I've been tempted to write for many days now, but as always sometimes a little fear and sometimes hyperactivity have conspired to keep me from all my attempts. Often my mind has taken flight and left behind all that I wanted to write about, unattended and lost!
I've been home for some time now. Blessed with the good fortune of having won some Rs. 3500 worth of Crossword coupons, I treated myself to 2 days of grand shopping. It’s interesting to see how store staff become overtly friendly after you purchase books worth Rs. 2000 despite stinking of alcohol at 2 p.m. in the afternoon with a half empty bottle of rum stuffed into your jeans. And that too, in presumably snobbiest locality a Crossword could be in; Bandra W. Of course, being the pro of midday drunken splurging, I conducted myself with enviable grace. The truly charming Mr. Drunk.
My first book, heavily recommended by V, was the Tin Drum. And true to what all my friends (other than V) told me, it was a tough read. Frankly speaking, I plodded through most of it. But I think I’ll be re-reading parts of it. My reaction to both this book and Midnight’s Children is similar to a certain extent. There are passages that have just blown me over, catching me completely unexpected after long drawn passages I’ve been skimming over. Some passages so complexly beautiful that I find myself lost trying to determine which thread to follow. Like maybe sitting in front of a 100 member orchestra and wondering which instrument to focus on. Which performer to track and assign the amazingly beautiful composition turned up by the orchestra as a whole. My mind trying to simplify the complicated interplay of words, emotions, colours, sounds churned up in a single sentence and absolutely unable to grapple with the staggering problem at hand. Maybe that’s the kind of writing one should aspire for I tell myself, tired after reading all these passages, making a note of the page no.s for reading up later.
And right now I’m reading Paul Auster who was discovered over a humid 2 months of summer in Bombay at A’s place. The Murakami-esque bizarre stories – the New York Trilogy, the first book I read made a strong impression. The current book I’m reading is very average to say the least, atleast till now. And especially in the backdrop of a giant like Grass, Auster’s writing doesn’t seem like it’s even trying to attempt to play catch up. But even then I like the easy read the book is. The breezy pace with which it runs, even if there is talk of death and a funeral and there is sadness in the pages, maybe I’m glad it isn’t the overpowering gut wrenching sadness with which Mr. Grass or HM would strike me. With authors like them, it’s not easy reading the book. It becomes so real that it actually becomes a physical sensation. Gripping you physically and tearing you up from the inside. Of course, that firm grip doesn't reduce my admiration for them. If anything the ability to write like that puts those authors beyond any conceivable form of praise I can assign to them. Like slippery accomplished fish they evade every net of praise I may try to ever weave.
I’m beginning to enjoy home now. Essentially, I’m settling into a routine. And I am quite a man of routine, once I find things to do. Of course, there is also a certain amount of unrest... Ulysees like I long to start travelling again. Of course people at home (no Telemachus or Penelope here) seem eager that I be off since my lazing around the house is not welcome after 2 weeks. I have used up my quota of being treated as a guest. So to make peace for everyone, my plans for travel have also been made. A North Sikkim trek and by a cycling trip in the Himalaya subsequently. I guess I’m infinitely lucky to have the time for all this travelling. Going through the computer I found a word file chronicling my travels in ’09. Haven’t done that for ’10, though I did manage to travel much more last year than before; and that too to some of the most exotic places I’ll be going to in a long time. Andamans and the valleys of Spiti and Pin which as per some geological records were the floor of the Tethys Sea eons ago!
I’m tempted to travel to Zanskar. And I’m unendingly amazed by these firangs who always manage to travel to the remotest of places in our country way before we even woke up to the prospect of travelling to these places. I came upon a site by a Brit who travelled through Zanskar in the early 90’s! I mean we weren’t even an open economy then! The sepia tinted pictures are the best part of his net-travelogue. Seem to have lost the link to the page. Will post when I find it again.
I've been home for some time now. Blessed with the good fortune of having won some Rs. 3500 worth of Crossword coupons, I treated myself to 2 days of grand shopping. It’s interesting to see how store staff become overtly friendly after you purchase books worth Rs. 2000 despite stinking of alcohol at 2 p.m. in the afternoon with a half empty bottle of rum stuffed into your jeans. And that too, in presumably snobbiest locality a Crossword could be in; Bandra W. Of course, being the pro of midday drunken splurging, I conducted myself with enviable grace. The truly charming Mr. Drunk.
My first book, heavily recommended by V, was the Tin Drum. And true to what all my friends (other than V) told me, it was a tough read. Frankly speaking, I plodded through most of it. But I think I’ll be re-reading parts of it. My reaction to both this book and Midnight’s Children is similar to a certain extent. There are passages that have just blown me over, catching me completely unexpected after long drawn passages I’ve been skimming over. Some passages so complexly beautiful that I find myself lost trying to determine which thread to follow. Like maybe sitting in front of a 100 member orchestra and wondering which instrument to focus on. Which performer to track and assign the amazingly beautiful composition turned up by the orchestra as a whole. My mind trying to simplify the complicated interplay of words, emotions, colours, sounds churned up in a single sentence and absolutely unable to grapple with the staggering problem at hand. Maybe that’s the kind of writing one should aspire for I tell myself, tired after reading all these passages, making a note of the page no.s for reading up later.
And right now I’m reading Paul Auster who was discovered over a humid 2 months of summer in Bombay at A’s place. The Murakami-esque bizarre stories – the New York Trilogy, the first book I read made a strong impression. The current book I’m reading is very average to say the least, atleast till now. And especially in the backdrop of a giant like Grass, Auster’s writing doesn’t seem like it’s even trying to attempt to play catch up. But even then I like the easy read the book is. The breezy pace with which it runs, even if there is talk of death and a funeral and there is sadness in the pages, maybe I’m glad it isn’t the overpowering gut wrenching sadness with which Mr. Grass or HM would strike me. With authors like them, it’s not easy reading the book. It becomes so real that it actually becomes a physical sensation. Gripping you physically and tearing you up from the inside. Of course, that firm grip doesn't reduce my admiration for them. If anything the ability to write like that puts those authors beyond any conceivable form of praise I can assign to them. Like slippery accomplished fish they evade every net of praise I may try to ever weave.
I’m beginning to enjoy home now. Essentially, I’m settling into a routine. And I am quite a man of routine, once I find things to do. Of course, there is also a certain amount of unrest... Ulysees like I long to start travelling again. Of course people at home (no Telemachus or Penelope here) seem eager that I be off since my lazing around the house is not welcome after 2 weeks. I have used up my quota of being treated as a guest. So to make peace for everyone, my plans for travel have also been made. A North Sikkim trek and by a cycling trip in the Himalaya subsequently. I guess I’m infinitely lucky to have the time for all this travelling. Going through the computer I found a word file chronicling my travels in ’09. Haven’t done that for ’10, though I did manage to travel much more last year than before; and that too to some of the most exotic places I’ll be going to in a long time. Andamans and the valleys of Spiti and Pin which as per some geological records were the floor of the Tethys Sea eons ago!
I’m tempted to travel to Zanskar. And I’m unendingly amazed by these firangs who always manage to travel to the remotest of places in our country way before we even woke up to the prospect of travelling to these places. I came upon a site by a Brit who travelled through Zanskar in the early 90’s! I mean we weren’t even an open economy then! The sepia tinted pictures are the best part of his net-travelogue. Seem to have lost the link to the page. Will post when I find it again.
