I don’t know how or from where I got it, but I’ve had this mad desire to go bungee jumping for the past week. There is a spot close to San Jose – on a bridge 265 feet over a river – that is a world famous spot for bungee jumping. I made up my mind to go there this weekend and try my luck.
We reached the spot around 11 am, just in time to see a guy get strapped and stand on the narrow platform. He turned back and gave me a nervous smile, and I smiled back encouragingly. He stood for two minutes at the edge, shook his head, came back and sat down. All the while, his two friends (who were gonna jump next) were encouraging him in Spanish. I wandered around and took in the breathtaking view – lush green foliage all around, plunging into a narrow river strewn with huge boulders. Suddenly, I heard a shriek – the guy had jumped. We watched in amazement as he almost touched the river, shouting like mad all the while, and gently swayed below the bridge….there he’d be on one side, and then I’d run over to the other side of the bridge to catch a sight of him. When he came back, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat, all pumped up.
I was excited. What did that guy think as he stood on the platform, and how did he make the leap? I wanted to do this, I was gonna do this!
The second guy was cucumber kool. He’s gonna go down in a flash, without a sound – I thought. I was wrong. The moment he stood up, he started shaking his head, and after a few minutes of to-and-fro, he was back on the bridge, unstrapping his gear.
If you think too long, you’ll never jump – I told my companion knowledgeably, as if I’d done this all my life. I’d been chatting with the third guy, and he told me they were from Portugal. You jump? – he asked. I think so, though I’ll be shit scared – I answered. Im very scared too…the toughest part is getting yourself to make the jump. I’ve jumped from a parachute, but there was someone else who made the actual jump – I just followed him. Getting myself to jump will be tough. I nodded, mentally mapping out how I’d make the leap.
In the end, the third guy, the one who’d jumped from a parachute and who’d dragged his friends to do the bungee, couldn’t jump either.
I was next. I was cool, calm and confident, as I asked Charlie the instructor to repeat the instructions and tested out the clasp for the rope that I’d have to grasp for the return to the platform. I’d pumped myself up, and my strategy was clear – I wouldn’t look down. I’d look into the trees, stretch out my arms, and imagine that I was Jonathan Livingstone Seagull. Charlie says the women are better at this, remarked my Portuguese friend. I smiled back confidently – I wasn’t gonna prove Charlie wrong.
The moment I stood up on the platform, more than 250 feet above the river, I started blabbering, just as I’d seen the other guys do. I have to be crazy to be doing this, why am I doing this, etc. Initially, my knees were shaking, but after a few moments, I was steady. Move forward, your toes should be slightly outside the platform, commanded Charlie. Gingerly, holding the support to my left, I made my way forward. To gain confidence, I let go of the support and stretched out my arms horizontally. After a couple of minutes of nervousness, I managed to let go of the support, with my toes slightly outside the platform, and my arms stretched out. I was in position for the jump.
You’re good, now jump, said Charlie. I tried….but I just couldn’t. I closed my eyes, I thought all kinds of things to myself, I imagined myself dancing to music, but I just could not jump. I just couldn’t understand it. I was prepared for this, I had wanted to do it, I had thought about how I would do it, I wasn’t scared of death (the worst possible outcome) But the left side of my brain had sensed danger and completely taken over, and my feet appeared to be locked and glued to the spot. All the advice I had doled out to my predecessors was forgotten in a trice. I can’t do this, but I soo badly want to do this, can you push me Charlie? I asked in desperation. He wasn’t allowed to push me, but he stood behind me and gave me a countdown. Jump at zero, and he began, but the moment he’d reach two I’d ask him to start all over again.
I still believed I was gonna do it, but I think the Portuguese guys sensed otherwise. Adios, one of them called out to me, if you stand there too long you don’t make it, shouted another, echoing my thoughts of ten minutes ago.
In the end, I did not jump. As I stood there, my brain convinced me that it was not worth doing, that it was beautiful just standing on the platform with my arms stretched out (it was), what more joy could I get from jumping…the works. I still can’t believe it, for I had looked with a bit of contempt at the last two guys who did not jump. I will do it, I had told myself – I want to do it and I can do it.
But when you stand on the platform, you undergo a transformation. What I felt then can best be described as preparing to commit suicide – for that is what the 265-feet jump appears to be as you stand on the 18 inch strip of metal, the protective ropes notwithstanding. Had I been blindfolded, not known what I was going in for, I think I would have done it. Or if someone had pushed me, or if it was a situation of desperation, a last resort. But having had enough time to see what I was in for, my brain just did not let me release my defenses.
I had looked forward to the jump as a symbolic way of letting go of my fears and defenses. I tried ... but in the end, I didn’t have enough guts to leap out of my secure armor.
I still haven't given up though.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
All that Jazz
My Saturday evening didn’t turn out as planned. I wanted to attend the Camerata Klaipeda by the Lithuanian group at the National Theatre, but by the time I managed to locate an ATM and then beat the pouring rains, all the tickets were sold out. Only uno – I pleaded with the lady in a mix of English and Spanish– but she shook her head sympathetically.
Disappointed, I made my way back to the Multiplaza for a late lunch. Upon entering the hotel, I bumped into my favorite Jazz band – a Cuban (saxophone), a Tico (guitar) and an American (piano). You never returned last Tuesday – exclaimed the Cuban & the Tico. I smiled apologetically – remembering my un-kept promise of returning after dinner for their music. I’ll compensate today, I promised as I settled down on a sofa close to the piano.
Surprisingly, I was the sole audience (the small area is usually packed), so I was asked for requests. Umm, play some Louis Armstrong, I said, trying hard to recall names of some famous jazz players (blush). An excellent rendering of What a Wonderful World was delivered, followed by My Funny Valentine. Inspired, I asked for Something Stupid –they didn’t have the sheet music, but the Tico knew a bit of the tune, and they made a valiant, albeit a slightly inaccurate, attempt to play it for me. Very sweet.
He sings really well – said the Tico of Mark, the pianist, as I went over to chat with them. Requests for songs followed, and Mark sang Cry me a River, Sorry seems to be the Hardest Word and a pretty song called Moon and Sand that I hadn’t heard before, to the accompaniment of the piano.
And oh yes, there was a 15 year old kid who wandered over from a party in the vicinity and stood watching Mark play for some time. You play well - she told him. He smiled with evident pride. Do you play – he asked conversationally. A bit – I learnt the piano when I was 8. And then, she sat down and belted out some awesome Chopin – mindblowing. I could see Mark was humbled.
Not a bad evening at all…so what if I didn’t hear the Lithuanian band, I had a trio of artistes perform just for me. Not to mention the Chopin maestro.
And I think to myself…It’s a wonderful world.
Disappointed, I made my way back to the Multiplaza for a late lunch. Upon entering the hotel, I bumped into my favorite Jazz band – a Cuban (saxophone), a Tico (guitar) and an American (piano). You never returned last Tuesday – exclaimed the Cuban & the Tico. I smiled apologetically – remembering my un-kept promise of returning after dinner for their music. I’ll compensate today, I promised as I settled down on a sofa close to the piano.
Surprisingly, I was the sole audience (the small area is usually packed), so I was asked for requests. Umm, play some Louis Armstrong, I said, trying hard to recall names of some famous jazz players (blush). An excellent rendering of What a Wonderful World was delivered, followed by My Funny Valentine. Inspired, I asked for Something Stupid –they didn’t have the sheet music, but the Tico knew a bit of the tune, and they made a valiant, albeit a slightly inaccurate, attempt to play it for me. Very sweet.
He sings really well – said the Tico of Mark, the pianist, as I went over to chat with them. Requests for songs followed, and Mark sang Cry me a River, Sorry seems to be the Hardest Word and a pretty song called Moon and Sand that I hadn’t heard before, to the accompaniment of the piano.
And oh yes, there was a 15 year old kid who wandered over from a party in the vicinity and stood watching Mark play for some time. You play well - she told him. He smiled with evident pride. Do you play – he asked conversationally. A bit – I learnt the piano when I was 8. And then, she sat down and belted out some awesome Chopin – mindblowing. I could see Mark was humbled.
Not a bad evening at all…so what if I didn’t hear the Lithuanian band, I had a trio of artistes perform just for me. Not to mention the Chopin maestro.
And I think to myself…It’s a wonderful world.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Lessons in Language
On my flight into Costa Rica, my companion asked me – Do you speak Spanish? No, I replied. Oh well, just remember to say ‘No avayol Espanol’ – it means ‘I do not understand Spanish’.
Sage advice, as these turned out to be words I have most often used in Costa Rica in the last six weeks (apart from buenas and gracias). In a country where most people do not understand or speak English, communication is a challenge – and since no (wo)man is an island, this leads to encounters that are sometimes exasperating, sometimes touching, and always interesting!
There are tons of exhilarating moments…like the cheery ‘Comos Estas, Ina’ of the guards in office each morning and evening, and the answering smile when I manage to murmur a ‘Muy bien’ back to them. I make it a point to greet the guards every morning and evening – they are friendly, cheerful and give me the best lessons in Spanish!
Then there are the appreciations of my accent by my colleagues (hear, hear), and the gentle corrections – like with poqueeto, which I am told I still don’t enunciate correctly. This usually results in friendly banter in which I make them parrot some Hindi words (the most fun is when I ask them to say dhanyawaad)
I will also treasure the shopkeeper in Grecia who could not understand a word of English, but came running out into the middle of the street to help me when I repeatedly lost my way and drove around in circles (he finally asked for a paper and drew the map on it…..God bless him!),
Many strangers have helped me order my lunch or dinner, or make a simple grocery purchase. But my moment of pride came when I managed to get a customized meal from my favorite Mexican haunt. I wanted chicken fajitas from a combo-meal, but without the combo of French fries and Coke, and with no cheese. I also wanted to take the meal home. I managed to use broken Spanish and sign language to communicate how I wanted my food, and succeeded.
To-Go, I told the lady. Si?, she questioned. Parajevar, I said, groping for the word and hoping I got it right, but inwardly preparing myself for a series of useless gesticulations. Si, Si, To Go, Si? She smiled back, as she packed the food. Si, Si, I replied in happy exultation - I’d managed to make her speak Engles!
Some of my most frustrating experiences have been communicating with the so-called bilingual staff at the hotel. Like when I wanted to contact the seamstress, and they couldn’t understand …I used all kinds of words like tailor, repair, mend etc., till I figured out the Spanish translation (costurera). Or when I called to enquire about making a call to a local mobile phone, and they connected me to the beauty parlor instead! The morning wake-up calls are quite funny….my dreams are interrupted by a spattering of Spanish till I groggily reply ‘No avayol Espanol’ - it sure wakes me up!
Then there are times when you call up a tour operator, and in response to your hesitant ‘Engles?, no avayaol Espanol’, you hear a smattering of Spanish, followed by the phone slamming down. Or when people keep on talking to you in Spanish even after they have heard and acknowledged that you do not understand it. Sigh. Or when that guy at Subway smirked at me when I was trying to explain what I wanted in my sandwich – I could have strangulated him!
Language - communication of meaning in any way; medium that is expressive, significant, etc. No wonder the joy of getting through far outweighs the despair of incomprehension.
Sage advice, as these turned out to be words I have most often used in Costa Rica in the last six weeks (apart from buenas and gracias). In a country where most people do not understand or speak English, communication is a challenge – and since no (wo)man is an island, this leads to encounters that are sometimes exasperating, sometimes touching, and always interesting!
There are tons of exhilarating moments…like the cheery ‘Comos Estas, Ina’ of the guards in office each morning and evening, and the answering smile when I manage to murmur a ‘Muy bien’ back to them. I make it a point to greet the guards every morning and evening – they are friendly, cheerful and give me the best lessons in Spanish!
Then there are the appreciations of my accent by my colleagues (hear, hear), and the gentle corrections – like with poqueeto, which I am told I still don’t enunciate correctly. This usually results in friendly banter in which I make them parrot some Hindi words (the most fun is when I ask them to say dhanyawaad)
I will also treasure the shopkeeper in Grecia who could not understand a word of English, but came running out into the middle of the street to help me when I repeatedly lost my way and drove around in circles (he finally asked for a paper and drew the map on it…..God bless him!),
Many strangers have helped me order my lunch or dinner, or make a simple grocery purchase. But my moment of pride came when I managed to get a customized meal from my favorite Mexican haunt. I wanted chicken fajitas from a combo-meal, but without the combo of French fries and Coke, and with no cheese. I also wanted to take the meal home. I managed to use broken Spanish and sign language to communicate how I wanted my food, and succeeded.
To-Go, I told the lady. Si?, she questioned. Parajevar, I said, groping for the word and hoping I got it right, but inwardly preparing myself for a series of useless gesticulations. Si, Si, To Go, Si? She smiled back, as she packed the food. Si, Si, I replied in happy exultation - I’d managed to make her speak Engles!
Some of my most frustrating experiences have been communicating with the so-called bilingual staff at the hotel. Like when I wanted to contact the seamstress, and they couldn’t understand …I used all kinds of words like tailor, repair, mend etc., till I figured out the Spanish translation (costurera). Or when I called to enquire about making a call to a local mobile phone, and they connected me to the beauty parlor instead! The morning wake-up calls are quite funny….my dreams are interrupted by a spattering of Spanish till I groggily reply ‘No avayol Espanol’ - it sure wakes me up!
Then there are times when you call up a tour operator, and in response to your hesitant ‘Engles?, no avayaol Espanol’, you hear a smattering of Spanish, followed by the phone slamming down. Or when people keep on talking to you in Spanish even after they have heard and acknowledged that you do not understand it. Sigh. Or when that guy at Subway smirked at me when I was trying to explain what I wanted in my sandwich – I could have strangulated him!
Language - communication of meaning in any way; medium that is expressive, significant, etc. No wonder the joy of getting through far outweighs the despair of incomprehension.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Perhaps this could have stayed unstated...
I mentioned An Equal Music in my previous post. Given my current state of musical exaltation :-), I can't resist the temptation to quote this epigraph to the book, dedicated by Seth to his partner Philippe Honore':
Perhaps this could have stayed unstated.
Had our words turned to other things
In the grey park, the rain abated,
Life would have quickened other strings.
I list your gifts in this creation:
Pen, paper, ink and inspiration,
Peace to the heart with touch or word,
Ease to the soul with note and chord.
How did that walk, those winter hours,
Occasion this? No lightning came;
Nor did I sense, when touched by flame,
Our story lit with borrowed powers -
Rather, by what our spirits burned,
Embered in words, to us returned.
To me, these words, like any beautiful composition, have a timeless beauty to them - lyrical, magical and eternal.
Perhaps this could have stayed unstated.
Had our words turned to other things
In the grey park, the rain abated,
Life would have quickened other strings.
I list your gifts in this creation:
Pen, paper, ink and inspiration,
Peace to the heart with touch or word,
Ease to the soul with note and chord.
How did that walk, those winter hours,
Occasion this? No lightning came;
Nor did I sense, when touched by flame,
Our story lit with borrowed powers -
Rather, by what our spirits burned,
Embered in words, to us returned.
To me, these words, like any beautiful composition, have a timeless beauty to them - lyrical, magical and eternal.
Food, Music and Shopping
This weekend I decided to take it easy. I mean, getting a bit tired of the 'what-I-am-doing-this weekend' planning....I just wanted to have no To-Do's for a change.
So dragged along two Ticos and a Philipino-American for some yummilicous Indian food. I was going to have Indian food after 6 weeks - so I was obviously quite excited. Went to this place called Taj Mahal which is really pretty - it's actually a beautiful house converted into a restaurant. The weather was awesome, so we decided to eat in the courtyard, dust and bugs notwithstanding. Got really excited when I saw a tandoor, and even more when the cook turned out to be from Punjab - felt so good to finally talk to someone in Hindi!
We had a complete orgy - lassi, seekh kabab, lamb biryani, garlic naan, yellow dal, mughlai chicken - all under the pretext of 'introducing' Indian food to my companions. sigh. Travelling around the world has made me appreciate better the variety and richness (literally too!) of Indian food ... I mean this place served only North Indian food and had at least 50 items on its menu! Now if you were to just add South Indian (not just idli-dosa-sambar but more eclectic stuff), Konkani and Bengali cuisine to this, can you imagine how long the list would be !! Incomparable.
Did quite a bit of shopping too - sigh. I'm a compulsive shopaholic - one of those strange creatures for whom blowing up money is a sure-shot boost of adrenalin. Aargh.
The highlight of the weekend was Sunday evening, when I headed to the opulent Nacional Teatro for a performance by eight young cellists from Berlin. What a fantastic performance - I am amazed that a single instrument can create so much beauty !! I particularly enjoyed the performances by a trio (two men and a woman), and also some of the pieces where all eight performers played together - mindblowing! Can you imagine what coordination of individual brilliance it takes to get eight different composers to create melody and harmony with one instrument? And these weren't original compositions mind you - playing anyone else's music is always moe difficult, but when it's the likes of Bach and Mozart - you get the picture.
I loved the way one of the cellists would start off in the lead, then the second would take over and the first would fade away and complement the new lead, then the third, and so on. It's magic, pure magic....a social fusion of individual expression. As I closed my eyes to soak in the performance, I realized how meaningless words are for music of this nature. A thought that seemed to be reflected in the frequent exchange of glances and smiles between the cutest couple of the group.
"Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope to grieve? It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music – not too much, or the soul could not sustain it – from time to time."
Vikram' Seth's last lines in An Equal Music could not have said it better.
So dragged along two Ticos and a Philipino-American for some yummilicous Indian food. I was going to have Indian food after 6 weeks - so I was obviously quite excited. Went to this place called Taj Mahal which is really pretty - it's actually a beautiful house converted into a restaurant. The weather was awesome, so we decided to eat in the courtyard, dust and bugs notwithstanding. Got really excited when I saw a tandoor, and even more when the cook turned out to be from Punjab - felt so good to finally talk to someone in Hindi!
We had a complete orgy - lassi, seekh kabab, lamb biryani, garlic naan, yellow dal, mughlai chicken - all under the pretext of 'introducing' Indian food to my companions. sigh. Travelling around the world has made me appreciate better the variety and richness (literally too!) of Indian food ... I mean this place served only North Indian food and had at least 50 items on its menu! Now if you were to just add South Indian (not just idli-dosa-sambar but more eclectic stuff), Konkani and Bengali cuisine to this, can you imagine how long the list would be !! Incomparable.
Did quite a bit of shopping too - sigh. I'm a compulsive shopaholic - one of those strange creatures for whom blowing up money is a sure-shot boost of adrenalin. Aargh.
The highlight of the weekend was Sunday evening, when I headed to the opulent Nacional Teatro for a performance by eight young cellists from Berlin. What a fantastic performance - I am amazed that a single instrument can create so much beauty !! I particularly enjoyed the performances by a trio (two men and a woman), and also some of the pieces where all eight performers played together - mindblowing! Can you imagine what coordination of individual brilliance it takes to get eight different composers to create melody and harmony with one instrument? And these weren't original compositions mind you - playing anyone else's music is always moe difficult, but when it's the likes of Bach and Mozart - you get the picture.
I loved the way one of the cellists would start off in the lead, then the second would take over and the first would fade away and complement the new lead, then the third, and so on. It's magic, pure magic....a social fusion of individual expression. As I closed my eyes to soak in the performance, I realized how meaningless words are for music of this nature. A thought that seemed to be reflected in the frequent exchange of glances and smiles between the cutest couple of the group.
"Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope to grieve? It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music – not too much, or the soul could not sustain it – from time to time."
Vikram' Seth's last lines in An Equal Music could not have said it better.
Mindless Monday
Horrible day.
Spent hours filing my expense claims - my company has attained the pinacle of complexity in this goddamn activity. Felt soo irritated...all non value-add. Did a couple of administrative stuff - email followups, same-time clarifications, all that jazz.
Feel so useless...didnt do one 'meaningful' thing today (does not need to be necessarily in work)...terrible way to begin the week!
Hopefully it can only get better from here. Tomorrow is another day!
Spent hours filing my expense claims - my company has attained the pinacle of complexity in this goddamn activity. Felt soo irritated...all non value-add. Did a couple of administrative stuff - email followups, same-time clarifications, all that jazz.
Feel so useless...didnt do one 'meaningful' thing today (does not need to be necessarily in work)...terrible way to begin the week!
Hopefully it can only get better from here. Tomorrow is another day!
Friday, August 11, 2006
Othello and a Pirate
I finally managed to see Pirates Part 2. Frankly I was quite disappointed. I am a big Pirates and Johnny Depp fan, so maybe I was expecting too much. But I thought the first half-hour was a complete waste. All that tribal stuff was complete mambo jambo and entirely expendable. And just when the movie picked up pace and got us interested with the possibility of a romance between Depp and the fair maiden, it ended! Bah. So evidently intended for a sequel. And Davy Jones is slimy (literally!), but not half as wicked as Captain Barbossa - thank God Geoffrey Rush is returning in the sequel to the sequel.
My biggest grouse with the movie is that it had too little of Johnny Depp - he was the star of the first movie! And since he (alongwith Barbossa) had all the witty dialogues, the movie was like a 500-page P Smith novel with P Smith getting only 10 lines. Not enough, not enough.
Saw Omkara at a small Indian theatre in Atlanta...most of the women were wearing pretty embroidered stoles so it was like being back in Delhi in autumn :-) The language is gross, but I liked the movie. I especially liked the fact that he used a very relevant political backdrop, yet stuck to the story without getting mired in the politics. And the music is mind blowing.
I thought Saif's acting was awesome - he's growing into a very versatile actor! He looked more evil than Ajay Devgan, who I suspect has a canned shot of himself with eyes narrowed and perputual scowl and sells it to all his directors. Cheaper by the dozen...standardization at its best. Kareena was very ordinary, reducing a meaty role full of possibilities to pathetic wimpiness. Wonder how a Rani would have up scorched up a character like that.
My biggest grouse with the movie is that it had too little of Johnny Depp - he was the star of the first movie! And since he (alongwith Barbossa) had all the witty dialogues, the movie was like a 500-page P Smith novel with P Smith getting only 10 lines. Not enough, not enough.
Saw Omkara at a small Indian theatre in Atlanta...most of the women were wearing pretty embroidered stoles so it was like being back in Delhi in autumn :-) The language is gross, but I liked the movie. I especially liked the fact that he used a very relevant political backdrop, yet stuck to the story without getting mired in the politics. And the music is mind blowing.
I thought Saif's acting was awesome - he's growing into a very versatile actor! He looked more evil than Ajay Devgan, who I suspect has a canned shot of himself with eyes narrowed and perputual scowl and sells it to all his directors. Cheaper by the dozen...standardization at its best. Kareena was very ordinary, reducing a meaty role full of possibilities to pathetic wimpiness. Wonder how a Rani would have up scorched up a character like that.
What are you reading today?
I had some time to my flight while leaving the US, so I obviously ended up at a bookstore. I havent bought a book for a month now, so I was getting the itch to spend some money :-) Something well paced, engrossing and witty is just what I need to get over my blues, eh? Si.
The first section had the 'How-To' books - The Eight Habbit, Nice Girls Dont get the Corner Office/Man of Dreams, Why Men Fall Asleep After Sex ...all that kind of crap. I hate self-help books - I think they are an oxymoron anyway coz self-help means YOU help yourself. The gyan these books contain sounds very good but I would either not want to or be unable to implement most of it.
The next was the post Bridget Jones chick flicks - The Shopaholics series and other such stories about wacky-poor-girl who is out-of-job and/or out-of-money but gets handsome-rich-charming-man-of-dreams at end of novel after crazy/silly/sometimes-funny,always-unreal encounters. I call these the modern MB's. You enjoy reading them sometimes, hell, you want to read them sometimes when you want complete mindlessness, but after you have read a few they get tiresome. The problem is not that they are unreal and have no story (you don't read such stuff if you want a story), the problem is with the writing - there is no humor or wit at all. It's like someone has run a random program over a million words and generated these books. Gimme a Georgette Heyer or a Dorothy Sayers or even Precious Ramotswe for a chick flick!
The next was the 'popular authors' category - Dan Brown, Mario Puzo, Crickton, Archer, King - the lot. All wearisomely-very-similar. Aargh.
Then there was the 'poignant story' category - The Nicholas Sparks kinda sob-stuff. Any author who wants to be taken seriously today will write a poignant and moving tale about love or life and its purpose/meaning - preferably both together. Which is fine with me - some of them are quite nice to read. The problem is when these books become succesful, so the Sparks and Morrisons and Smiths of the world think that they can go on writing poignant stories for ever. A random program again, but on a different set of words. Sigh. Im giving up hope by now.
Is this what the world is reading today? Where are the good books that make you laugh, that make you cry, that make you think, that sometimes make you take a leap of faith? And each different from the other....whatever happened to variety in writing? When I think of some of my favorite writers - Maugham, Steinbeck, Russell, or even Seth and Rushdie - they always had a new tale to tell. Vikram Seth even has new ways of telling his tales - that's what makes him so interesting. Or if they had the same theme - like Stevenson (adventure) or Wodehouse (BritButler humor - right ho Jeeves!) or even Asimov, Bradbury or Adams - they made each work so thrilling and absorbing that you are left gasping for more. And the subtle humor that would light up even the most sordid tales - that's what makes a good book to my mind.
A great book is one that tells you different things each time you read it. You understand it bit by bit, and it never ceases to wonder or amaze you. It's like love, or old wine - it gets better with time. Most of the stuff that I saw at the bookstore was like a one-night stand - read it, shut it, forget it.
The first section had the 'How-To' books - The Eight Habbit, Nice Girls Dont get the Corner Office/Man of Dreams, Why Men Fall Asleep After Sex ...all that kind of crap. I hate self-help books - I think they are an oxymoron anyway coz self-help means YOU help yourself. The gyan these books contain sounds very good but I would either not want to or be unable to implement most of it.
The next was the post Bridget Jones chick flicks - The Shopaholics series and other such stories about wacky-poor-girl who is out-of-job and/or out-of-money but gets handsome-rich-charming-man-of-dreams at end of novel after crazy/silly/sometimes-funny,always-unreal encounters. I call these the modern MB's. You enjoy reading them sometimes, hell, you want to read them sometimes when you want complete mindlessness, but after you have read a few they get tiresome. The problem is not that they are unreal and have no story (you don't read such stuff if you want a story), the problem is with the writing - there is no humor or wit at all. It's like someone has run a random program over a million words and generated these books. Gimme a Georgette Heyer or a Dorothy Sayers or even Precious Ramotswe for a chick flick!
The next was the 'popular authors' category - Dan Brown, Mario Puzo, Crickton, Archer, King - the lot. All wearisomely-very-similar. Aargh.
Then there was the 'poignant story' category - The Nicholas Sparks kinda sob-stuff. Any author who wants to be taken seriously today will write a poignant and moving tale about love or life and its purpose/meaning - preferably both together. Which is fine with me - some of them are quite nice to read. The problem is when these books become succesful, so the Sparks and Morrisons and Smiths of the world think that they can go on writing poignant stories for ever. A random program again, but on a different set of words. Sigh. Im giving up hope by now.
Is this what the world is reading today? Where are the good books that make you laugh, that make you cry, that make you think, that sometimes make you take a leap of faith? And each different from the other....whatever happened to variety in writing? When I think of some of my favorite writers - Maugham, Steinbeck, Russell, or even Seth and Rushdie - they always had a new tale to tell. Vikram Seth even has new ways of telling his tales - that's what makes him so interesting. Or if they had the same theme - like Stevenson (adventure) or Wodehouse (BritButler humor - right ho Jeeves!) or even Asimov, Bradbury or Adams - they made each work so thrilling and absorbing that you are left gasping for more. And the subtle humor that would light up even the most sordid tales - that's what makes a good book to my mind.
A great book is one that tells you different things each time you read it. You understand it bit by bit, and it never ceases to wonder or amaze you. It's like love, or old wine - it gets better with time. Most of the stuff that I saw at the bookstore was like a one-night stand - read it, shut it, forget it.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Indian Salsa
Browsing through the music collection at a gift shop at the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border, I stumbled upon an album titled World Salsa Beats. Salsa music from Mexico, Brazil, Zambiar, India, Timbuctoo and Latvia (no those weren’t the exact places, but a good imagination largely compensates for a bad memory), it ran.
Indian Salsa?? I turned the CD in happy anticipation, only to be left dazed and perplexed. A Shaan remix of a forgettable Hindi oldie (I cant even recall the song now..and I have grown up listening to 60’s and 70’s music thanks to my Dad) was India’s proud representation for world Salsa. Eh??
Indian Salsa?? I turned the CD in happy anticipation, only to be left dazed and perplexed. A Shaan remix of a forgettable Hindi oldie (I cant even recall the song now..and I have grown up listening to 60’s and 70’s music thanks to my Dad) was India’s proud representation for world Salsa. Eh??
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
City of Blinding Lights
So here I am...finally reached the USA !!!
Couldnt contain my excitement as the plane was landing...I was literally jumping in my seat like a little kid. The sun was just about to depart - at 7.30 in the evening! Wow looks like Im gonna have long days here.
Getting out of the Atlanta airport is a complete nightmare - in font 40, bold. You go thru the Customs check (answering inane questions, giving fingers and eye prints), wait for ure luggage to arrive, collect it, then re-deposit it (!!!), go thru ure security scan (take off shoes, laptop, blah-blah), take an airport train to reach the last stop, find ure way thru several levels to finally reach the last and the messiest stop - baggage re-claim - where you hunt for your poor lil bag amongst luggage from at least ten other flites on the same belt. Phew. They say if you can drive in India, you can drive anywhere in the world. I say if you can get outta a US airport unscathed, you can pretty much travel anywwhere in the world.
Of course the worst security check I had was at Charles de Gaulle, where the poker-faced lady asked me questions like 'Are you carrying weapons that can be used for attacking co-passengers' and 'Has your bag been used to carry forbidden substances' etc....I mean, does she really expect someone who is doing anything of that to declare aye aye !! And the building is soo ugly.. not what you'd expect from the gateway to the most romantic city in the world !
I'd asked the hotel to arrange for a pickup, and my worst fears came true when I couldnt locate him. I needed quarters to make a phone call, but no one seemed to have them! One lady helpfully loaned me two, which got quicly exhausted in a call that ended up in the answering machine. whew. finally found a cute lil kid who had tons if quarters but insisted - I can't spend my money. Finally convinced her that she wasnt spending it - she was just exchanging it for a nice, big note (my sales pitch for the crumpled dollar bill in my hand)...she finally consented after confirming with her Dad, God bless her, and keep her smiling!
As the cab drove across concrete, metal and glass buildings, I felt comfortable - as if I had come home. And I thought to myself - this is my world. This world of cars and street lights and signs in english and people and buildings all along - this is where I belong to. The mountains and the valleys and the blue skies and Spanish chivalry is good for a vacation, but I'm really an outsider out there.
Neon heart, day-glow eyes, The city lit by fireflies...And I miss you when you're not around
(Sorry U2!)
Couldnt contain my excitement as the plane was landing...I was literally jumping in my seat like a little kid. The sun was just about to depart - at 7.30 in the evening! Wow looks like Im gonna have long days here.
Getting out of the Atlanta airport is a complete nightmare - in font 40, bold. You go thru the Customs check (answering inane questions, giving fingers and eye prints), wait for ure luggage to arrive, collect it, then re-deposit it (!!!), go thru ure security scan (take off shoes, laptop, blah-blah), take an airport train to reach the last stop, find ure way thru several levels to finally reach the last and the messiest stop - baggage re-claim - where you hunt for your poor lil bag amongst luggage from at least ten other flites on the same belt. Phew. They say if you can drive in India, you can drive anywhere in the world. I say if you can get outta a US airport unscathed, you can pretty much travel anywwhere in the world.
Of course the worst security check I had was at Charles de Gaulle, where the poker-faced lady asked me questions like 'Are you carrying weapons that can be used for attacking co-passengers' and 'Has your bag been used to carry forbidden substances' etc....I mean, does she really expect someone who is doing anything of that to declare aye aye !! And the building is soo ugly.. not what you'd expect from the gateway to the most romantic city in the world !
I'd asked the hotel to arrange for a pickup, and my worst fears came true when I couldnt locate him. I needed quarters to make a phone call, but no one seemed to have them! One lady helpfully loaned me two, which got quicly exhausted in a call that ended up in the answering machine. whew. finally found a cute lil kid who had tons if quarters but insisted - I can't spend my money. Finally convinced her that she wasnt spending it - she was just exchanging it for a nice, big note (my sales pitch for the crumpled dollar bill in my hand)...she finally consented after confirming with her Dad, God bless her, and keep her smiling!
As the cab drove across concrete, metal and glass buildings, I felt comfortable - as if I had come home. And I thought to myself - this is my world. This world of cars and street lights and signs in english and people and buildings all along - this is where I belong to. The mountains and the valleys and the blue skies and Spanish chivalry is good for a vacation, but I'm really an outsider out there.
Neon heart, day-glow eyes, The city lit by fireflies...And I miss you when you're not around
(Sorry U2!)
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