a426e5167434d414f4541.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 221px;" src="http://pics.librarything.com/picsizes/4e/16/4e16c73c0f3518f597a426e5167434d414f4541.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">RIVER VALLEY TO SILICON VALLEY</span>: Story of three generations of an Indian family<br />By Abhay K.<br />Bookwell<br />Available at: <a href="http://www.blogger.com/bookwell@vsnl.net.in">bookwell@vsnl.net.in</a></span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Dreamers abound this world. In lands spread over all the habitable continents, people dream of living lives bigger than their circumstances allow them. Some dreams are material in nature, some more romantic and soul-filling. I reckon the world is a better place for the dreamers it holds. For, in most cases, dreams, those intangible pieces of impossible ideas, are what lead to the most awesome of deeds. In River Valley to Silicon Valley, <a href="http://abhayspeak.blogspot.com/">Abhay K</a> proves that.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />As the book’s subtitle says, it’s the “story of three generations of an Indian family.” Although focused on Abhay’s family, it also tells the story of India’s changing social-scape. Beginning with the tale of the writer’s grandfather and his rural farm life in newly-independent India, the book moves on to recounting his father’s extraordinary determination to receive education and ameliorate village conditions. The book finally brings readers face to face with Abhay and his elder brother as they step out of the village to script their twin destinies in India’s capital—Abhay as an Indian Foreign Service diplomat and his brother as an executive in a multinational corporation.<br /><br />On the face of it, River Valley to Silicon Valley is just a portrayal of a middle class Indian family’s passage from agriculture to modern vocations, and from breaking barriers within the village to touching stars outside its boundaries. The book, however, is a lot more than that. It’s a testimony of what unflinching self-belief and stubborn focus can lead to—living one’s dream, no matter how far-fetched it may appear in the beginning. As it narrates the story of Abhay and his family in a simple, unpretentious voice, the book stealthily plants the seeds of dreaming big in the reader. Not a bad bargain, that.<br /><br />The book may not score highly in the show-vs-tell or grammar department. But it is a book with a soul. For this reader, River Valley to Silicon Valley is any day a better pick than soulless books with perfect grammar.<br /><br />Thanks for writing this honest, inspiring gem, Abhay.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">Coming Up</span>: An interview with Abhay K. Stay tuned!</span><br /><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-90185570636919144832007-01-03T21:29:00.000-08:002010-09-11T20:45:27.795-07:00The Chess Players<div style="text-align: justify;">"The passion for playing chess is one of the most unaccountable in the world. It slaps the theory of natural selection in the face. It is the most absorbing of occupations. The least satisfying of desires. A nameless excrescence upon life. It annihilates a man. You have, let us say, a promising politician, a rising artist that you wish to destroy. Dagger or bomb are archaic and unreliable - but teach him, inoculate him with chess."<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >H.G. Wells, Certain Personal Matters, 1898</span><br /></div><br />Never having sat across a chessboard, I should think that observation of Wells is a bit of an acerbic exaggeration. However, if the stories of chess and its lovers were considered, that remark would appear anything but an overstatement. A recent review of <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/10/26/AR2006102601296.html">The Immortal Game</a>, a book chronicling the history of chess with a touch of personal attachment, took me back to a tale of <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Shatranj ke Khilari</span> or <span style="font-weight: bold;">The Chess Players</span>, a compelling short story by one of the maestros of Urdu-Hindi literature, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Munshi_Premchand">Munshi Premchand</a>.<br /><br />The story is, of course, better known for its screen version, directed by the legendary Satyajit Ray. While the film remains a personal favourite for a number of reasons (great overlaying of the parallels between the state of politics and the state of mind of the populace, appropriate casting, sincere recreation of ambience), reading the story itself was a reintroduction to the masterly craftsmanship Premchand wielded with his pen.<br /><br />It’s a pity I read the story in Bengali translation. Pity because language is such a big part of Premchand’s writing, as indeed it is of the culture his writing mirrors. I have read his stories in the original language before and have been charmed as much by his skillful use of the Hindi/Urdu vocabulary as by his layered writing style and the themes his stories discuss.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Chess Players</span> is one such layered story. It tracks the chess exploits of two friends, Mirza Sajjad Ali and Mir Roshan Ali, both belonging to the gentry of Lucknow, a city known for its <span style="font-style: italic;">tehzeeb</span> or culture. While Lucknowi traditions and artistic legacy has mostly been the subject of exaltation in most written works, in this story of Premchand, this same legacy becomes the author’s diatribe. That’s mainly because of the period in which the story is set. The time is British India and the setting the luxury-steeped province of Awadh, ruled by Wajid Ali Shah, a king devoted to art, artists and courtesans and equally impervious to matters of the state.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.inloughborough.com/newsimages//2008/02/images/chess.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 495px; height: 371px;" src="http://www.inloughborough.com/newsimages//2008/02/images/chess.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Wajid Ali Shah’s hedonistic ways seem to infect his subjects as well, and the two chess players are no exception to the pattern. Like their Nawab’s obsession with extravagant indulgences, the Mirza and the Mir are obsessed with the game of chess. Morning, noon, and night, it’s the one thing that plays on their minds and the one thing their minds play with. For a while Mirza’s house is the centre of their duels, even as his wife detests the chessboard as if it were her competitor in hogging her husband’s attention. Soon her intolerance for the game reaches the point where she throws away the chessboard even as an intense battle is on between the two players.<br /><br />Premchand then shifts the scene of chess combats to Mir Roshan Ali’s house. This place has its own set of problems. On the one hand are Roshan Ali’s servants, exasperated to suddenly work round the clock for serving the two playing masters. Not only that; there’s also Mir’s wife, whose adulterous affair with her lover is halted because of the presence of her husband in the house. The lover comes up with a devious plan—posing as a messenger from the king’s court, he announces Wajid Ali Shah has ordered Roshan Ali to appear in the court so as to enlist his services in the military. Alarmed at the possibility of such a scenario, the two friends quickly shift the venue of play again to the ruins of a mosque—their final spot. They select this place because of the privacy it offers. Anything to keep their game from getting interrupted.<br /><br />The story’s focus is tight; it remains concentrated on the chess players and their keen contests on the 64-square board. The only interjections come in the form of political reportage. As the momentum in the chess battlefield intensifies, so does the battle between the British and Nawab Wajid Ali Shah. The latter is a tepid affair though, and before long, the British hold the king captive. Premchand describes the event in this way:<br /><br /><blockquote>Never before could the king of an independent country have been defeated so peacefully, without bloodshed, like this. This was not the ahimsa [nonviolence] with which the gods are pleased. This was the kind of cowardice at which even the biggest cowards shed tears. The nawab of the spacious land of Avadh was departing as a prisoner, and Lucknow was drunk in the sleep of sensual pleasure. This was the last extreme of political decay.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />[Source: </span><a href="http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00fwp/published/txt_chess_players.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">"THE CHESS PLAYERS": FROM PREMCHAND TO SATYAJIT RAY </span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00fwp/published/txt_chess_players.html">by Frances W. Pritchett</a>]</span> </blockquote>The climax of the story highlights how a simple pastime, when turned into an obsession, can lead to fierce ego clashes. In the final scene, Mirza Sajjad Ali is seen desperately trying to win at least one round of the game, already having lost thrice in a row. The clouds of his anxious heart seem to find a resonance in the darkness of the evening reverberating with the cacophony of nocturnal creatures. His difficulty in answering the moves of Mir Roshan Ali wasn’t helping either. Soon his restlessness transformed into an incensed verbal attack on the Mir. He accused the latter of foul play and finally delivered check. When the defiant Mir refused to concede defeat, the war of words reached an extreme, where friendship gave way to an acrimonious attack on each other’s ancestors. Shortly, even this wasn’t enough to prove their pride, and a sword fight commenced between the two. Premchand remarks how when their king was captured, it hadn’t bothered either of the chess players, yet when it came to personal egos, they had all the courage in the world to fight for its prestige.<br /><br />The story ends on a bloody note as the two friends are slain by the edge of each other’s swords. Premchand ends the story and his critique of the prevailing apathy to politics by observing how the two friends had not shown an iota of concern when the British were seizing their territory, yet, to protect the pawns of their artificial battlefield, they were ready to even kill each other. The irony is not lost one bit as the annihilation of the The Chess Players is complete.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Note to self: Buy a Premchand anthology in Hindi as the first New Year purchase.<br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Premchand" rel="tag">Premchand</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Hindi+literature" rel="tag">Hindi literature</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Chess" rel="tag">Chess</a><br /></span><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-1158164376717487992006-09-13T08:48:00.000-07:002010-09-11T20:21:14.281-07:00Reel-istically Funny<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/reel.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/reel.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;">AW Chain 6</span> is here. An event I am getting addicted to. It's amazing to see how one subject leads to the other, leaving you enriched and entertained by the end of the process. Before me, <a href="http://chaostitan.blogspot.com/2006/09/stop-or-kindergarten-nanny-will-pacify.html">Kelly</a> spoke about some comedy flicks that featured muscular action heroes trying their best to manage little babies. Now, that instantly makes me smile. The proposition of tough men at their clumsiest worst when it comes to babysitting is intrinsically funny, isn't it? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">So what is it that makes a good comedy film? If I had to nail it down, I would say it just takes an intelligently crafted story that taps in to the foibles of human nature and gives them a lighter spin. How do you measure a comedy film as good or trash? Again, the yardstick for me is a simple and time-tested one. If the film manages to make your stomach hurt with laughter even after you've seen it 58 times, it has to be good. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Let me share with you five of my all-time favourite Hindi comedy films. I am not rating them, since they all make your belly explode equally well. On to the laughter pills then:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Golmaal.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/Golmaal.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >1. GOLMAAL (Topsy-turvy):</span> Ram Prasad is a middle-class chartered accountant, desperately looking for a job to support himself and his sister. He is thrilled to learn about a vacancy at a firm owned and run an eccentric old man called Bhavani Shankar. However, there is a catch. The old man believes the youth of the country should focus only on their jobs, and not waste time on other interests like sports or entertainment. Ram Prasad, a soccer and hockey lover goes prepared for an interview with this quirky gentleman. He impresses Bhavani Shankar when the latter asks him a question on Pele, and he apparently fails to recognize the soccer maestro. He gets the job.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Trouble starts when the boss spots Ram Prasad on the spectator stand at a soccer match he goes to attend. When called in for explanation, Ram Prasad fabricates an impeccable (and imaginary) tale of his younger brother, Lakshman Prasad, who he says is a wayward young man, wasting his youth on sports and music. He convinces his boss that it was Lakshman whom the old man had seen at the stadium. He further claims the younger brother doesn't sport a moustache. What follows is a rollercoaster of uproarious situations, in which Ram Prasad has to switch between the roles of his own self and that of his <span style="font-style: italic;">sans</span>-moustache fictional brother, forever at the risk of his boss stumbling upon the truth.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/chupkechupke.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/chupkechupke.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >2. CHUPKE CHUPKE (Stealthily):</span> A well-plotted story of how a couple decides to dupe their relatives for some harmless fun. A newly-married couple--a botany professor and his wife--plan to play a prank on the wife's brother-in-law, a judge who is very particular about the use of pure Hindi. The professor, hitherto unseen by these relatives, takes up a driver's job at the judge's house, exhibiting his unadulterated Hindi-speaking tendencies.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Things get suspicious for the older couple when the judge's sister-in-law is seen to openly flirt with the new driver. The situation gets out of control when the duo actually elopes and another (planted) character emerges, claiming to be the botany professor. Imagine the older couple’s embarrassment, even as the man claiming to be the botany professor is actually a scholar of English literature and has a hard time teaching botany to a young girl he begins to fancy while still posing as the married professor.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Jane%20bhi%20do%20yaaron.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/Jane%20bhi%20do%20yaaron.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >3. JAANE BHI DO YAARON (Let it be, Friends):</span> A remarkable film that was a blend of black comedy and slapstick. Two photographer friends set up shop in the busy Mumbai city. Their first assignment comes from a newspaper editor, and accidentally the two friends photograph a murder scene. They are dragged increasingly into the dark and deceitful world of corrupt administrators and businessmen. A brilliant satire enacted by some of the finest actors of the Hindi film industry, this flick was marked by witty dialogues, hilariously absurd sequences, and an unmistakable dig at urban ugliness (not just the physical part of it).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Rang%20Birangi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/Rang%20Birangi.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >4. RANG BIRANGI (Colourful):</span> <span style=""> </span>A riotous comedy on a bachelor friend's attempt at rekindling the spark in the marital life of another friend. His script turns the lives of the married friend, his secretary, her boyfriend, and a whole lot of other people in the film into a complicated labyrinth of circumstances. The plot hatched by the bachelor friend is the backbone of the film's plot. Fantastic plotting and rib-tickling scenarios conspire together to produce an explosively funny film.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/1600/Katha.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3222/2549/200/Katha.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >5. KATHA (Tale):</span> Yet another social comedy, reflecting the dilemmas of urban life. Rajaram is an honest middle-class clerk living in a densely-populated locality of Mumbai. He secretly loves his neighbour, Sandhya, but can't profess his feelings to her. Soon, he is joined by his smooth-talking-but-idle friend, Bashudev. The latter wastes no time in courting Sandhya, even while living in Rajaram's flat at the nice guy's expense. A classic hare-tortoise story, in which, thankfully, the tortoise wins the battle after almost losing it. Bashudev takes the cake, though, entertaining and disgusting the audience at the same time. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">All of those sparkling funny bubbles, filled with natural laughing gas are stories of ordinary people caught in the daily grind. They make for healthy, wholesome family entertainment. All of them </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">deserve separate entries. </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Maybe some other time. For now, let me navigate you to the Indian-movie-loving Simran at <a href="http://writing-from-within.blogspot.com/">Writing From Within</a>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://technorati.com/tag/awchain" rel="tag">awchain</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Indian+cinema" rel="tag">Indian cinema</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Hindi+Films" rel="tag">Hindi Films</a>, <a href="http://technorati.com/tag/Comedy" rel="tag">Comedy</a></span></p>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-83913703927470772522006-12-31T22:45:00.000-08:002010-09-11T20:20:38.623-07:00Wishing You Well<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"><center><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">When the sun shines on the mountain</span></center></span> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><center><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">And the night is on the run</span></span></center></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><center><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">It's a new day</span></span></center></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><center><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">It's a new way</span></span></center></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><center><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">And I fly up to the sun<br /><br /></span></span></center></span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOMhTKzIzKTeFT1pjWZc1YYoHK0eCTtLWwJfnoz-4gptv5jev2xcQPiU5olHG5oUasTkM2-cBw0S3f-5YvvHe9WxyGL5BodroI7ZtdTD3d_yKXL0QowAjLNj5rb4ibQh-UeVFzpw/s1600-h/000_0363.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOMhTKzIzKTeFT1pjWZc1YYoHK0eCTtLWwJfnoz-4gptv5jev2xcQPiU5olHG5oUasTkM2-cBw0S3f-5YvvHe9WxyGL5BodroI7ZtdTD3d_yKXL0QowAjLNj5rb4ibQh-UeVFzpw/s400/000_0363.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014954682035634434" border="0" /></a><br /> <span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:180%;" >HAPPY NEW YEAR!</span>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-57815602447491792722007-03-06T09:42:00.000-08:002010-09-11T20:12:41.554-07:00Ready to Fly<div style="text-align: justify;">In the course of becoming a bad-to-worse blogger, making turtle-rate progress with my WIP, trying to become a serious freelance writer, and nursing a sore knee, I managed to steal 25 days for a vacation. Am off tomorrow, to Bengal.<br /><br />All five senses are alert and excited. I hope it turns out a trip to remember.<br /><br />I will miss you all. Honest.<br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-89778808288401213772007-07-26T07:48:00.000-07:002010-09-11T20:10:49.740-07:00Seven Writing Questions: A Meme<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/7249920/2/istockphoto_7249920-isolated-coloured-pencils.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 380px; height: 378px;" src="http://www.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/7249920/2/istockphoto_7249920-isolated-coloured-pencils.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Good friend <a href="http://lisadjordan.blogspot.com/">Lisa</a> tagged me for this one. I enjoyed reading her answers and thought I'd have a go at it.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;">1. What's the one book or writing project you haven't yet written but still hope to?</span><br /><br />A travel book that will combine food and journeying and will take me to hidden corners of India.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">2. If you had one entire day in which to do nothing but read, what book would you start with?</span><br /><br />The twelve volumes of Rabindranath Tagore’s writings. I look at them wistfully every day, but a dozen “important” tasks draw me away from them. On a day meant just for reading, a dozen tomes will draw me—to a lifetime’s feast.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">3. What was your first writing "instrument" (besides pen and paper)?</span><br /><br />That has to be my PC. Got it around five or six years back—a second hand machine. I was thrilled to have a computer of my own. By then I had good enough typing skills, thanks to years of writing-related jobs. The PC was a godsend, not just because it boosted my writing efforts, but because it introduced me to fellow writers from all parts of the world. The internet led me to my first writing forum, enabling me to connect with writers—aspiring and published, while at the same time helping me hone my writing skills, discover my voice, and lend me new dreams.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">4. What's your best guess as to how many books you read in a month?</span><br /><br />I am a painfully slow reader. At my best, I can finish two good-sized books (300 pages) in a month. This also explains why I am so ill-read.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">5. What's your favorite writing "machine" you've ever owned?</span><br /><br />I will cheat here and say what Lisa said. My laptop, which isn’t even a year old (touch wood!). The light black notebook has given my writing life much-needed mobility—even if that only means being able to sit and work in the TV room when cricket matches are on. The laptop aided me well during my Bengal trip—I could download photos, take brief travel notes, check email, and generally didn't feel internet deprived.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">6. Think historical fiction: what's your favorite time period in which to read?</span><br /><br />My limited reading stock doesn’t include much historical fiction, but if given a chance to select a period, I would like to read books reflecting the British Raj and 20th-century India.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">7. What's the one book you remember most clearly from your youth (childhood or teens)?</span><br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gone_with_the_Wind"><span style="font-style: italic;">Gone With the Wind</span>.</a> This book had a sweeping impact on me. Everything in it—the setting, the storyline, the unfamiliar (for me) speech patterns, AND Rhett Butler made the summer of my school-leaving year a hard-to-forget one.<br /><br />As for tagging, let me at once tag any and every one who would like to do this. Do let me know, though, so I can read your responses. :-)<br /><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-81850732266863274572007-07-02T08:43:00.000-07:002010-09-11T20:06:28.193-07:00A good story is all I need<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.sikh-heritage.co.uk/arts/amritashergil/story-teller.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 521px; height: 413px;" src="http://www.sikh-heritage.co.uk/arts/amritashergil/story-teller.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><center> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Story Teller by Amrita Shergil, 1937</span></span> </center><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Long before the concept of “art” originated, we had stories. The earliest cave dwellers and forest tribes shared tales of everyday joys and trials when they were done with the day’s work. As humans made progress with documentation skills, these oral yarns were recorded on leaves and papers, finally evolving to what would be deemed “art” and christened Literature. As the ilk of writers grew, patronized by art loving litterateurs, so did the devices used for storytelling. The writer’s mind, like that of any other human, ever in need for exploration and experimentation, sought to play with new ideas and techniques to enter realms none other had. All through this, one thing remained constant about most of the world’s literature—storytelling. To me, that’s the core.<br /><br />Tell me a good story badly and I will digest it even if I don’t feel satiated. But give me a superlative piece of writing with no visible story and you would find me flinching with unease and perhaps a good measure of blank expression. My expectations are simple and clear—in music I want good melody before I can appreciate the lyrics; in art, the painting or sculpture must speak to my heart before it teases my aesthetic sense; in writing, the story, despite being about imaginary characters and situations, would make me soar with rapture and sink with helplessness.<br /><br />Now I am not talking about subtleties and subliminals here. Those aren't obscurities included just for effect and have been used even by the most ancient of storytellers. In more recent times, <span style="font-style: italic;">Of Mice and Men</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Truman Show</span> come to the mind off the top of my head. Ah, the nuggets of treasure that lie hidden under the veneer of a well-told story. What joy it is to unearth those, even while you relish the story-on-surface itself.<br /><br />From time to time, though, I run into discussions of things literary that make me balk and retreat to my low brow world. It’s not the content that intimidates me; more often, it’s the tone. It’s one that seeks to speak to the “discerning few,” not the general (read uninformed) reader. Similarly, literature that intends to use obscurity for the sake of it veers off my obtuse mind within minutes.<br /><br />Two recent readings on the net seemed to resonate with these views of mine. <a href="http://www.myspace.com/stephenhines67">Stephen Hines</a>, a friend, whose agent is shopping his (brilliant) YA novel to prospective editors, wrote this in a <a href="http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=10895951&blogID=276824318">recent blog</a> post: “I've finished two novels so far. One is in the hands of my agent, and I'm currently about halfway done with the 3rd draft of the 2nd one. Before I got feedback from my test audience I started my 3rd novel. This 3rd novel was going to be artistic. It was going to kick off the training wheels of traditional writing techniques/plot structure and drag the young adult market (YA) kicking and screaming into deeper intellectual waters.” But the more he got into crafting this work of art, the more disenchanted he became with the whole act of writing. It soon seemed like dreaded work for him, something that hadn’t been the case with his earlier two novels. So he decided to halt art for a while and started writing a fourth novel, this one on vampires. He remains ambivalent about book # 3. “I'm still struggling with guilty feelings of "selling out" to the low expectations of the masses by going back to "just" being a storyteller instead of an artiste. Has too much book learnin' spoiled my perception of the value of just telling a damn good story with great thematic elements?” He ponders.<br /><br />In the June 17 issue of Chicago Tribune, <a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/arts/chi-0617_litlife1jun17,1,6991848.story?coll=chi-leisurearts-hed&ctrack=1&cset=true">Julia Keller writes</a>, at the cost of irritating “97 percent of the writers” and losing “a few precious friendships,” “…The arts often come swaddled in snobbery. There are critics, unfortunately, who encourage this snooty exclusivity: If you've not attended the symphony for a while, if your nightstand isn't stacked with literary classics, if you've let your Art Institute membership lapse, you're made to feel as if you really ought to just shuffle along to the ball game, beer in hand, and leave the highbrow stuff to the masters.”<br /><br />I have let some expensive (by my standards) library memberships lapse and I don’t even have a nightstand. But a good story, whenever I get to read or see (as in cinema) one, does it for me. I feel no need to belong to any elitist group—as a writer or as a reader. I am but a part of the “masses” Stephen talks about. And like he says, my expectations are low. Low as in simple, not crass.<br /><br />Perhaps there’s a reason why Aesop’s Fables, the Arabian Nights, and India’s epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, continue to live on?<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0); font-weight: bold;">Image:</span></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.sikh-heritage.co.uk/page1.htm">Sikh Heritage</a></span><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-33879812357082118962007-09-05T08:15:00.000-07:002010-09-11T20:01:02.805-07:00"I relived my last 25 years while writing this book"<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Interview with Abhay K, author of River Valley to Silicon Valley. To visit Abhay's blog, click </span><a style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);" href="http://www.abhayspeak.blogspot.com/">here</a><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">:</span></span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">What inspired you to write River Valley to Silicon Valley? Please share the experience of writing the book with us.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">AK:</span> I had made a promise to myself that I should have my own book before I turn 25. I was going to turn 25 on 1st March 2005 and I was so anxious to tell the world that how Indian democracy and economic reforms that are taking place in India are bringing real and concrete changes in the Indian society by citing example of three generations of my own family. I wanted to write this book at this stage of my life and not later because I feared that I’ll lose my innocence and simplicity after getting immersed into the bureaucratic world of which I had become a part after passing the Civil Services Exam in 2003. I also wanted to share my family’s story with millions of young Indians who were in the schools, colleges and universities and inspire them to dream big. I wanted to gift a book to my young friends in India and abroad who struggle every day for a better tomorrow, who do not have a level playing field, who want to move forward overcoming all obstacles.<br /><br />I wrote this book between November 2005 and February 2006 in Moscow, mostly post mid-night when the city went off to sleep, and I could peacefully take a journey back in time. Those days I was learning the Russian language at the Center of International Education at the Moscow State University and I had to do a lot of assignments everyday. The only spare time I was left with was after the mid-night. I wrote this book almost regularly for four months except the last ten days of December 2005 and a few days in the beginning of January 2005 when I was traveling in Europe with my friends.<br /><br />There is a saying that writers live twice and I completely agree with that. I relived my last 25 years while writing this book, as flashes of my past played in mind and turned into words on my notebook. Just to add, I was highly inspired by “The Outsider” by Albert Camus and “The Old Man and the Sea” by Ernest Hemingway, not only by the content of these books but also by their size. Both these books have around 100 pages each and are easy to read and carry. I too wanted a small book that was easy to read so that a normal reader would not get scared just looking at its size and had the psychological satisfaction of finishing the book in a few days. Somehow, unnecessary details in some novels irritate me and make the whole experience of reading a very boring for me. What really attracts me is a rich story with a flow without unnecessary details unconnected with the story. This is what I wanted to bring out in my book. I must share with you how overjoyed I felt the day I completed my book even while I had no idea whether it will ever be published. I felt triumphant as perhaps there is no greater joy in life than the joy of creating something. Writing itself can be such a joy if it comes from inside, if one has the feeling that one must write.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I felt the book should be read by every young Indian who dares to dream big. What feedback have you received from the book's young readers? This would include your brother and your friends.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">AK:</span> I have received very encouraging comments and reviews about the book from across the globe. In fact I have collected their comments and reviews like precious diamonds and put them together on my website (<a href="http://www.abhayk.com/">www.abhayk.com</a>) for readers. One may read all the comments by clicking on the following link-<br /><a href="http://rivervalleytosiliconvalley.blogspot.com/2007/05/readers-comments-about-river-valley-to.html"> http://rivervalleytosiliconvalley.blogspot.com/2007/05/readers-comments-about-river-valley-to.html<br /></a><br />Link for the Book Reviews- <a href="http://www.abhayk.com/Books.php">http://www.abhayk.com/Books.php</a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Have your parents read the book? If yes, what did they have to say?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">AK:</span> The book is dedicated to my great father who passed away in July 2006, but he knew all along about this book. In fact, he is the silent narrator of first few pages as all that I came to know about the life of the first and the second generation of my family was through him. He was a great story teller like my grandma. Sadly, he could not see its publication and release.<br /><br />My mother is waiting for the Hindi translation of the book to read it. Professor Pushpesh Pant from JNU is working on the Hindi translation, and it should be ready by the end of this year.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://pics.librarything.com/picsizes/4e/16/4e16c73c0f3518f597a426e5167434d414f4541.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 221px;" src="http://pics.librarything.com/picsizes/4e/16/4e16c73c0f3518f597a426e5167434d414f4541.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">How are you marketing the book?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">AK:</span> These days I am posted in St. Petersburg as Consul of India, far away from my country and I have left it to the publishers to market the book. A thousand copies of the first edition of the book was printed out of which 500 copies have already been sold.<br />The book can be ordered from anywhere in the world from Linuxbazar.com clicking at the following link http://www.linuxbazar.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=33_82&products_id=18713<br />The book can also be purchased from the major bookshops in the big cities of India or can be ordered by writing to Bookwell India at the following address- 24/4800,Ansari Road,Darya Ganj, New Delhi-110002, India, Ph-91-1123268786.<br /><br />I am thinking of bringing out a second edition of the book with a different publisher by the beginning of the next year. I would welcome suggestions from readers to market “River Valley to Silicon Valley” in a better way.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">What other writing/publishing projects are you working on these days?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">AK:</span> I have written more than a hundred poems during the last two years of my stay in Moscow. I have sent publishing proposals to a number of Poetry publishers in UK, USA and India. I am still waiting for their reply.<br /><br />Currently, I am working on two books. They deal with different themes. The first book is based in India and tells the chilling story of a young girl from the beginning to the end. The second book is based in the post-Soviet Russia and explores the psychological undercurrents of the Russian society in recent years.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">How did you get your book published?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">AK:</span> First time writers have always difficulties in publishing their work, and I had to wait for more than a year after writing the book to get it published. I sent the manuscript of my book to many publishers in India who are still kind enough to receive the book directly from the authors unlike in UK or USA where they only receive manuscripts through literary agents. Most of the publishers in India and literary agents in UK turned it down because they could not find anything sensational in my book. Finally, Bookwell India decided to publish 1,000 copies for of the book in April 2007.<br /><br />The publishing industry has its own business interests in mind. so for them good writing or average writing do not make a difference if the writing can bring in good money. Thus, today the world may never get to know many good writers and poets whose precious works keep biting dust for years until they are discovered or forever if not discovered. The influence of big budget publishing houses do distort the writing trend in the world as more and more people want to write that has the commercial value and not essentially humane values.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;">How is “River Valley to Silicon Valley” being received outside India?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">AK:</span> The book has been translated into Russian and soon a thousand copies will be printed for young Russian readers.<br />The book has generated interest in UK, USA, Australia, Poland and South Korea. It is also being translated into Korean by a young Korean who wants to share this Indian story with young South Koreans.<br /><br /><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-21226587474817548332007-04-27T03:36:00.000-07:002010-09-11T19:56:03.008-07:00Script the Trip<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjm5obU_5uG0BJwIfNJA35ApOJh-ZSAv1IvY-nEaKnG2Nw9_tITCfiszDG9zTGflbBsxAIh4Nj5O5evCnPmdqYu4x7KKpgiqPw7mck5APp-VX9gBmgt9JiB-dEm-ZRvveeL97TPA/s1600/Kolkata+%26+Notebook+018-1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 142px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjm5obU_5uG0BJwIfNJA35ApOJh-ZSAv1IvY-nEaKnG2Nw9_tITCfiszDG9zTGflbBsxAIh4Nj5O5evCnPmdqYu4x7KKpgiqPw7mck5APp-VX9gBmgt9JiB-dEm-ZRvveeL97TPA/s200/Kolkata+%26+Notebook+018-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515855314530288498" border="0" /></a>My notebook filled with journal entries of the <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2007/04/oh-calcutta.html">Bengal trip</a> sits before me. When I left, I decided to bring back a few travel stories with me. You see, I have always dreamt of being a travel writer—that free-spirited entity which gets to traverse unseen lands and hears unknown languages and eventually gets paid for that. What little travel writing I have read always left me enchanted—not just with the places and peoples they introduced, but with the writer, whose deft touch magically brought those places and people to life.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Magicians those writers must be, for it isn’t easy to recapture your journey in a way that makes it compelling for others. I realize this as I open the journal and try to spin some tales out of it. My voyage remains interesting to me for sure, but what will make it as appealing to readers? In my quest to find the answer to that question, I did some online research. This included looking at the kind of writing travel markets seek to publish. The guidelines were as varied as the writing styles of noted travel writers. Where some wanted a passionate first-hand account of one’s journey, others strictly prohibited the use of first person. Yet others simply wanted travel brochure type information—how/when to go, what to see, what to buy etc.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85bdnG7iPdKv9BTg5JWaqhbJ4ecXuK2-53SgsyhHumq910Edz0bMHGWsZLgqD6s0K1FjYmjOssF-nNtCY-5mcd6T6OkMEaJxo0pqncpx7TL8xlhcGwkisyhE7qbf7mRGmxh7J2w/s1600/000_1638.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85bdnG7iPdKv9BTg5JWaqhbJ4ecXuK2-53SgsyhHumq910Edz0bMHGWsZLgqD6s0K1FjYmjOssF-nNtCY-5mcd6T6OkMEaJxo0pqncpx7TL8xlhcGwkisyhE7qbf7mRGmxh7J2w/s320/000_1638.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510177770815696898" border="0" /></a><br />Me, I personally enjoy reading first person travel accounts. Of course the best of writings don’t highlight the writer as the main character, but rather as a mirror, which reflects a particular geographical setting with a signature hue or tint that is the author’s perspective. Such narratives pull you into the writer’s original experience, since it’s the one thing that would remain unique, even while the place continues to be generic, outwardly speaking. I aspire to be such a travel writer. The quest is on, although, I have scripted the first of my tales. Writing itself is the best education for a writer, and besides practicing that part, I’ve been reading a Granta Book of Travel which features authors like Bruce Chatwin, Amitav Ghosh, and Salman Rushdie. I also found some great online help:<br /><br />Published writer Peter Moore shares his travel writing <a href="http://www.petermoore.net/peter/how.htm">secrets</a>.<br /><br />Jennifer Stewart has some <a href="http://www.write101.com/trav.htm">great tips</a> on the genre.<br /><br />And finally, <a href="http://eurotrip.com/preparation_and_packing/travel_writing.html">a comprehensive guide</a> by journalist Anika Scott.<br /><br />What’s your take on sharing travel tales and travel travails with others? Tell me; I am listening.<br /><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-45501046120788616512007-01-17T22:14:00.000-08:002010-09-11T19:48:57.310-07:00Booklane: Remembered, revisited<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNbofPKnoUhYLtutD83wnNpCn11Vm2m0F68GtlaE8yKtgcivVRI0FVbmLqSOMJgV2-RW00lT692BjAOzJCAZrr8f-kJRwdwrkZwg-BkzSM3L-iwHbIW4BlYFzNDLNxt7-7VwbmA/s1600-h/Old+Delhi+004.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNbofPKnoUhYLtutD83wnNpCn11Vm2m0F68GtlaE8yKtgcivVRI0FVbmLqSOMJgV2-RW00lT692BjAOzJCAZrr8f-kJRwdwrkZwg-BkzSM3L-iwHbIW4BlYFzNDLNxt7-7VwbmA/s200/Old+Delhi+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021252233135250882" border="0" /></a>The roads are narrow and the mass of fellow humans overwhelming. Jostling one’s way through this intractable crowd is a skill only acquired with repeated visits to the place. I didn’t do so badly, considering it was my second trip. Revisiting the pavement book bazaar in Daryaganj, situated in Old Delhi or the other face of the city I call home, brought back snapshots of a winter morning tucked away in the memory files. Nearly a decade ago, I had visited the place for the first time with a co-worker friend. I had been instantly besotted with Booklane.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />On that sunny January morning (or was it December?), my friend had gifted me a trip to this booklover’s promised land. I remember my sense of wonder on seeing this never-ending strip of book stalls, the 200-odd sellers displaying their collections neatly on the pavement and producing your requested book in a jiffy. We spent hours and hours scouring through the books, a lot of them secondhand. One is free to read, not just browse through books in this leisurely atmosphere.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoC1dGTIsZWUPueNvNJtB6ZoLIJbQLEl_UT_3q9A3sW9y6u54TomfwPuubtyUkF0wt2B_QErdSABZ1UE-l-OTCk9p9tPfqF-a2W4HngWYWqJs2SKThBx5-CFuuSfON1UGGuf4SqQ/s1600-h/Old+Delhi+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoC1dGTIsZWUPueNvNJtB6ZoLIJbQLEl_UT_3q9A3sW9y6u54TomfwPuubtyUkF0wt2B_QErdSABZ1UE-l-OTCk9p9tPfqF-a2W4HngWYWqJs2SKThBx5-CFuuSfON1UGGuf4SqQ/s320/Old+Delhi+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021250794321206674" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYeKE2g3iP3Zz3F2SvNGOxTzNWCGd_6EN2f25loweqCfxn1BF9aivnHVuYZqsbaC-wZC6OKannWT6bAf-0ssojxob7J9UJh8_sL12d-ra4EGXEygqy5j_aTxQDYLp8HtqPxvqqCQ/s1600-h/Old+Delhi+002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYeKE2g3iP3Zz3F2SvNGOxTzNWCGd_6EN2f25loweqCfxn1BF9aivnHVuYZqsbaC-wZC6OKannWT6bAf-0ssojxob7J9UJh8_sL12d-ra4EGXEygqy5j_aTxQDYLp8HtqPxvqqCQ/s200/Old+Delhi+002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021261514559577618" border="0" /></a>The sun had warmed our feet, the books our hands and hearts, the prices our pockets. The Sunday book bazaar is popular because of the availability of good, even rare books at cheap prices. The memory has faded a bit, but I do remember returning home with a Seamus Heaney anthology and a book of plays, biographies and other interesting details, put together by the <a href="http://nsd.gov.in/">National School of Drama</a> or NSD. Both prized possessions to this day. Without a doubt, that winter’s day happened to be one of the brightest in my life.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGolqWWhakFxUjwup5qW0tgBEiqBjFy4LusVscCOcsc7AA7rGdAL11remQ9rCEaQtcDfS07z03o1C1FP63eyoqfrRMk_K8hQeFDPUPy2Pz8j8zda-v0YK2I0vU0QgIyfTgHefVw/s1600-h/Old+Delhi+003.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGolqWWhakFxUjwup5qW0tgBEiqBjFy4LusVscCOcsc7AA7rGdAL11remQ9rCEaQtcDfS07z03o1C1FP63eyoqfrRMk_K8hQeFDPUPy2Pz8j8zda-v0YK2I0vU0QgIyfTgHefVw/s200/Old+Delhi+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021261798027419170" border="0" /></a>My visit to Booklane last Sunday wasn’t as merry, though. It appeared the area for the book bazaar has shrunk a bit, and this time, it was really a battle to make one's way through the crowd. Even when my feet landed at a spot that would let me look at the books, the view was anything but happy. For most of the stalls were packed with textbooks of all sorts. Students thronged the place, picking up fat books at cheap prices. The fiction lover was virtually non-existent. Coin lovers weren’t, though, because this is also a great venue to buy old coins dating back to the era of the British Raj.<br /><br />Although the trip to Booklane wasn’t all that satisfying, the jaunt to Old Delhi was immensely fulfilling. For here is a world sheltering a culture and a history that has almost ebbed out of the modern city life I witness every day. And amid all the crowd and congestion lies a charm that keeps calling you to the place again and again. Yes, more trips planned to the walled city.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxlQw4yPsslyOURLepOl0JOtxOYA4mghJodRZOxYbBcDZhD5Tl76FlVL5UgusLTpFzJbv6HfpX7Dl_czXZmpfbRyxvIl-hAWFNPMxwdAP8Vm7q-0jfj2OORWwiKLK6iLshjxGBw/s1600-h/Old+Delhi+017.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxlQw4yPsslyOURLepOl0JOtxOYA4mghJodRZOxYbBcDZhD5Tl76FlVL5UgusLTpFzJbv6HfpX7Dl_czXZmpfbRyxvIl-hAWFNPMxwdAP8Vm7q-0jfj2OORWwiKLK6iLshjxGBw/s400/Old+Delhi+017.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021385213912669746" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0);font-size:85%;" >Special thanks to <a href="http://bhupindersingh.blogspot.com/">Bhupinder</a> for making me Booklane bound. </span><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-3607940850665516032007-12-31T22:29:00.001-08:002010-09-11T19:47:33.086-07:00End of Year by Rabindranath Tagore<div style="text-align: justify;">Today as I reached the silent peacefulness of this place, away from the clamor of the capital’s human assembly, the sky was covered in evening’s glow. Cloud clusters had lent a soft hue to the green of the forest by placing shadows on it; had I stayed in the capital, I couldn’t have seen so clearly, this face of the year’s last day that I saw here. There, a covering of whirlwind encircles everything; that covering hides the united form of beginning and end in creation. The music of human life needs to pause for returning to the start again and again. But amid the cacophony of crowd one feels that <span style="font-style: italic;">taan</span>* after <span style="font-style: italic;">taan</span> carries on, there’s no returning to the first beat. There, man moves with the crowd’s push; that movement is devoid of rhythm…When evening descends on a city, it can’t reveal itself, the day’s noise barges in to choke its voice. Daytime’s labor looks for crude excitement in evening’s leisure.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Tired of body and mind, I had thought I wouldn’t get entry into the year’s last day today. Suddenly, thick clouds caressed the woods; the expansive bliss spread across the horizon didn’t appear as emptiness, but as beauty. I see this evening filled to the brim with the wholeness that rests within the endless stream of the world’s work. In meditation I realized, that which I know as the end in the outside world, hides the seeds of new life in this place.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhguW71B_bmQAjlTm5_bdzh4-4sojnSbTDJFVSgDiE4FKVWjLrg5eP2zbTc_lw7YT7RFHaS0NdCJKJ9JeYRVPoWBkHdD7lFlgFHIWyqz8lGxO1GgSxLAiiz7hHfLgi9KYM1sZwU3w/s1600/DSC_1222.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhguW71B_bmQAjlTm5_bdzh4-4sojnSbTDJFVSgDiE4FKVWjLrg5eP2zbTc_lw7YT7RFHaS0NdCJKJ9JeYRVPoWBkHdD7lFlgFHIWyqz8lGxO1GgSxLAiiz7hHfLgi9KYM1sZwU3w/s400/DSC_1222.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481559733694991602" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In every moment I see that life’s entire prosody is contained within conclusion. Without pause, rhythm would lose its identity…In mankind’s history, several civilizations have vanished after a period of grandeur. The reason was that those civilizations had lost the pause; they only scattered their enterprise, didn’t care to pick up the same…So the rhythm broke. The first beat came back in the wrong place, and it wasn’t cessation; it was destruction.<br /><br />It is my good fortune to have come here today. In the city from which I returned, the evening’s face is that of frenzy, not of well-being. There, death’s identity has lost its solemnity. Human habitations make every effort to deny death. That’s the reason one can’t see the truth of death in such places…<br /><br />May the end show us that face of liberation, which contains wholeness. Calmly I say, “Dear End, within you resides the infinite. I see in your eyes a trace of tear on this last day of the year; separation, dejection, and weary melancholy eclipse dusk’s darkness. Despite that, assimilating and crossing over all those, I hear your voice within and without. Om. The heart’s pain has only lent it beauty—tears haven’t dulled it, but made it gentler. Every evening, death reveals its calm and graceful face across the immense star-draped sky. Embracing it, we lay down—relieved—all the day’s burdens.<br /><br />At the end of the year, I see that same vast face resting on the untiring, imperishable throne of darkness. I pay my obeisance to it.”<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">* </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Taan is a virtuosic technique used in the performance of a vocal raga in Hindustani classical music. It involves the singing of very rapid melodic passages on the syllable "a."</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">It is similar to the technique ahaat, used in Arabic music. </span>[From Answers.com]<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh</span><br /></span></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-23316335649220415832007-07-08T12:07:00.000-07:002010-09-11T19:46:15.074-07:00The Impressions Didn't Die<div style="text-align: justify;">Anyone got a writer in the family? Other than yourself I mean. I ask this because as I dive deeper into the writings of my maternal grandmother, I find myself in the midst of an amazing discovery.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />She died when I was fifteen—an age when much of my sensibilities had already shaped by the influences around me. Titti, as I called my grandma, was a major influence. This had to do more with her personality than with the fact that she was a writer. While in school I had taken a liking to writing and was encouraged by some teachers in that direction. It was natural for me to look up to Titti, the writer. But for the growing me, Titti, the loving grandma, who understood the language of our generation, came first. When she was alive, I barely read any of her writing—fiction or nonfiction. Two years before her death, while shuffling some of her stories in her file she told my mother, “Tutun will get my writing published one day.” She couldn’t have been more prophetic. All these years after her death I seem to have found a small but committed publisher in Calcutta who appreciates her work and has shown interest in publishing them. During her lifetime, Grandmother had had limited publishing success. The main cause of this was her lack of proximity to the Bengali publishing world; living in New Delhi, she didn’t have the easy connectivity with prospective publishers that writers living in Bengal did.<br /><br />These days I am taking out her ink-fading, paper-withering stories and typing them in Bangla so as to get them ready for the publisher. I feel ashamed to admit this is pretty much the first time I am reading most of her writing. And it is through this process that I am getting to know her deeper, while at the same time reliving the warm atmosphere she embodied as a living person. Writer friend <a href="http://sandrakring.com/default.htm">Sandra Kring</a> used to tell me no matter what writers write, all their works contain bits of them. I understand the real meaning of that now.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.gadgetvenue.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/05/fingerprint.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 351px;" src="http://www.gadgetvenue.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/05/fingerprint.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>Titti, the person as I saw her, was compassionate. She cared deeply for people around her. Even as she struggled to bring food on the table for her family, she didn’t stop providing lunch to the domestic help who worked in our house. The maid worked in half a dozen homes in our neighborhood, yet my grandmother was the only employer who fed her a full-scale afternoon meal. I remember, on days when Titti had to go out to the bank or post office, she would put the food she had freshly cooked onto a plate, cover it and ask me to serve it to the maid once she was done with her chores. Titti was also highly aware of what went about in the world—be it regarding politics, sports, or entertainment. A great conversationalist, she gelled with people of all age groups, because of her ability to talk about any subject. The country’s politics interested her a lot, and she would often be seen engaged in intense debates with my grandfather who remained rigid about his political affiliations for as long as he lived. Titti, on the other hand, was a rationalist. “I will love those who love my country,” she would say, never attaching herself to any particular party or ideology. And in the end, my grandmother was modern—a woman way ahead of her times—in thoughts, not appearances. Born and brought up in rural Bengal amid village customs and superstitions, she didn’t care much for rituals. Seeing how much venom had been spewed in the name of religion, she felt the world would perhaps be a better place without organized religion of any kind.<br /><br />Now, as I read her works, I find I knew but a tiny fraction of her when she shared the living space with us. Her writing reveals all the above facets of her persona—but with so much more depth. In her story about a batch of East Bengal refugees living in a government home in New Delhi following the Partition, I get to see her compassion as her real-life role of the home’s administrator enters the narrative, which, though written in fiction format, is hardly fictitious in terms of content. I see, my eyes getting soggy, how deeply she empathized with the refugee women who had lost so much—land, children, husbands—even when they poured their wrath on her. In her story about the lives of women working as domestic help, I see her journalist-like eye to detail, her dispassionate yet sincere voice, which hits the reader, even when it's not overly sentimental. Something within me stirs when I read her story featuring two soldiers posted on the frontier, where the senior one can’t make sense of the wars he’s fought, especially when he compares them to the “everyday war” his mother and wife fight in their struggle to lead a life of dignity.<br /><br />I am only in the initial phase of putting together Titti’s writings for the publisher. Yet, I sense I am bonding with her in a way I never did when she was alive. I can see how all her works contain the person she was. It’s hard to describe, but after all these years, I suddenly don’t feel the void that pained me for a long time after Titti passed away.<br /><br />For, she kept herself intact in those wilting sheets.<br /><br /><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-65670692003468388972010-09-09T12:04:00.001-07:002010-09-11T09:57:19.786-07:00Séraphine and the Source of all Sparks<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2bqedsgL9iJynwlgPSPj2eoT6BYyMfZQe_fzsUTTLElhzG1OaVBkQSKleEjCJcNOWxTFaLBanpKw96y4pGQjpkK3ly9l5ZBNjjItArSOvSaAJ6Nne48iDFWEBD-bvM4kuAQcig/s1600/4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2bqedsgL9iJynwlgPSPj2eoT6BYyMfZQe_fzsUTTLElhzG1OaVBkQSKleEjCJcNOWxTFaLBanpKw96y4pGQjpkK3ly9l5ZBNjjItArSOvSaAJ6Nne48iDFWEBD-bvM4kuAQcig/s320/4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515336822228451266" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >The other night as sleep eluded me, I requested my husband to tell me a story. Though juvenile, the exercise was definitely enjoyable. He started narrating a tale in which the protagonist was a small car. The story took me through this little car's journey into the big, bad, puzzling world--about its getting lost in the woods, feeling lonely and scared, and finally being brought back to its mother, a truck. A story suitable for all children, including the occasional one like myself. It was a rather well-crafted story with all components fitting well with each other and flowing logically. At the end of it, I wondered where did he, who insisted on being a reader, not a writer, get the brainwave for this story? And that brought me to the bigger question--where do well all get our ideas from? From life around us, some would say. Of course, that's true, but what plants a particular story seed in one's brain in the first place? The answer remains one big mystery and has been so for quite a while since humans embarked upon adventures in creative expression.</span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" ><a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/search/label/Rabindranath%20Tagore">Rabindranath Tagore</a>, toward the end of his life said something to the effect that he never wrote anything of his colossal body of work. He meant that all his writing had "been written," that it wasn't something he could claim as his deed. His refrain is echoed by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mirza_Ghalib">M</a><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mirza_Ghalib">irza Ghalib</a>, one of the greatest and most revered of Urdu poets. Ghalib condenses his creative process in a couplet where he says:</span></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(102, 51, 0);"><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" ><em>Aate hain ghaib se yeh mazaami khayal mein</em></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" ><em>Ghalib sareer-e khaamah nawaa-e sarosh hai</em></span></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Loosely translated, it means</span></p><blockquote style="color: rgb(102, 51, 0);"><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >These flourishes of imagination come to me from (nowhere)</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >These words are the ones uttered by the archangel. </span></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >And in the <a href="http://athomewriting.blogspot.com/2007/06/living-conversation.html">book</a> on the legendary Indian sculptor-painter, Ramkinkar Baij that I translated, the artist says in one place:</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <! /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} --> <!--[endif]--></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >"A lot of times, one doesn't know what form the painting will acquire. You understand? The image comes alive on its own. It inspires awe. Completely stuns you. Then I think intoxicated, where does that man, who quickly drew the picture by keeping me standing like a mute witness, live? "</span></p></blockquote></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >I like to think the mystery of creative spark is what endows it with so much excitement. When you start off, it's not a known path you take, it's not a less-known one either; it simply is one that unfolds in real-time, moment by moment. And nothing brought home this aspect of creativity to me more than a film I watched recently.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistp1Ef2QK86vJf5rdoNC3iJ_W3VVq34lj36AyNasmXovbYa5MVbcvu6MGccDCNWOzHGiWveaoGedX9CjkEZ_BFCii1ZXG4YaiKuNgG9zMTSC1AjPPLKpr55ag7SGXXa-UQPQ32Q/s1600/seraphine-219x165.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistp1Ef2QK86vJf5rdoNC3iJ_W3VVq34lj36AyNasmXovbYa5MVbcvu6MGccDCNWOzHGiWveaoGedX9CjkEZ_BFCii1ZXG4YaiKuNgG9zMTSC1AjPPLKpr55ag7SGXXa-UQPQ32Q/s200/seraphine-219x165.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515338354335340530" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.seraphinemovie.com/#"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >, a 2008 film, tells the story of a self-taught French painter, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" > Louis or </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" > de Senlis (</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" > of Senlis) who was born in the late 19th century, and died in 1942. When I read the film's synopsis, I took it to be fictional. For it is hard to believe the extraordinary life of this artist and the events that punctuated it. Orphaned by the age of seven, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >grew up to a life deficient in comforts of the material kind, but rich in imagination and nature's marvels. After spending years working as a shepherdess and a maid, she got hired as a servant by the nuns of a convent when she was eighteen. Pious and hardworking, she spent two decades with the convent, before returning to her role of a maid to keep her <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">stomach </span> palette filled. This is the role--of an ageing maid--that the film </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" > opens with. We see a zaftig and somewhat eccentric spinster in the houses of aristocrats in the French town of Sinlis.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLEyoGTStNrE1PTeFj2PVnB15i1Wc9gkoYGY8F8owveB9P3PBX3UyP7vhoq-JoNY_DNoPf7kVbXnCAaCpccDsBI05yJay1CWRrxxds8Wy7gFeO-xzzzjSPu3b0f5Rc-1YsAvxOZQ/s1600/26364430_.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLEyoGTStNrE1PTeFj2PVnB15i1Wc9gkoYGY8F8owveB9P3PBX3UyP7vhoq-JoNY_DNoPf7kVbXnCAaCpccDsBI05yJay1CWRrxxds8Wy7gFeO-xzzzjSPu3b0f5Rc-1YsAvxOZQ/s320/26364430_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515338514120048706" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >She is like any other maid one might have come across at that time--earnest, diligent, careful with her money. Except, she is not any other maid of her time. Yes, she is earnest in her chores of floor-mopping, cloth-washing, dish-cleaning, but her real sincerity lies elsewhere. She is most diligent in answering the commands of her masters and mistresses; but it's nothing compared to the command she truly cares for. And the prudence she shows with expending her meagre earnings are not to indulge herself, except for her life's passion. Early on, along with portraying the rigours of her job as a maid, the film establishes her love of nature. Next, it is revealed that the pennies she so painstakingly earns and haggles for with her employers are not for buying bread, but art materials--paints and brushes--from a local store. She is even shown to sneak oil from church lamps, except her god knows this is no pilferage. For, in the course of the film we learn that </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >'s foray into the world of painting was prompted by a command she received from her guardian angel. We see her painting furiously, squatting on the floor of her cramped, untidy room, even as she fails to pay rent. Her subjects are typically drawn from the natural world--trees and birds she would claim to "talk to", fruits and vegetables, animals and the sky. </span></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >"Séraphine is a visionary in the powerful sense of the word. She let herself be carried by something that was stronger than she was, that she did not control, at the risk of destroying herself."<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" ><span style="font-size:85%;">[From an interview with Director, Martin Provost]</span><br /></span></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCm1PGefG4kCpkxG90ewE9aJORdptpjInS0FFXNCadHAqS7Jo-zOIn9f2ytHloGCHhnHJGm83yjzKaSimJupBW9VaVnsi8wWIQdXXMT6l1NYsVXCLKURRwCEoqt3Py-D7iPX5CUw/s1600/seraphine-splsh.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCm1PGefG4kCpkxG90ewE9aJORdptpjInS0FFXNCadHAqS7Jo-zOIn9f2ytHloGCHhnHJGm83yjzKaSimJupBW9VaVnsi8wWIQdXXMT6l1NYsVXCLKURRwCEoqt3Py-D7iPX5CUw/s200/seraphine-splsh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515337390567908722" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >It's not long before the film as well as Seraphine's life story take a decisive turn--with the entry of Wilhelm Uhde, a German art collector. He rents an apartment in Senlis, where </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" > does cleaning work. By sheer chance, he comes across one of her paintings at a dinner invitation. Struck by the creative vitality, Uhde immediately takes her under his wings. Even as his encouragement bolsters the artist inside </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >, the scimitar of World War I slashes their association--the art collector has to flee Senlis as his house is raided. Thirteen years later he returns to France and, once again, is faced with </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >--through a painting of hers he sees at an exhibition of local artists' works. One of the most touching parts of the film is when Uhde traces his steps to Seraphine's creaky room and assures her of supporting her painting career--by this time, the old maid is even older, and weighed down by age and its annoyances, she cuts down on her house assignments, focusing instead on her heart's calling--painting. Soon, thanks to the provision of art materials and a monthly allowance, set up by Uhde, the self-taught artist begins painting with an intensity greater than before. We see her causing an explosion of colours on huge canvases, even as her lifestyle too improves. This burst of creativity wouldn't last too long either. This time, her own mind would be at war with </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >. Hallucinated and "hearing voices," she scares her neighbours and is finally taken to a mental asylum. Almost immediately, she gives up painting. Forever. Three years after her death, Uhde would organize an exhibition devoted entirely to </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">'</span>s works in Paris. Ironically, during the last phase of her painting life, this is what </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" > desperately wished for--a solo exhibition.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" ><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn2PO-7trAh0blMDq4zn-TJt9ICaq5xihrhD0OD1GOKKfUqWLYQRlH20ZyxYhxjcNSiZeFt2mioHLV5pviDILclmhFLAnier12q2mZGnC0uGDTZMhgWFzQyFE2A7gBx_EwE0Lxg/s1600/seraphine.jpeg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn2PO-7trAh0blMDq4zn-TJt9ICaq5xihrhD0OD1GOKKfUqWLYQRlH20ZyxYhxjcNSiZeFt2mioHLV5pviDILclmhFLAnier12q2mZGnC0uGDTZMhgWFzQyFE2A7gBx_EwE0Lxg/s320/seraphine.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515337616324875490" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >As exceptional as </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" > Louis's life story is, the film achieves in conveying it with outstanding maturity. The strongest element in this is Yolande Moreau, who is </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" > in the film. She appears so natural--both physically and in her mannerisms--that it's hard to believe she is acting in a film and not living her actual life. However, what makes the film all the more powerful is the deftness with which the director, Martin Provost, has turned almost every frame into what could be a painted canvas or a brilliant photograph--works of art. Whether it be the fields or streams </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" > passes through or the night when the terror of war booms through Senlis streets with cannon shots or </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine'</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >s imaginations bursting forth on to a canvas--the scenes are rich with eloquent detail. Yet, none of it is loud that would scream for attention. </span></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >"Whether it be for the costumes, the sets, or the lighting, we were intent on making sure that everything was a bit “withdrawn.” A general desire for sobriety and discretion; the least amount of effects."</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;">[From an interview with Director, Martin Provost]</span></span></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Even as </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >Séraphine</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >'s story intrigues me, it brings me back to the exciting mystery that spawns creativity, while also stuffing me with bagfuls of inspiration. </span></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;" >"Séraphine was a simple cleaning lady—worse, a handy woman—who painted extraordinary things in secret and who was the butt of all jokes. She represented at the time what was the lowest on the social ladder. But she didn’t care. Nothing stopped her. She was able to preserve her autonomy in spite of everything, her inner life’s abundance in the secret of her little room, even if it meant accepting performing the most thankless jobs."<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;">[From an interview with Director, Martin Provost]</span></span></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Do watch this film if you can. You won't regret it.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Martin Provost interview source: http://www.seraphinemovie.com/</span><br /></span></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;"> </p></blockquote>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-23989181092595527022010-06-10T12:56:00.021-07:002010-08-29T21:03:47.582-07:00Sea, Sardines, Steinbeck. And a Giveaway!<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">Update</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">:</span> We have a <span style="font-weight: bold;">WINNER</span>! Please scroll down to the end of this post to find out the name. A BIG thank you to everyone who commented. It was fun doing this. :)<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />Let </span>me start with some exciting news. This post gives you the chance to win a gift certificate for shopping at CSN Stores, who recently emailed me asking if I could do a giveaway. The winner will receive a one-time use $60 certificate (shipping excluded) that can be used for any of CSN's 200+ websites, including the <a href="http://www.bedroomfurniture.com/">bed</a> section. <a href="http://www.csnstores.com/">CSN Stores</a> ships to USA and Canada. All you have to do, dear reader, is leave a comment to this blog post within a week from now. On next Friday (June 18), I will pick a random winner who will bag the gift certificate! that, please join me on my journey through <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannery_Row">Cannery Row</a> in Monterey, California, where I was last week.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Besides its dazzling sunshine, topaz seawater, and buoyant seagulls, the place has been made famous by Nobel-winning writer, John Steinbeck, who used this place as the setting for his novel, "Cannery Row".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bdiAi5n7vTsxD5PhM8Cu3F1LlpHowRXhd0wgPR-1N7G5Lv-yqOKSNeLQ9GPQ3ynMSZ3zAiVodzB8KxOXh4yc_n2b1KFAvgjBO3RV10tdlR2_fJwkT0M-hwcmbBEaZSZloBYM_Q/s1600/DSC_0229.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 187px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bdiAi5n7vTsxD5PhM8Cu3F1LlpHowRXhd0wgPR-1N7G5Lv-yqOKSNeLQ9GPQ3ynMSZ3zAiVodzB8KxOXh4yc_n2b1KFAvgjBO3RV10tdlR2_fJwkT0M-hwcmbBEaZSZloBYM_Q/s320/DSC_0229.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481250956261659554" border="0" /></a><br />Steinbeck is literally all over the place, and walking through streets that have been preserved in the pages of a work of fiction gave me a different kind of thrill. More so after learning that Steinbeck had actually been a resident of these parts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrq3mxyLGOfrr9cegA9NHWeBrUL9SRpTomRlQDlMefsHi7Fy2LNGAm56tCDHCnEjf7Q9T1fIUPk1vvZBvLzjC5q6-GJK_BYf2bhRa61QJzNaExvASX7Kl1Pq60wKgVPFcJR7pv0g/s1600/Cannery+Row+and+More+050.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrq3mxyLGOfrr9cegA9NHWeBrUL9SRpTomRlQDlMefsHi7Fy2LNGAm56tCDHCnEjf7Q9T1fIUPk1vvZBvLzjC5q6-GJK_BYf2bhRa61QJzNaExvASX7Kl1Pq60wKgVPFcJR7pv0g/s320/Cannery+Row+and+More+050.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481251187688943858" border="0" /></a><br />Already an admirer of Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men", I now want to read "Cannery Row".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghX0qi_NlhUVEWEsfm7DndzDf8Vs_BhyphenhyphenLgMTAzj38-4zK5d-KtjgHqUeSI5txcjG1SdowDD5LINl2Tz4sJzdNxbeUZYio5aNeeSRCTsJOKQjWoLq4kuw-VBKI-qbVeUab7Gp6Pbw/s1600/DSC_0225.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghX0qi_NlhUVEWEsfm7DndzDf8Vs_BhyphenhyphenLgMTAzj38-4zK5d-KtjgHqUeSI5txcjG1SdowDD5LINl2Tz4sJzdNxbeUZYio5aNeeSRCTsJOKQjWoLq4kuw-VBKI-qbVeUab7Gp6Pbw/s320/DSC_0225.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481251356267805858" border="0" /></a><br />Monterey is also home to a spectacular aquarium, housing some of the least visible creatures of the aquatic universe. I was enthralled to see the sizable and varied sea horse collection.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYGMDtcLDZ5v133rkL8nGpY3asciVIt4l630B2ChlofL4RXAJOa0hZwsGpLMlBKjZy61fyZhC2lBMlf7VFKgIub6zfMRrGSE2pn-irLtcMUr8KSkpcNjF8ftTutQ4i6pZl9tzAA/s1600/DSC_0161.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYGMDtcLDZ5v133rkL8nGpY3asciVIt4l630B2ChlofL4RXAJOa0hZwsGpLMlBKjZy61fyZhC2lBMlf7VFKgIub6zfMRrGSE2pn-irLtcMUr8KSkpcNjF8ftTutQ4i6pZl9tzAA/s320/DSC_0161.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481251637395260754" border="0" /></a><br />The jelly fish section was no less spellbinding. Here's what is known as Moon Jelly.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2sB6FdBWkZAKD496EQIaiWEOekY6_TERDueJNZgn2de7LrUbjHT4h_bQCNWpgn_bkEi4ElealqfJIsh5zW077PXdFsalrZ5oM-htLhhgOpLRGqChnjD1aMiVqQubN4CSmiHsOA/s1600/DSC_0197.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2sB6FdBWkZAKD496EQIaiWEOekY6_TERDueJNZgn2de7LrUbjHT4h_bQCNWpgn_bkEi4ElealqfJIsh5zW077PXdFsalrZ5oM-htLhhgOpLRGqChnjD1aMiVqQubN4CSmiHsOA/s320/DSC_0197.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511048626529080818" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_TctlZ9lTwbE/TBFRVEPME5I/AAAAAAAAFA0/C4DNqJY3bGk/s1600/DSC_0197.JPG"><br /></a>And, of course, there was the sea, with its roaring, splashing, playful waves. A cure for any and all kinds of fatigue.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwHx-H0OIJYrYlTNYLX4_hld_jEkSF4lOrpeh3zsyhNLj-qf6guQ5qAPQ0bFiTtqfzq4jNdjdF637EdsEUiggXeB_C8GihDdpz_ySie33xFLRadzWeI5KGm4Hvf_vDqZfYMAnnA/s1600/Cannery+Row+and+More+197.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwHx-H0OIJYrYlTNYLX4_hld_jEkSF4lOrpeh3zsyhNLj-qf6guQ5qAPQ0bFiTtqfzq4jNdjdF637EdsEUiggXeB_C8GihDdpz_ySie33xFLRadzWeI5KGm4Hvf_vDqZfYMAnnA/s320/Cannery+Row+and+More+197.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481251909233756034" border="0" /></a>Oh, and did I mention sardines somewhere? Well, here they are--locally caught and presented in a delectable pasta dish.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuwA5qINjl4-zFTr7deTFgeJRABYV0dHhVqNGSFha_7lksHKfs0tyq7VcO8Y_AsY0Whdhx82N0pdNRPJjWh0gr_lDqbCQXQR4TEWbs5Qmi9JHsvhY3Ko63oeNhhoaqzHdtYl7yA/s1600/Cannery+Row+and+More+179.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuwA5qINjl4-zFTr7deTFgeJRABYV0dHhVqNGSFha_7lksHKfs0tyq7VcO8Y_AsY0Whdhx82N0pdNRPJjWh0gr_lDqbCQXQR4TEWbs5Qmi9JHsvhY3Ko63oeNhhoaqzHdtYl7yA/s320/Cannery+Row+and+More+179.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481561138140900690" border="0" /></a><br />Enjoy, and don't forget the giveaway!<br /><br />P.S: You can always comment even if you don't wish to participate in the giveaway. :)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 51, 0);">WINNER</span>: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Stephen Hines</span> was the lucky name to be picked. Congratulations, Stephen!<br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24574735.post-71229886668337012702010-08-13T10:08:00.000-07:002010-08-29T20:59:56.703-07:00Guest Blog: Supriya Kar<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWApLcGEtGPIgZh3ikoL-kpK51-EP8Q03Iypu29QNIEgKcaytIITQcbVnx66-p8yaoalI4jvge9Sb2HNrf7BxPnh1O1EkYUTHeu5EM3Mcp-xIrwCWqDkrb1eSEDO8MCsm9aMB9-g/s1600/typing-1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWApLcGEtGPIgZh3ikoL-kpK51-EP8Q03Iypu29QNIEgKcaytIITQcbVnx66-p8yaoalI4jvge9Sb2HNrf7BxPnh1O1EkYUTHeu5EM3Mcp-xIrwCWqDkrb1eSEDO8MCsm9aMB9-g/s200/typing-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511047694779592210" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ms. Supriya Kar is doing her PhD in literary translation. Her research focuses on autobiographical writings of women from the Eastern Indian state of Orissa. Here, she discusses various problems of translation, particularly in the context of her work. </span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);">Problems of Translation -- I</span></span><br /><br />In my thesis, twenty-four excerpts selected from autobiographical writings by women in Oriya are translated into English. Women whose lives these excerpts record hail from different social classes and milieus and their styles vary immensely. Therefore, maintaining the unique flavour of the texts and at the same time retaining a kind of uniformity and readability was a daunting task. Of course, there are elements in all these which one may find untranslatable. Translating is like cooking: it is one thing to say how a recipe is prepared and another to actually cook it. In this context, Piotr Kuhiwczak’s insightful observation assumes particular significance:<br /><br /><blockquote style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">We can say that there is a clear distinction between discussing untranslatabilty and handling the untranslatable in the process of translation. For many of us, and this includes the students and diners I mentioned at the beginning of this essay, untranslatabilty is something that can be conceptualised and discussed ad infinitum. In contrast to this, translators have to deal with the untranslatable at a practical level. In a recent article, Margaret Jull Costa emphasises precisely this difference and the practical aspect of translation: ‘As a full time literary translator from Spanish and Portuguese, I suppose I can’t afford to believe in the untranslatable; it’s my job to translate everything, knowing that there might be some loss, but that there might also gain, and never giving in to that counsel of despair telling me that a translation is not a real thing, not the same thing, and definitely never a better thing.’ </blockquote> While translating, the aim was to translate so that the original should not lose its flavour, but be readable and enjoyable in the target language, without overloading the text with footnotes and glossaries that make it cumbersome for readers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifGGXE0wLNMOwUmol_VNoFL1h4X4ty10QgjpDw076hsBOsb0UxwZ8mKCFPA4-OHcNcDNuxxJX015Efi2GZIQWYuqoFA8a7KBpRyrLjdcJcDXOYz36Y1_rXRw7MzB53YgnIH-jVPg/s1600/transy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifGGXE0wLNMOwUmol_VNoFL1h4X4ty10QgjpDw076hsBOsb0UxwZ8mKCFPA4-OHcNcDNuxxJX015Efi2GZIQWYuqoFA8a7KBpRyrLjdcJcDXOYz36Y1_rXRw7MzB53YgnIH-jVPg/s320/transy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504947086277370162" border="0" /></a><br />While translating from Oriya into English, the problems one encounters are more insidious than just finding the right word or expression. Partly, they flow from the very structure of the language. In addition, many of our descriptive words are highly onomatopoetic and thus almost impossible to render in English, as are the kinship terms and names of dishes, trees and flowers.<br /><br />One can feel there is a palpable tension, which results from the pressure the source language exerts on the target language. The task of a translator is to minimise this tension as much as possible. Each and every sentence poses a problem. Inside the mind it goes on—permutations and combinations of words, struggling with the shape of each sentence— negotiating, groping for the right phrase. And yet the feeling of dissatisfaction persists.<br /><br />Tenses in Oriya are organised slightly differently than in English. Although on paper they correspond, their boundaries do not quite map onto each other. This is because time conventions differ in different societies. The present is a much more elastic concept in Oriya than in English. That is why most Indians use English tenses wrongly. Common errors are the use of past perfect for simple past (‘I had done’ instead of ‘I did’) because Indians instinctively feel that simple past is not strong enough to indicate that something happened before now. They also use present continuous (I am doing) for simple present ‘I do.’ These problems exist across Indian languages. The problem is that while translators may be technically correct when they translate an Oriya literary text into an English present tense narrative, they are not being true to the precept that the target text should have validity as a work of art in its own right. It is bewildering to read a text translated into present tense, especially as somewhere down the line it tends to seep back into past tense.<br />There is a sprinkling of words connected with the physical reality of Orissa in these autobiographical writings. The list of such phrases, culture specific terms, which have been kept as such is provided below with explanations, where necessary:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Currency</span>: adhala, pahula, ana. There is no corresponding currency in English.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Quantity</span>: bharan, khoja, pa. These are ancient units of measurement and sometimes used idiomatically.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Slangs, Tongue-in-Cheek Expressions</span>: chhatari, Bolibe jati sange eka ramani. There is no corresponding slang for ‘chhatari’ which is used derogatorily and abusively to mean a woman of loose morals. Literally, it means one who begs for food at chhatars or charity kitchens.<br />Bolibe jati sange eka ramani: People would say that one holy man is accompanied by a young woman. But the meaning of this tongue-in-cheek expression would lose its resonance if the original does not accompany its English translation.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lunar Months</span>: Bhadrav, Ashwina, Kartik, Margashira. A Lunar month corresponds to the period between one full moon to the next full moon. The lunar calendar is followed in observing festivals, as it is believed that the movement of the moon has a decisive influence over the affairs of human beings.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Food</span>: ladu, badi, puri, malpua, mohanbhoga, khechudi, arisa, pura. Referring to these as delicacies or sweets would take away their cultural specificity.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Caste</span>: karana, khandayat, chamar, radhi. The caste of a person signified his/her occupation, social status etc. These are also associated with notions of purity and pollution. The concept of caste is so quintessentially Indian that while translating Indian literary texts one has no option but to retain terms denoting caste.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Art</span>: champu, jatra, patta. These words denote forms of fine and performing arts in Orissa, and do not have any English equivalents.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Religion</span>: agni-pariksha, tulsi, triveni, pratah smaramy, mahamnatra, dhama, mahaprasad, mansik, homa, darshan, ashram, kathau, kirtan, akash-dipa, chaura, Amrutayana, Harinama, Ramanama, Ramdhun. These refer to religious practices which are rooted in Indian culture and their full significance can not be conveyed through English equivalents. They have therefore been retained in the translation and glossed where necessary.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rituals and Social Practices</span>: sholamangala, dashaha, hulahuli, haribola, shradha, ekadashi, purdah, ana-tutha, padhuan. These practices are typical of Oriya culture and so have been kept as such and glossed wherever necessary.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Festivals</span>: Festivals such as Kumar Purnima, Raja, Kartik Purnima, Bali Trutiya underline the singularity of the cultural and religious practices prevalent in Orissa. Each festival is rooted in a specific narrative and has mythical associations. These are retained as such.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">To be continued...</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Image courtesy</span>: http://www.icilondon.esteri.it/IIC_Londra/webform/SchedaEvento.aspx?id=211</span><br /></div>Bhaswatihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397144389576029618noreply@blogger.com1