Literature Personified

The greatest wonder of any piece of good literature is how it can conjure an image of the characters portrayed and scenery described. The only aid is some decipherable words, but their juxtaposition plays such a magic that the reader is literally sucked into the aura created by it. Such is the power of literature, and has been since man knew how to pen thoughts to symbols.

My experience of literature till now has been that the writing which is taut throughout, without giving any loose end, is the most captivating one, for literature is nothing but hold on the readers. And biggest thing is that this flair is very much specific to the content. A thriller can’t be verbose, while poetry is what sans floridity. An official communiqué has to be pithy, but a heart rendition needs to draw words from every ounce of the environs. Thus, reading and writing both should be adept at handling different styles of writing. Variety brings vividness which in turn brings completeness.

Now that my literary pursuit has garnered a renewed thrust, I am trying to imbibe that veritable smorgasbord of literature.  And to tell the truth, even at a start, I am swept by its power to bewitch; what joy it will be when I am fully immersed in it! 

Obama's books

I am an avowed fan of Barack Obama. So, naturally my review of his books is going to be fulsome in praise and generous in applause. But it is not just sheer admiration of his persona that has endeared me towards the books, but also the content and context of the books, which are relevant to the core of the world.

‘Dreams From My Father’ is a beautiful narrative of an estranged child about the what-would and could-be life with his father. Barack was separated from his African father, after his parents’ divorce. He had remembrance though of a few odd years which he spent with his father during childhood. He built upon those memories to gather perspective of his growing as a black child among white neighbourhood, his teenage restlessness, his social work in the Black Colonies in Chicago and then his enrollment for Law Course in the Harvard. His life was as ordinary, or rather say, associative as a you-and-me on the street. The same youth’s wonders and wows, infractions and intransigence, love and hate….How could Barack rose unique then? Because of his belief and perspective. And he attributes in no less measure, the development of this perspective, to his unanswered wonderings about his father’s role in his life.

‘Audacity of Hope’ on the other hand is a much general outlook of world in general and US in particular. It does give an indication of the erudition and grasp of Barack’s ideas on the everyday life’s nerves. He speaks in tone of a commoner- why right is right, and wrong is wrong. Why US hasn’t followed the ideals it cherishes so proudly; why questions of race, religion, colour still mar their country’s achievements; why US stands on a precipice of descent into days of backpedalling; and why world needs a unified view with focus on individual country’s development. Afghanistan and Iraq’s wars are spoken in terms of righteousness, coming from a Senator’s mouth in its most veracious tenor. He paints a grim world, but he also lights the flicker of hope, and that was what catapulted him to people’s imagination and Presidency of United States.

Obama’s books are thus in a way or two a symposium of a commoner’s view, desires and achievements in this world. They lay the personal and professional ladders, for the view of everyone, and for every aspiring soul to climb. They are, in a nutshell, a dreamer’s delight. Obama’s books …. I heard someone say.

Shantaram

Shantaram is a magnum opus, if the word also means voluminous. It is 933 pages long book of immense quality, and its thickness needs to be mentioned as this is what confronts you when you get hold of it. But the book had confronted me long before, when my friends kept talking about it at various odd hours. Naturally they were proud to have read a newly arrived masterpiece or were gathering my attention to one of the characters-my namesake in the book.

So, finally I got the chance to read it, on the auspicious occasion of the New Year. The first 10 pages I read, and I was already exclaiming, What a Book! I wanted to scream it in my Facebook status, but I held on. I knew why I had been engulfed pronto by the book: Its verbatim portrayal of Indian life as viewed by a foreigner. The book arrived directly on my pulses, ever bitten by the Indophile bug. The things started unfolding then …

I am critical of my two bad reading habits: slow reading and short reading. But this time around, my short reading habit, around 1 hour daily, of the book gave me probably the best feel of the book. I was progressing daily as the characters in the book moved. Each day of my reading provided a unique view of the life of the main character, Linbaba- an absconding robber and heroin addict from Australia, who makes Bombay his new abode. His life starts getting involved into the Indianness of things, bringing an ever changing perspective of his beliefs. He meets people, he helps them, he falls in love, he joins mafia council, he is sent to Indian prison, he joins a war in Afghanistan: there are a myriad sub-stories in the whole run. The full story has to be experienced through virtual living though, not just read.

Gregory David Roberts’ attempt to imbibe such a touch into the novel is what this makes it a scorcher, as more often than not, we start wondering and marveling at his life and its various adventures. He has said that while the novel is based on his real-life experiences, most of it is fictional. Nevertheless the ‘fictional realism’ so intensely at work suspends our digressing thoughts.

This is probably why the book ticks, more so with the lovers, familiars and inquisitors of India. And this helps it tide over some of the major defects of the book. It is no doubt a great art to expound philosophical details, but if done to death without a similar parallel evolution, it gnaws at your mind and interest. I felt like skipping the pages, when the hyper thoughts pondered by the characters started erupting with no credo on display. The book does need editing on this front. Also the second half, I believe, is not able to sustain the momentum gained in the first half. I generally have liked the latter part of the books more often, as the writers deliberately provide the crescendo touch in an attempt to leave the reader in perpetual touch even after the end. Here I believe the story just tapered off to a plateau.

May be this was done to let the reader seamlessly segue into its sequel which is incidentally to arrive in the later part of this year. I do have high expectations of this book too. But really Shantaram’s experience can be lived only once, as Gregory Roberts too did, and so volubly expressed in the book. Just readit and live it, what more can I say?

No-use Readers

What is to reading that attracts so many? “A man who doesn’t read is no better than a man who can’t read,” thus had thundered Mark Twain. So, do readers belong to a different pedigree, higher in thoughts, ideas and understanding than the rank and file?

Or is it the art of the lost ones? Some, who claim to be free from its shackles and open to reveling in the other real worldly matters, high-handedly dismiss the tribe of pitiful readers. For them, reading is the refuge of the desolate, and so-flaunted knowledge the unwanted aftereffect. These readers are no more than mere charlatans who often take on the cloak of hyper-superior hue, and distance themselves from the reality surrounding them. They are mere book-pounders, lying aloof in a closeted room, scratching and scraping their infertile minds with esoteric concepts which they don’t fathom at all. Even if they comprehend, they don’t or can’t bring the learned things to any utility.

Such is the clique of these voracious readers ….such abominable readers …. such sorry readers.

A sabbatical of sorts

There could be nothing more frustrating or annoying than giving up on your one-of-the-most likened things. For the last 5-6 months, my blogging had to endure a test of wait amidst all the frentic and sapping schedule of my life. Even after putting a resolve every now and then to get back to it, I was unable to devote much or rather any time to it. And sorrily, I won’t be able to give any time in future too, for at least 4-5 months.

It is all for a greater cause only; but I hope, I will come back more learned, energized and focused then.

So, it is an official sabbatical till then. Hope life continues to cherish all of us!

Reading Lolita in Tehran

Nothing other than the ‘catchy title’ holds you more on the first look of the book. With added interest in West Asian Islamic under-the-wraps feminine world, I was an instant buyer of the book. And I wasn’t disappointed. More than entertaining me though, it brought out a critical self of mine, both about the content and delivery of the book.

Ms Azar Nafisi is an erudite writer, no doubt about that; her professorship in English does give her the scholarly touch. She was present in Iran at its most happening time- the Iranian Revolution of 1979. Her teenage upbringing in US came in a direct clash with the restrained Iranian society post the Revolution. She protested against the imposed rule of mandatory veil covering, and in her fight, had to resign her job from the University of Tehran too. She took up the job again five years later in Tallameh University, but again things fell out after a few years. But her love of English literature never died down, and thus she selected a group of seven girls to attend a private tuition at her home. Nabokov, James, Austen, Fitzgerald et al were discussed in context with the ever-prowling Iranian society, and more often than not, it brought out a sense of despair, resignation and anger. She finally decided to leave Iran and move to US to start over a new life.

Ms Nafisi chose to highlight two aspects in the book: English literature and Iranian polity & Society. And she really gelled them well to fulfill the literary sense and also bring out the message across to the world. One is left fascinated by her elaborate discussion of the English writers and their books; she knows them all on the back of her palm. Her choice of words like ‘honesty of imagination’ to describe the sense of the character in Nabokov’s ‘Invitation to a Beheading’ does show her perspicacious self. The book is replete with her in-depth analyses of the characters of the famous books she has discussed. And it is indeed a delight to know them, esp. when you haven’t read most of those books.

While her literary discussion is layered with a honeyed and pleasing academic taste, her portrayal of Iranian polity does border on some extremes. She has rendered everything after the Revolution as evil. She fails to apprise us why the Revolution happened in the first place. If the Shah Rehlavi Pasha was so top-notch, why was he deposed with near unanimity by all? If the US had been such a well-wisher of Iran, why was there such a boiled resentment and anger against it? Well, things didn’t take the right turn (ala Orwellian Animal Farm, I should say) even after the Revolution. The adopted Islamic law in stead of ameliorating the societal condition worked on clipping human liberty and speech. Worse so, it acted against the feminine freedom, the most susceptible part of society since time immemorial. There was a concomitant suppression of arts, music, and aesthetics, all in the name of the religion. But even then, all this is beside the point that everything was hunky-dory before 1979 and everything catastrophic after it. That’s why critics were quick to label the book as US-aided propaganda book in support of its War on Terror, when the book was released in 2002.

The motives might be open to questions, but Dr Nafisi’s intentions are not. She wanted to pen down her feelings, and make the world sit up and take notice. And how brilliantly she has done! At least it brought out the inner self of mine to cogitate how wrong our lives can become if the ideals are not followed rightly.

2 States

I have read some Shakespeare too, but this guy, Chetan Bhagat, cracks me up like nobody else. His is a very unique style, pulling out some of the wittiest sentences I have ever read. You are reading a line, and then somehow he associates or likens it to your inner humorous instincts.

‘Five Point Someone’ was the first novel where Chetan took the grand canvass of IIT dream-study-life into a single wrap, and put it perfectly on the readers’ nerves. No wonders, every youth who read it felt vicarious about the whole story. My college buddies were loitering-enlightened selves after reading the stories of the three like-minded guys. It was such a refreshing novel for all of us in those mundane university study days.

‘2 states’ is again full of those moments when you feel life is so beautiful, despite so many harrying moments for the protagonists. Life moves on to IIM now. Krissh meets Ananya in that typical will-be-rejected mood in the college’s cafeteria. Studies bring them together more, and then love…and then sex … takes over. The courtship relationship continues for the full two years of study, and then the corporate life starts. Marriage proposal ensues, and then the drama of acquiescing the two families, from North and South India, starts and climaxes in the most cinematic way. Isn’t this the fantasy of all the youth in India right now?

I never studied in IIT or IIM, (though my professors insisted IIITM was IIT+IIM :) or had a girlfriend as cool, confident and cute as his. But it seemed he was revisiting the life around me. Consider these:-
• Krrish writes about the tragedy of the students having names starting with letter ‘A’. He was talking about his girlfriend ‘Ananya’, but instantly my mind wandered to my fellow mates who pulled up such big and meek faces when they were asked first to show their projects, reports or assignments
• Krrish wasn’t able to concentrate while studying with Ananya. The reason: every guy’s fantasy – “He wanted to kiss her”. Hey, isn’t that so real?
• Krrish and Ananya loved their parents and relatives very much, but couldn’t reconcile with their views on region, religion, caste, feminism etc all the time. Both knew the people around them were really good at heart but also products of their time. So, the couple didn’t have any qualms over drinking beer, pre-marital sex etc, but they also believed in national integrity, work ethics, morals of life. This is an exact replica of ‘Work Hard, Party Harder’ theme of everyone around me.
• And what about the brilliant description of corporate life? The financial experts and the ever esoteric jargons of them. And the fatuity of all the stuff. The people in Software, Banking, Insurance etc know how shallow the grandiose show is.

While describing these, he also dropped in some of the most risible lines, drawing boisterous guffaws from me. I wanted to quote some here but they are too many, and actually they will be more enjoyable when read with context. So, what are you waiting for? Go beg, borrow or buy the copy, and have a perfect post-siesta time of the weekend.

The Last Symbol - Where ???

While writing this, I re-read my own piece written about two years back. I didn’t mention it here to highlight how much I like (d) Dan Brown’s novels, but to set the kind of expectation I had from his latest novel ‘The Last Symbol’. Neither am I going to do a review of the book, as that is the job of the scholarly nit-pickers.

But I must tell you, reading an eagerly waited novel, as watching a highly anticipated movie, is a tough job. More often, the exercise fails as has happened with me umpteenth times. The Last Symbol wasn’t such a damp squib, but it wasn’t a lighter of awe either. After the onslaught of so many historic thrillers in the aftermath of Da Vinci Code, you have to gauge in these terms: What different does this novel give to me? Does it tell different things or tell things differently? I couldn’t excite myself totally on either front.

Unlike other novels of his, it was a slow starter. Robert Langdon was grilled so badly by the CIA head that he hardly looked a hero. How often have we seen him running away from the authorities, as in Paris? The story did pick up though with the unraveling of the villain, Malakh’s story. How his translation happened was a different chapter from the all mystic stuff of the Masons going around in the novel. I also enjoyed the depiction of Washington DC in full glory, as I have visited DC very recently, and the images of White House, Capitol Hill, the Smithsonian Museums are still vivid in my mind. The story had a grand culmination on page 447 (sorry for the spoiler and don’t turn to that page if you haven’t read the novel fully). Somewhere I had read that, the secret that was voted the greatest in a movie was in ‘Star Wars: The Return of the Jedi’ when Darth Vader says to Luke ….. Hope you can fill in the rest. I had the same kind of great-secret-unfolding excitement while reading that page. Actually I am giving a clue (or symbol) here what that secret could be. Think!

Even after that 50 odd pages were there in the novel. I was riveted expecting some brilliant ending. But it slithered to a very odd and general ending. On hindsight, the ending looked a well-chosen and probably the only available one, but it lacked the drama it should have. All in all, a good read (7 out of 10 by me) and a must read. But be within the boundaries of your expectations. Dan Brown can’t dish out Da Vinci Code every now and then. Times are different now, and so are our likings.

मधुशाला

मृदु भावों के अंगूरों की आज बना लाया हाला,

प्रियतम, अपने ही हाथों से आज पिलाऊँगा प्याला,

पहले भोग लगा लूँ तेरा फिर प्रसाद जग पाएगा,

सबसे पहले तेरा स्वागत करती मेरी मधुशाला।।१।

प्यास तुझे तो, विश्व तपाकर पूर्ण निकालूँगा हाला,

एक पाँव से साकी बनकर नाचूँगा लेकर प्याला,

जीवन की मधुता तो तेरे ऊपर कब का वार चुका,

आज निछावर कर दूँगा मैं तुझ पर जग की मधुशाला।।२।

प्रियतम, तू मेरी हाला है, मैं तेरा प्यासा प्याला,

अपने को मुझमें भरकर तू बनता है पीनेवाला,

मैं तुझको छक छलका करता, मस्त मुझे पी तू होता,

एक दूसरे की हम दोनों आज परस्पर मधुशाला।।३।

भावुकता अंगूर लता से खींच कल्पना की हाला,

कवि साकी बनकर आया है भरकर कविता का प्याला,

कभी न कण-भर खाली होगा लाख पिएँ, दो लाख पिएँ!

पाठकगण हैं पीनेवाले, पुस्तक मेरी मधुशाला।।४।

मधुर भावनाओं की सुमधुर नित्य बनाता हूँ हाला,

भरता हूँ इस मधु से अपने अंतर का प्यासा प्याला,

उठा कल्पना के हाथों से स्वयं उसे पी जाता हूँ,

अपने ही में हूँ मैं साकी, पीनेवाला, मधुशाला।।५।

मदिरालय जाने को घर से चलता है पीनेवाला,

'किस पथ से जाऊँ?' असमंजस में है वह भोलाभाला,

अलग-अलग पथ बतलाते सब पर मैं यह बतलाता हूँ -

'राह पकड़ तू एक चला चल, पा जाएगा मधुशाला।'। ६।

चलने ही चलने में कितना जीवन, हाय, बिता डाला!

'दूर अभी है', पर, कहता है हर पथ बतलानेवाला,

हिम्मत है न बढूँ आगे को साहस है न फिरुँ पीछे,

किंकर्तव्यविमूढ़ मुझे कर दूर खड़ी है मधुशाला।।७।

मुख से तू अविरत कहता जा मधु, मदिरा, मादक हाला,

हाथों में अनुभव करता जा एक ललित कल्पित प्याला,

ध्यान किए जा मन में सुमधुर सुखकर, सुंदर साकी का,

और बढ़ा चल, पथिक, न तुझको दूर लगेगी मधुशाला।।८।

मदिरा पीने की अभिलाषा ही बन जाए जब हाला,

अधरों की आतुरता में ही जब आभासित हो प्याला,

बने ध्यान ही करते-करते जब साकी साकार, सखे,

रहे न हाला, प्याला, साकी, तुझे मिलेगी मधुशाला।।९।

सुन, कलकल़ , छलछल़ मधुघट से गिरती प्यालों में हाला,

सुन, रूनझुन रूनझुन चल वितरण करती मधु साकीबाला,

बस आ पहुंचे, दुर नहीं कुछ, चार कदम अब चलना है,

चहक रहे, सुन, पीनेवाले, महक रही, ले, मधुशाला।।१०।

जलतरंग बजता, जब चुंबन करता प्याले को प्याला,

वीणा झंकृत होती, चलती जब रूनझुन साकीबाला,

डाँट डपट मधुविक्रेता की ध्वनित पखावज करती है,

मधुरव से मधु की मादकता और बढ़ाती मधुशाला।।११।

मेहंदी रंजित मृदुल हथेली पर माणिक मधु का प्याला,

अंगूरी अवगुंठन डाले स्वर्ण वर्ण साकीबाला,

पाग बैंजनी, जामा नीला डाट डटे पीनेवाले,

इन्द्रधनुष से होड़ लगाती आज रंगीली मधुशाला।।१२।

हाथों में आने से पहले नाज़ दिखाएगा प्याला,

अधरों पर आने से पहले अदा दिखाएगी हाला,

बहुतेरे इनकार करेगा साकी आने से पहले,

पथिक, न घबरा जाना, पहले मान करेगी मधुशाला।।१३।

लाल सुरा की धार लपट सी कह न इसे देना ज्वाला,

फेनिल मदिरा है, मत इसको कह देना उर का छाला,

दर्द नशा है इस मदिरा का विगत स्मृतियाँ साकी हैं,

पीड़ा में आनंद जिसे हो, आए मेरी मधुशाला।।१४।

जगती की शीतल हाला सी पथिक, नहीं मेरी हाला,

जगती के ठंडे प्याले सा पथिक, नहीं मेरा प्याला,

ज्वाल सुरा जलते प्याले में दग्ध हृदय की कविता है,

जलने से भयभीत न जो हो, आए मेरी मधुशाला।।१५।

बहती हाला देखी, देखो लपट उठाती अब हाला,

देखो प्याला अब छूते ही होंठ जला देनेवाला,

'होंठ नहीं, सब देह दहे, पर पीने को दो बूंद मिले'

ऐसे मधु के दीवानों को आज बुलाती मधुशाला।।१६।

धर्मग्रन्थ सब जला चुकी है, जिसके अंतर की ज्वाला,

मंदिर, मसजिद, गिरिजे, सब को तोड़ चुका जो मतवाला,

पंडित, मोमिन, पादिरयों के फंदों को जो काट चुका,

कर सकती है आज उसी का स्वागत मेरी मधुशाला।।१७।

लालायित अधरों से जिसने, हाय, नहीं चूमी हाला,

हर्ष-विकंपित कर से जिसने, हा, न छुआ मधु का प्याला,

हाथ पकड़ लज्जित साकी को पास नहीं जिसने खींचा,

व्यर्थ सुखा डाली जीवन की उसने मधुमय मधुशाला।।१८।

बने पुजारी प्रेमी साकी, गंगाजल पावन हाला,

रहे फेरता अविरत गति से मधु के प्यालों की माला'

'और लिये जा, और पीये जा', इसी मंत्र का जाप करे'

मैं शिव की प्रतिमा बन बैठूं, मंदिर हो यह मधुशाला।।१९।

बजी न मंदिर में घड़ियाली, चढ़ी न प्रतिमा पर माला,

बैठा अपने भवन मुअज्ज़िन देकर मस्जिद में ताला,

लुटे ख़जाने नरपितयों के गिरीं गढ़ों की दीवारें,

रहें मुबारक पीनेवाले, खुली रहे यह मधुशाला।।२०।

Why blog?

Well, for me, blogging to a great extent remains a literary exercise. It is my sketch board, a reflector of my ideas and my words. I do get embroiled into it sometimes, writing more for others than for myself. And that is when I write the worst.

But surprisingly and unsurprisingly both, many of the bloggers do the same. They write to advertise rather than deliver. So, we don’t get a real picture of them. But it is human psychology, and we can’t fight it.

A friend of mine had said something like this, “Today’s men have lost that sense of association that they have to declare before world what and how they feel. Where have the good old days of bonding and talks gone?” It was right to the core, and made me cringe, for he was speaking the truth, even if partial. Projecting on my life, it indeed has some case. I can’t speak many things, so I blog. Part of it is my compulsion, and the other choice. But this is how our every aspect of life has shaped into now? What price the modern day life?

So, as I read, I find that sense of desperation in most of the bloggers. Some Indians telling their stories of success, some expats narrating their new-life in India, some Arabs harping their case of injustice, the Westerners celebrating their rich life etc. But everyone has to tell something – to the listeners – to appreciate his or her view and nod in agreement. It is a fact.

Of late, I too have started growing that feeling. One of my objectives has always been not to write for others. I don’t want to make my blog a highly-listed one on everyone’s list, India-blog directory etc etc. It is my diary, even though public. So, why now I feel that urge to be acknowledged?

The White Tiger

I was appalled by the sheer level of grimy detail Aarvind Adiga has got into to describe the underbelly of India. It is right to the core – the dilapidated house, the unkempt street, the roaming buffalo, the chirping tea-shop, the overcrowded bus, the unscrupulous landlord, the hapless rickshaw-puller …. The list goes on. Actually I can’t list them all; the whole book is full of these.

Aah! This, the depiction of the under-stratum India, is the first thing that strikes everyone, Indian and non-Indian alike. But what should I say more? I lived my childhood in the same district, Gaya, which he is talking about. I can’t refute even a single thing that he has written. It makes it worse.

Balram Halwai is the ubiquitous Indian. Simple, gullible, moral … and then the converted cunning, opportunist, immoral. The story of a fallible Indian in the current scenario. He starts in his world, full of sloth and poverty, and wonders from there how the other rich and supposedly good world has gone bereft of scruples of life. He ultimately gives up his ideals too and mingles with the rest. There are many twists and turns depicted in the whole story to bring forth this transformation. His method of narrating story to Mr Wen Jiabao, the Premier of China, through a series of letters is unique. The portrayal of Stork, Mongoose, Ashok – his landlords, is right to the point. Even the subject of his crime, Mr Ashok, is brought out in full contradictory terms. He is not the villain; in fact, he is the only guy who reasons, but ultimately subsides before the society without putting into practice that reason. Mr Ashok is each one of us, and hence the culprit.

Aadiga has thus likewise brought out many subtle things in his novel. There is definitely an Orwellian touch to it. None more appreciating is his simplicity in the complexity of words or number of pages chosen to deliver the message. It can’t match the linguistic magic of ‘Enchantress of Florence’- one of its competitor in Man Booker Prize 2008 competition, but it has a more powerful setting, and hence the winner for me too. In short, leave aside the dark pessimism it grows about India, just consider it a revelation or reminder about us and surroundings, and you will find it a masterpiece. Simply unputdownable.

Florid in words

Some people write because they have stories to tell, while some others write because they have style to sell. A simple occurrence can mean different things to them. While Jeffrey Archer will narrate with words like these, “A fighter advanced to meet the enemy”, Salman Rushdie will aggrandize it as, “A person unbeknown to the world advanced to meet another person of his ilk, just on the opposite side fighting under another flag and with another brand of sword.” This is not an overdose of figure of speech, but the way a writer has been molded to think and pen since the beginning.

Salman’s writing belongs to that zone which people call erudite. Flowery words, ornate style, elongated expressions, larger-than-life happenings, I mean, everything bloated. When I say bloated, I don’t intend to debase it, but highlight a seriously different brand of writing where writers use an imagery of words to convey everything. Naturally it is not understood or savored by everyone. But whoever has an affinity for it can never get enough of it.

I am not yet fully into it, but I do appreciate these complex manoeuvres of words. PG Wodehouse was the first writer whose works I found totally different. While ‘celerity’ (meaning swiftness) is an archaic word now, it was used umpteenth times by him for his favourite butler, Jeeves. Also while reading, the usage of dictionary is as common and needed as the rising of the sun. The story flows convoluted, rolling from one zone to another in words.

I can’t say which or what is better, just by analyzing mass popularity or literary grandeur. Jeffrey Archer is more famous than PG Wodehouse or Salman Rushdie, but he can’t match their delivery skills either. As about the movies, the preference lies with the reader. But from a reader’s perspective, I can only tell that it is doubly great, if we can learn to both immerse in the worldly drama of ‘Kane and Abel’ and float in the magical unrealism of ‘Enchantress of Florence’.

Fanstory - a tryst with writing

There is nothing that doesn’t exist on this Internet. If you are wondering about a place which acts as an entrepot for English writings, there indeed are many where you can review others’ works, submit yours and get them reviewed, and above all, get a strengthening feeling of belonging to the literary group.

One such distinguished site is FanStory. It not only has a vast collection of submitted items, but also can boast of a very high quality of them. Some are really good writers, having already published a few creations. You also get a very critical review of your works, right from the content critique to the language and grammar inspection. Obviously for submitting the writings, one has to be a Premier Member which one becomes by paying a nominal fee.

Anyway I believe the best judge is the user only. But it is definitely worth a try, if one wants to peruse and practice some literary stuff.

Writing Wistfully

My legs on the familiar City Cue Road
Hurrying to Mr. Gupta's medical store
Which lay by an anfractuous alley
Surprisingly called 'the Sidhi Gali'


I stopped and stood there for a moment
Looking nostalgically over the bend
Eyes searching for the lil schoolgirl
Who had luxuriant hair with a curl


Attired immaculately,swaying a thermos
There she walked with minimum of fuss
Watched over rickshaw's flap by a boy
Who otherwise was very simple and coy


He wished to marry this girl someday
Sans knowing what marriage was itself
'Ritu is her name'-he told her mother
Who's amused at kid's puerile nature


I was waken of my reverie by a bike
Horn beseeching to give it the side
Shaking my head with a disported smile
I marched forward for things to buy


Mr. Gupta,a man with frizzy grey hair
Looked at the slip rather over and over
When he moved to fetch those medicines
I retrieved my wallet to check my means


Presently, aura filled with a fragrance
Redolent of a young dame's presence
Yes, I was right-as you better vide
A winsome lassie standing by my side


Eyes star-gazed and cheeks rose-hazed
She was verily a beauty incarnate
When she spake,voice knitted with purls,
Oysters crackled to reveal the pearls


"Uncle,can you give these meds please"
'Sure', he gave her preference to me
"Two hundred twenty six rupees",he said
While he ordered his adjunct to attend


She took out a five-hundred rupee note
Grimacing,this was all she had in store
Looking demurely around for some help
Her eyes met mine asking for the change


The sparkle glowing beneath those eyes
Evocative of the misty days flown by
How I hankered, she was really her
Returned to her ever-waiting lover


I earnestly gave her the needed money
With eyes never let off my sweet honey
She took it with usual thanks-giving
While Mr Gupta gave her the things


"How was your Diwali Ritu", he asked
"Great", she replied and walked past
"Oh did I really hear Ritu",I thought
With her familiar gait slowly brought


I was struck still wondering about her
And kept gaping till she was nowhere
Finally I ran over to her frantically
But I lost her in the milling alley


I seacherd for her, but she had exited
Oh, I didn't even know where she stayed
Last,I walked out with a hint of sorrow
But with hope to see her again tomorrow


I kept looking for her slightest treat
Sitting at the bench opposite her street
But with half day past, I under duress
Walked to Mr. Gupta to ask her address


He gave me, at first, a questioning look
But then himself guided me over the nook
I reached a home,long standing in its pen
But finally knocked,expecting her to open


Instead greeted a lady in braided lace
Looking quizically over my puzzled face
'Is Ritu at home?' I did manage to purr
'I am her friend,' explaining it to her


'Sorry beta'she has already left today
For her Medical Course in the College
'Where?'I wanted to ask, but withheld
Knowing it doesn't matter at this eld


I had lost her, before I could even find
A few things are meant to be within rind
I told to myself, and slowly trudged off
Drearily wondering about my love lost


I don't know whether it was love even
For she never heard my heart's refrain
O Lord! I only wish, to meet her again
And let her know all these years' pain

Collective singular or individualistic plural?

Finally I found someone else too wondering about an English conundrum long vexing me. Consider this:-

“We have got noses on our faces”

Does the above statement mean, 1> We each have more than one nose and one face 2> We all combined have more than one nose and one face.

Obviously it has to be second option. But what about this then:-

“We have fingers in our hands”

Does the same argument still hold true?We might never bother to reason or question these, because semantically the intent is very clear. But if we follow it pedantically, then there is indeed something vague and goofy here. I have tried to find out the correct forms of words in these types of sentences, but to no avail till now.

Anyhow I have devised myself a simple rule. If the ‘noun in question’ is collectively referring more than one number, then it has to be in plural, otherwise in singular. For example:-

“The boys are going to their house” – The boys live in the same house
“The boys are going to their houses” – The boys live in different houses

The above rule has worked for me till now. Semantically the expressions are clear, and grammatically too, I believe, they are now unambiguous.

Most Beautiful Words in English

It was such a delight, when I read somewhere that one girl liked the word 'beauty' the most because of the way it sounds. Really 'beauty' is such a great and mellifluous word. So, what can be even sweeter - the most beautiful words ? I googled to find whether anything like this is even discussed. To my no-surprise, there exists a polled-list of the most beautiful words in English. Here are the top ten:-

1. Mother
2. Passion
3. Smile
4. Love
5. Eternity
6. Fantastic
7. Destiny
8. Freedom
9. Liberty
10.Tranquility

The selection is hardly surprising, for all these words do exhibit emotion, spirit, belief and peace. And indeed they are beautifu, aren't they?

My favourite cricket journalist

I would be considered another schooled reader, if I say that Sir Neville Cardus is my favourite cricket writer. He is the doyen of cricket journalism, but I haven’t ready much of him.

It is a mere reflection of times, but it does suggest something. The writers have to be relevant to the topic and time. That’s why a guy named, Osman Samiuddin, is my favourite cricket journalist. He writes on Cricinfo but he not only writes but also creates.

He is Pakistani, so he was initially assigned to write on Pakistan cricket only. He brought out the party and poignancy of Pakistan cricket in no uncertain terms, and it was a joy to read his articles. Call it a quirk of fate or misery, Pakistan lost out on much of cricket last year, so his articles became less in number. But still he came out intermittently with some amazing writings, probably better then before.

His last one is both straight and shrewd. It is also hilarious and metaphorical.

Money Talks, Money Shrieks

Who the hell would have thought that Pamela Anderson, Dolly Parton or Muntazer Al-Zaidi (whoishe) had something to do with cricket? You wanna know, go through it. But also don’t miss the cricketing insight and information in between.

Free Rice-What a concept!

I was immediately struck by the concept of Free Rice, when I had heard about it last year. What more can you ask for? Donate rice, just by answering Vocabulary questions. In the process, you also improve your vocabulary, and mind you, if you think that it is another run-of-the-mill affair, try scoring more than 45. I played the game very regularly, and it was obviously driven both by my penchant for learning new words and by my ever-bubbling quest to do something philanthropic. I don’t know why the visit to the site died down subsequently though. Probably my preoccupation with other stuff played its part.

When I happened to visit the site today, I was pleasantly surprised to see the site grow not only its content but also its reach. There are more subjects, viz. Mathematics, Language, Geography, Chemistry etc to choose from, and their levels are good enough to cater to and also teach every group of people. Further I read and saw the success it has already achieved. Widely hailed by media and people alike, it has reached to the neediest zones in the world. The most promising part is that the site can only grow bigger than here.

I feel an obligation, thus, to promote it. I had already shared the link with some of my friends. But now it needs to go out to the world. Play, enjoy, learn, donate and feel better. That’s its mantra. The Internet never ceases to amaze me.

Time to say, two and two is four

A few things, seemingly of passing nature only, can apprise you more than the calculated ones. They are more honest and humble too; and create that self-cognizant view that you had always wanted to develop.

It was an honour that one of my friends asked me to review his MBA essays. I am considered good in English, but it takes far more that some crammed words and exercised grammar to be a good writer, or more so, a correct reviewer. I knew this, and I feared this; and the demon invariably came out when I started reading his essays. They were not what I am used to. They were expressions of facts, and not poetic lyrics. I hate facts, because they are simple and true. The formality of the essays was too good for me, and frankly speaking, beyond my reviewing acumen. I knew the essays were not the best, but they were glorious for me, because I am not good at writing straight facts. For me, two and two is never four. Why should it be? If it is four, then it is Mathematics, not literature. Such views have made my writing unbound, but also corrupt.

Naturally I was not able to add anything to the essays, except amend a few glaring grammatical mistakes. He would have been disappointed, but I was more, because my inability which I had always wanted to conceal was again revealed. I want to be good, nay brilliant, in factual writing. I have taken his essays as the starting point of my melioration. Hopefully in due course of time, I am able to develop not only interest but also flair for that kind of writing.

A damn good writer

I love the way Amitav Ghosh writes. He is a seriously good writer. I have read only one of his works, ‘The Hungry Tide’, but the experience was enough to bind me to his literary style. He elucidated the characters in the novel so well that you felt you were the protagonists out there.

He is again in the limelight now after his latest novel, ‘Sea of Poppies’ was released last month. The first of the trilogy, Ibis, it is a tale of India of early eighteenth century, beset with opium trade and the related migration of the poppy growers. The story is not to my full liking, but there is ample scope for him here to sketch the characters in his own unique ways. In fact, in the reviews, this very point has been highly praised.

I feel he gets this perspective of characters from his detailed observation of life. A writer needs to be discerning enough to know what and how people in front of him think. His work is nothing but his own life’s story drawn from others. Amitav’s Bengali roots are exhibited very often and starkly in his writings.

As soon as time permits, I am going to get hold of his another famous, in fact the most credited, novel, ‘The Glass Palace’. It was in front of me a few years back, when one of my friends was reading it. But somehow, I let slip the chance. Now, I will have to rummage for it. Sigh!