If I could do just one near perfect thing I'd be happy

I'm wilfully trapped in a song going in loops. I want to borrow the words and use them. Like a car, sit in them and drive around the feelings surrounding me.

There's a little bit of gloom in the corner of my room, peeking at me from behind the chair. I look away, staring into my computer listening to my song. I pretend to ignore Mr. Gloom frantically waving for a lift. But he lingers in my rear view mirror, in the back of my mind.

It's raining outside and I don't like this weather much. 

Books I've been reading and associated thoughts...

The reason for this post lies with the beginning of my next book: The Hungry Tide. Actually, I was planning on buying this book as a gift for a friend’s birthday and now in retrospect ( 200 odd pages later) it seems I should have opted for this than for two other non English native speaking authors.

After having been swept away by the epic magical fable of Macondo by GGM (yes, I read 100 Years only now! And I wonder why? Maybe it has to do with the fact that LiToC didn’t impress me much when I had borrowed it from a senior in college and had to return it rather abruptly.)  I wondered if Mr. Ghosh would stand up to the mystical village of Macondo. I am a little extra judgemental, critical, cynical of authors of Indian origin. The very few I’ve read have generally tended to write about identity, family ties and culture... largely having been part of the diaspora that experiences these crises frequently. But Ghosh had been impressive through his skilful execution of radically different genres through Calcutta Chromosome, In An Antique Land and Shadow Lines.

I picked up the book yesterday and 200 pages hence I have spent a half my time googling and google map searching the whole Sunderban archipelago. In his afterword he cites the influences and people the story is loosely based on. On googling Annu Jalais my first reaction was that I was looking at Piyali Roy. The short cropped hair, the wiry frame. Just that Piyali Roy in my head is a little shorter than Annu Jalais in the jpeg image. Marichjhapi (I'm making this into a separate post), Francois Bernier and Annu Jalais’s studies are ALL clawing away at my limited attention simultaneously. And the background of the tide country, the delicate relationship between man and his lethal predator all converge together teasing my curiosity into a frenzied madness.

I have been to Sunderbans, a huge family outing on one of the many grand get together that are the hallmark of Bengali families. My uncle, on his once-in-two year visits to India in tow with 3 children and my kakima, is the lead character of these shows, taking it upon himself to force everyone to come for these vacations. My childhood is littered with memories of 18 people crammed into my grandmothers flat making plans simultaneously on where to go and what all can be done; everyone pushing their own agenda. So yes, we once happened to agree upon Sunderbans, and set off on a bus from the city to Gosaba. Other than an accident our bus was involved in, that trip would be remembered for a string of mishaps and of course a tiger sighting claimed by my mother and aunts. We firmly maintained it was a mud covered wolf/dog they had seen, too disappointed to admit that we missed seeing the great and elusive RBT. Otherwise, for me and my cousins those 3 days on a tourism dept. launch/ferry was more of running around mad and occasionally listening to tiger stories from the boatmen.

But now, reading this book and living just a 100 kms away from bhatir-desh (tide country); reading about Francois Bernier, of his travels in this dark corner of the world some 300 years back is just too cruel on my imagination. The thought of it chills my bones, the sense of adventure fills my body. Just like stories (actually fact, rather than fiction) of Heyerdahl’s crossing of the Pacific and Shackleton’s doomed Antartica expedition. Phew... who can dare say that I’m getting older!

Marichjhapi and Havelock (ideally, better read after my post above)

The Marichjhapii incident brings to mind my rather innocent encounter with the refugee rehabilitation travails of our government in the aftermath of independence and the Bangladesh wars. This was when we were in the Andamans last year and at my insistence the parents agreed to stay a couple of nights on Havelock Island. Lately, (2006, not so lately I guess) Havelock has become a fairly well known place after a certain Time magazine issue listed Radhanagar beach on Havelock as one amongst the 10 best beaches in Asia. It takes roughly 2-5 hours from Port Blair on sea to get to Havelock depending on the type of boat/steamer/launch you’re going in.

It’s a tiny island (22 kms in length and less than half that in breadth), which I’d read up about before our trip. So I had the geography of the island in mind, something I like to do before I go to anyplace. I must have a look at a map once at least. Despite all my reading up the biggest shock came when, reaching this tiny island consisting of one village, we realized that the local dialect was Bangal – the east Bengal version of the Bengali I’m used to speaking in Kolkata. In answer to my puzzled looks my father shared what he knew about the rehabilitation programmes set up by the GOI and the state governments to address the refugee migration problems. A large chunk of refugees coming in from Bangladesh were settled into areas around Kolkata and horror of horrors, a certain group was sent off on this island to be rehabilitated! As I read about Marichjhapi and the origin of the settlements in Sunderbans it is difficult to ignore the deep intertwining of caste in our DNAs. The refugee resettlements were guided by this too! High caste/better off people getting lands in around Kolkata to settle in whilst the lower castes sent off to places like Havelock.

Now Havelock, other than two roads and a maybe a handful of shops selling regular fmcg goods is an entirely forested island with at most 30% land cleared up for farming and village life. And this was 2010. Imagine having been uprooted from your homeland, forced to flee to a foreign country and then practically sentenced to a life of complete isolation on a dense forested island 1000 miles from mainland, 3 days by any ship today. Being able to comprehend the local dialect helped in interacting with locals and personal histories were shared. In complete awe I listened to the stories of the current generation relating their grandparents’ adventures in rebuilding their lives again. What I took away from those stories was realising the immeasurable strength of the human resolve. To be left with no choice and overcome a forced undeserved fate, heroically or rather plainly (deprived of my romanticised notions) I cannot say, but overcome it all nevertheless. Today the village on Havelock seems just about as well off as any other village in mainland Bengal. Of course school, hospital is a problem. The lack of easy mobility limits the development of this isolated community in certain ways I’m sure.

Song for the morning.

Not exactly being lazy with the posting but this song just crawled into my head. Sometimes I wake up in the mornings with a song in my head. I wonder if that's one of the many weird things I have. Of course, it's not just songs; paragraphs of prose, descriptions and stories twisted out of fiction I've been reading are all to often part of these morning assemblies like those in school. The charmed life of being on a break.

Love the rough edges to this rendition. The single guitar and the harmonics. Also, Art G's intense looks into the camera towards the end of the video :D. It is indeed, as Paul S puts it, a rather neurotic song. But I like it. I too have an armour of football, books and painting to wear whenever needed. 

She sat pensively, worried about something. Ricardo had no way of knowing what it was that hinged her thoughts away from their lunch. He was ecstatic, he had almost blown away the chance of meeting by suggesting he wasn’t interested in a heavy lunch. He would have eaten the entire animal kingdom, if she was in the mood for heavy lunch. 

It's strange how the memory of that day is etched in Ricardo's mind like he took a photo of the day and put it in his wallet. Midday sun overhead, sea breeze winding through the lanes where their offices were, sunglasses... a lot of people wore sunglasses that day he'd noted. The local carbonated drinks in rainbow colours and a new cuisine were tried out that afternoon. An isolated afternoon in a long summer with days rather indistinguishable from each other. 
May - 2009

I've decided to have Spanish names for my imaginary characters; given my current fascination with the Iberian Peninsula. But it's not exactly current, this fascination. Some of it was put in motion after I saw two back to back movies starring Ricardo Darin and Soledad Villamil (the rest of course comes from the excellent Blaugrana).

Love happened after that and all information on Soledad Villamil was devoured within the next hour. The Secret In Their Eyes is definitely worth a watch; in fact the relationship between Villamil and Darin as a subplot is superbe too.Take a look at this song and try denying Cupid his aim. I don't understand Spanish, just a bit of French which is similar to Spanish, but I thoroughly enjoy the song as if I understand every word she sings!

I step into the balcony I have often mentioned. It’s 3:38 a.m. by the watch. It’s a Fastrack I had bought, one of my early acquisitions from my salary and hence precious. It was from the Titan showroom outside Andheri West. That was where I lost a phone too. Stepped out of the auto and suddenly realised that the phone wasn’t with me. Frantic running around and calling the no.; no response. The crowd had swallowed up an entire auto in 3 minutes. These two events are separated by a whole year. It’s funny how my mind can link up different periods of times together effortlessly, something my writing struggles with. I climb the balcony railing and jump out. I don’t hit the ground. Not the solid cemented pathway, nor the soft mud. Instead I’m reminded of the soft sounds of rain on a night almost half a year ago. And as the memory lingers, I let the memory complete itself savouring the particular pitch of the rain that night half a year ago. I remember the strange shadows cast by the neem tree outside my balcony on my walls from the orange lamps that lit the passage between the two dorms. But most of all I remember feeling an echo of sadness in the rain. And quite suddenly I didn't feel alone. 

- March, 2009

I've decided to start posting some of the stuff saved up on my computer over the last couple of years. I guess I started writing them out as blogposts, or sometimes personal notes. Most are lost, but some I saved up carefully. There are bits of ambitious short stories and sometimes just random lines strung together unfit to be called prose and too embarrassed to even masquerade as poetry. 


Powered by my over enthusiastic imagination, I'd draw parallels from characters and lyrics I'd encounter and forever keep blending my real life into the stuff I'd read/listen to. The primary reason for posting them I think are the memories each piece is associated with. Sometimes what they describe are memoir like and sometimes I can vividly recall the days and weeks that surrounded a particular bit of writing which would mostly be nonsense to a reader. 

Thing is, I'm suddenly back in that semi reality state; completely overpowered by the book I've been reading for a really long time now, having been interrupted by my Himachal mountain biking/cycling trip. It's not bleak by any stretch of imagination (not my Murakami fetish again). It's just a happy story. Quite like my sudden discovery of Belle & Sebastian, who I TOTALLY recommend. I'd need to thank A & D for reinforcing each others views and pushing me towards my 24x7 Belle & Sebastian playlists.

Here's one of many favourites. Describing almost exactly the way summer has been for me. 


Asleep On A Sunbeam.

When the half light makes for a clearer view
Sleep a little more if you want to
But restlessness has siezed me now, it's true
I could watch the dreams flicker in your eyes
Lying here asleep on a sunbeam
I wonder if you realise you fascinate me so

Think about a new destination
If you think you need inspiration
Roll out the map and mark it with a pin
I will follow every direction
Just lace up your shoes while I'm fetching a sleeping bag, a tent...

Another summer's passing by
All I need is somewhere I feel the grass beneath my feet
A walk on sand, a fire I can warm my hands
My joy will be complete

I thought about a new destination
I'm never short of new inspiration
Roll out the map and mark it with a gin
Made my plans to conquer the country
I'm waiting for you to get out of your situation
With your job and with your life

All I need is somewhere I feel the grass beneath my feet
A walk on sand
A fire, I can warm my hands
My joy will be complete.

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.

Himalayan Travels

8 Days, 1060 kms and more (Delhi -Chandigarh - Shimla - Kaza - Manali -Chandigarh - Delhi), HRTC buses on high mountain roads, Kunzum La (4551 ms), Kaza (3565 ms), Rohtang La (3820 ms), Dhankar (3750 ms). Bitter winter weather, moonscape, stars on the horizon, crescent moon sighting at 1 p.m. (post meridian, yes!) over Spiti River.

This is the worst withdrawal I have ever suffered. Hope to put up the travelogue soon.

                                                          Click on the image for details