Daddy Long Legs

My favourite book till date, the best amongst the many, is Daddy Long Legs. Time and again, I have wondered what is it in this simple epistolary novel that has captivated me so much. Is it the assurance that kindness still prevails in this sometimes cruel world? The idea of a developing romance, through letters, or the Jerusha Abbot's pursuit of knowledge and excellence? I have wondered often and guess that more often than not, it is precisely these questions that make me return to the book.

First of all, the idea that simplicity and conviction of thoughts still reign the roost. Probably I escape into a world of fantasy when I think about that. Next, the idea that letters can be such powerful tools of expression. That is some food for thought in the present age of 'twittering'.

To me, the whole point is knowing about a person so intrinsically without ever having met them. The letters that Jerusha writes to her unknown benefactor are chronicles of her life, a record of her thoughts, her successes and her losses and sometimes, indignance. But all punctuated by honesty of thought. Hence to me, the book is not just a tale. This may not happen in real life, but as long as the possibilities of parallels exist, why not?

Or probably it is just the idea of a preparing to write. Whatever. This is the one book that I would love to curl up with on a winter's day, on a rocking chair, with a hot cup of coffee in my hands. And travel with Jerusha as she moves on with her dreams of becoming a writer.

A Pickled Life!

What's a meal without a pickle. A welcome sign in any kitchen is those rows of bottles filled with reddish brown substance. [colours vary from red to brown depending on the constituents] Come summer, it is the pickle season out here. Yesterday my aunt made fresh cauliflower pickle. Needless to say, anything that comes out of my aunt's hand is yummy. Remembrance of things past. My mind travelled to those days when another aunt of mine used to make mango pickle. It was more of a ritual, something that she did with reverence every summer. Let me tell how she did it.   First of all, the pickle making day was announced in advance. The children were warned to wake up early in the morning and finish the morning rituals, have their fill of food and disappear. Disappear here means going off to the groves, playing with the other village kids or watching movies on the rented VCR. The kitchen was a separate block by itself. In the garden, aunt would have already pounded the red chillies [they only look red, they are not so spicy!] and the other required ingredients. She would pound them into a fine powder. Then come out the cut mango pieces. Triangular pieces of raw mangoes. She would mix the pieces with the powder and oil by hand and store them in earthern jars....huge ones. Only after the kitchen was completely cleaned would the children be allowed. The result - red mango pickle. Mix it with steaming hot rice and add a dash of ghee - you are on your way towards a lip-smacking treat. Of course, the treat used to be punctuated by stentorian warnings that we should not eat too much, otherwise our stomachs would start behaving unpredictably. But...who cared. Today, very few people have the space and time to make pickles in such large quantities. My aunt in Hyderabad makes pickle using a mixer. It's good. But nowhere does it approximate to the taste of those pickles in earthen jars. But at least my aunt is making. As I walk down the supermarket aisle, I see the numerous bottles of pickles of all kinds and constituents. They remind me of those earthen jars, red mango pickle made by my aunt in my village. I sigh, and move on.

A Shouting in the Silence?

'Long time ma'am, since you last came here,' remarked the waiter. I was at Java Green in Punjagutta, and it had been a month since my last visit. He knew what I wanted as I settled down with my book. Out of the corner of my eye, my eyes registered something out of the usual. I could see hands flinging about. Words that were supposed to be heard but not heard. Right in the middle of the outlet, a group of five people around a table were engaged in an animated conversation. They were almost shouting, but silently!

I was amazed. So much of communication and so noiselessly. The waiter, obviously wanting to share his observations on them, felt a kinship with me and moved over. 'Just imagine the noise levels ma'am if five people had actually been engaging in this kind of a verbal discussion.' The five people were communicating in sign language.

I was interested. Who were these people? They were of a mixed age group and were of a professional disposition. Most importantly, they were starkly set off against the motley crowd by their willingness to connect and communicate. Fascinated, I asked the waiter. 'Do they come here everyday? Who are they?'

'They are employees of the Andhra Bank above. Everyday they don't take their break at the usual time and instead in the evening settle down here for a long discussion. I have been seeing them for the past eight months and everyday, watching them has been quite fascinating. If there is no place inside, they place an order and make themselves comfortable outside on the pavement. But the pattern has remained the same for the past eight months. The five get together at the same time in the evening and god knows what they talk, but they talk.'

I looked at the animated speakers again and was struck, by their willingness to connect to each other. Even at the expense of 'shouting' in silence. How many of us are willing to take time for that?

Michelangelo's Christ - Part 1

I had recorded the following extract from The Agony and the Ecstasy in my diary when I had been a student. Now, it moves to my blog.It captures the moment when Michelangelo was in the thought mode about the statue of Jesus Christ that he had been commissioned to make -

Michelangelo did not feel within himself any of the things that Donatello felt. He had never been altogether clear in his own mind why God could not accomplish by Himself all the things He sent His son down on earth to do. Why did God need a son? The exquisitely balanced Donatello Christ said to him: 'This is how God wanted it to be, exactly the way it was planned. It is not hard to accept one's fate when it had been preordained. I have anticipated this pain.'

Michelangelo thought - 'What went through the mind of Christ between the sunset hour when the Roman soldier drove the first nail through his flesh, and the hour when he died? For these thoughts would determine not only how he accepted his fate, but also the position of his body on the cross. Donatello's Christ accepted in serenity, and thought nothing. Brunelleschi's Christ was so ethereal that he died at the first touch of the nail and had no time to think'

He returned to his workbench, began exploring his mind with charcoal and ink. On Christ's face appeared the expression, 'I am in agony, not from the iron nails but from the rust of doubt.' He could not bring himself to convey Christ's divinity by anything so obvious as a halo; it had to be portrayed through an inner force, strong enough to conquer his misgivings at this hour of severest trial.'

It was inevitable that his Christ would be closer to man than to God. He did not know that he was to be crucified. He neither wanted it nor liked it. And as a result, his body was twisted in conflict, torn like all men, by inner questioning.

Random musings on a merry day

Christmas...to any kid who has studied in a Christian Missionary Convent, Christmas remains etched in mind, maybe forever. The following musings are random totally but have their own meaning for me. Mrs.Rita Pillai - my headmistress when I was in Primary School.Even today I can see her sitting at the piano leading us in choir. I can see her directing all the teachers for the proceedings of the day. This included the usual walk of the Three Kings of the Orient, greeting the Lord in the manger [I remember the song' Away in the Manger, No crib for a bed,...'] And of course, ensuring that the Santa Claus had his bag of chocolates in place. I tend to remember the chapel in my school.A low-lit place, carpeted red. The statue of Christ on the cross on one of walls. Flower pots adorning the place. We had to remove our shoes to get inside. And had to remain silent. Actually we were supposed to pray. But I used to wonder why Christ's body was twisted on the cross. What would a child's mind understand about the metaphorical implications of pain? Many years later, I found my answer in the book The Agony and Ecstasy by Irvingstone. Mrs. Pillai never found out that I never used to pray there. My mother was from an orthodox background. Despite that, one fine day her curiosity got better of her and  we marched to Santhome Church to witness the Christmas Eve festivities. So impressed were we that my Mom made it a practice to visit the church more often.  Another memory associated with Christmas was our visit to Spenser's, the only mall worth speaking about in Chennai at that time. I and my Mom marched in for some window shopping on that day only to realise that there was a painting competition going on for kids. Mom told me to participate and bought some crayons and colors for me. I won the second prize - a fancy pencil box. [Today, Spenser Plaza doesn't appeal to me.It looks more like Kafka's castle.] And of course, the plum cake that Dad used to bring. With great ceremony we used to cut the cake and I used to reserve my share for a late night snack. And then look pleadingly at my brother and sister. No one could resist that look! College? The whole month we used to play this game called Chris Mom and Chris Child. It involved leaving some secret gifts for the assigned friend. Of course, for the better part of my stay, I thought it was a silly game. In the band, there was no choice, you had to play it. Christmas also reminds me of the day when the band as a whole got into a soup with our teachers. We had decided to play on Christmas Eve. The catch was that we had not taken the permission of our teachers, who, quite conveniently, were on a holiday.Our band was pretty much in the nascent stage and this was going to be our first standing performance. We put together a few tunes, and played for about 15 minutes. Felt on top of the world.:) We came crashing down the next day when our teachers returned.:( We got a solid blasting for not having gone through the official channels. Most of all, Christmas always reminds me of that scene in Home Alone [Part 2] The mother comes in search of the kid and the kid is praying in the Church. Praying for his family. And I think of the time when I and my mom used to sit in the church, more out of curiosity rather than reverence. And I can hear the music,...Hark the herald, Oh come all ye faithful, .......And I just think of a human being who lived many hundreds and thousands of years ago, personifying all the good that man is capable of. And whose message of love and brotherhood is preserved mostly for a day's festivity. :)Merry Christmas to one and all.

I had a great big fall!

The latest bug that has bitten me is that of dancing. Yes, I do  dance once in a while and am also trained in the classical version to some extent. It all started when a group of us were discussing those 'irrelevant things' which, as if by some stroke of chance, suddenly mutate into possibilities of expressing hitherto hidden talents. [Especially when you have nothing else worthwhile to discuss]

In case you have not understood the previous line, some of us decided to dance. The suggestion was put forth by an adventurer and was promptly accepted. Can you picture the six of us crammed in a room, music at full blast, stomping away to glory, with occasional pretensions to being professionals? Of course, we had taken care of the coffee part.

We were indeed an interesting group - called ourselves The Electric Girls - 3 serious dancers, 2 wannabe dancers and 1 adventurer. We yelled, screamed and laughed at our own mistakes. Making the wannabe dancers and the adventurer understand and develop a sense of rhythm and beat proved to be a daunting task.

But oh, when did the great fall happen? We were rehearsing live before an audience and some of us in the 'interesting group' were in a hyperactive state. One hyperactive girl challenged me to a classical dance posture which had been child's play to me earlier. In retrospect, I was an idiot to accept that challenge. I had been out of practice for quite some time now. However, the general consensus was that I should attempt at it, and not be a coward. As that girl held on to me for support, I attempted the impossible-bending backwards and touching the floor with my head (a classical pose pertaining to the snake dance. And yes, in my younger days, I could achieve that!) I miscalculated and instead of a smooth progress towards my destination, I landed with a thud. Nevertheless, my instincts made me reach out for the hand of a surprised onlooker and finally, the three of us, tumbled on each other - a sorry mess right in the middle of the stage. The entire amphitheatre's attention was drawn to the three dazed souls.

All that we could do at this defining moment was to give a gracious smile and nonchalantly pretend as if this was all a part of the act. [The accusations could be hurled later.]

As for dancing, we did put on our act, with a medley of songs from Madonna, Westlife, popular dance numbers from Hindi and Telugu and yes, the act was widely appreciated. Three cheers to the spirit of adventure! 

Towards making the existing model obsolete

In the page immediately after the contents of A Year in Green Tea and Tuk-Tuks is the Buddhist adage “What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly.” I knew right away that this was going to be a different kind of book. A book that showed 1. an awareness of the problem 2. creative and yet practically sustainable solutions to it. My introduction to the environmental crisis happened in grade 10. There were a couple of questions on the climate change and ozone depletion. Definite questions which would fetch you 10 marks. As I saw it then, there was nothing much I could do about the reducing the rate of ozone depletion except to convince the examiners that I knew the processes. The equation was so simple and for all practical purposes, the ozone hole became my favourite topic. My curiosity regarding environmental management shot up when I saw An Incovenient Truth. To tell the truth, I felt a lot wiser but strangely uncomfortable. I needed to know more. Suddenly terms like genetically modified food, ozone hole, climate change, biological warfare etc. started acquiring a sinister meaning. From the way I look at it, a book that tries to address environmental issues should essentially 1. Give the real picture of the crisis in a language that a layman can understand 2. Suggest practical ways and means to address them both at the local/global level 3. Narrate real life experiences to prove that living in harmony with the environment doesn’t necessarily mean uncomfortable living. Rory Spower’s book is an excellent instance of environment awareness in daily life. As he narrates his experience of creating an organic farm in a country torn apart by natural disasters and civil strife, we accompany him on a journey to create a more self-sustaining lifestyle. There is no problem without a solution. This is exemplified in his attempts to address the need for comfortable yet ecologically sustainable living. Is he joking? NO. He proves that this is possible with a few modifications to the design and structure of of our living areas. Electricity? Spowers tells me that I can generate enough power in my own backyard and stop depending on the unpredictable power grid, or fuel my living expenses with diesel. From what he says it appears that it is also possible not only to recharge a laptop but to address all the electricity requirements of a household using solar power. But what about the costs involved in designing and restructuring our living space in a manner that would preserve the biodiversity and promote sustainable lifestyle? Spowers does not simply throw statistics at us. When he calculates the cost of this kind of sustainable living and the savings and the profits that can be generated out of it, we can see that the man knows his economics. Sample his narration of the Doc Man’s life style [Chapter 3] and his own attempts at building his domicile in a cost-effective manner. Colin, the doc-man hits the nail on the head when he says that ‘the only way to reverse the situation was to bring economics and ecology back into synergy, to apply ecological truths to our corrupted economic thought and make it beneficial not only to all human beings, but all forms of life.”And this remains the effort of Spowers. Combining ecological and economical sense in designing a sustainable lifestyle. The best thing about the book is that it is not just mere narration, but narration backed with research, experiences and most importantly, a tinge of humour. And when it ends, you have the ‘highlighting of the horrors of our predicament with respect to various apects of our life’ along with the ‘initiatives, projects and technologies that give us a cause for hope.’ And it was this section which caught the interest of my curious mind which was in search of knowledge about the fuel consumption by vehicles, genetically modified food, the effects of pesticides, the impact of the pharmaceutical industry, so on and so forth. Here Spowers blows apart many myths about the role played by the developing technologies in creating a sustainable and peaceful life. According to him, they seem to be directed only along the capitalistic lines and the generation of profits with scant regard to environment. He does manage to make his point here. The final solution apparently seems to be in education. Right type of education which would enable us to be informed beings living in harmony with our environment rather than machines living in isolation. For which the ‘illusion’ of us being separate little selves rather than a ‘manifestation of one universal and absolute self’ has to be removed.It is on this affirmative note that the book ends. One of the quotations used in the book remained in my mind for quite sometime is: "You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete." And to make the existing model obsolete, we need to understand our own roles both as a part of the problems and the solutions. But for that mere concepts, models, and theories alone do not suffice. You need to have your heart in the right place. At the end of this journey of exploration, discovery, challenges, minor/major victories, minor/major defeats, the point really driven home is that there is no problem without a solution. To make the existing model obsolete, you need not only need a new model, but also your heart and mind in the right place. That remains the USP of this book.