FLIPPING OVER

Probably I'm late, as usual. Probably everyone of you have already been there and done that.

But I'm just so, so excited about about this on-line bookshop I've just found out about - FLIPKART.COM.

They have the most amazing collection of books that most other bookshops (even my favourite haunts like Landmark and Crossword everywhere) do not have in stock. And they offer you pretty decent discounts! And they'll deliver it home, if home is in India, without any shipping charges!

I managed to track down a whole lot of completely delicious and completely unavailable-elsewhere women detective fiction authors from the 1940s-1960s. Everybody's heard/read/seen/bought/trashed/loved Agatha Christie. Her contemporary, Dorothy Sayers, - more erudite, and, ergo, less popular - graces Crossword/Landmark shelves in her shiny reprinted avatars. But I totally flipped over when I found rows and rows of juicy murder mysteries by Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh (Christie, Sayers, Allingham and Marsh are together revered as the Queens of British Golden Age Crime Fiction), Josephine Tey and Patricia Wentworth! Virtually close enough for me to reach out and touch! Now I can't wait to bite into them!!! And it's great fun just browsing along and adding random favourites to my wishlist!

But if you are completely unmoved by Miss Marple and Miss Silver, Lord Peter Wimsey, Roderick Alleyn, Inspector Grant or Albert Campion and the rest of those ancient genteel-detectives, you can always search and find your own poison!

A site for all bibliophiles to flip over!! I have!

THE BALM OF BOOKS

Things have been rather downbeat lately.

The teachers’ strike has been called off, and we have resumed our classes, but bureaucracy has tied a thick red tape around our salaries and is refusing to release it anytime soon.

The forty days’ strike meant an enormous amount of backlog of syllabus-to-be-completed and tutorial-projects-to-be-corrected which now has to be taken up through hectic lung-busting lectures and tedious hours of red-pen-wielding.

And to top it all, all holidays have been cancelled as we have to ‘compensate’ for the strike period absenteeism. That is fair enough, but it does mean getting up early on holidays, which I absolutely abhor.

So, I definitely need a balm for my overworked brain and going-around-in-circles mind.

And for me, the best balm has always been BOOKS.

Books keep my head out of the water.
Books help me float in the mess of this world.
Books are a place I can go when everything else stresses me out.

Fo a change, this time, I put away my Crime Fiction and my Chick Lit (both are my fave escape-routes), and picked up some serious LITERATURE.

William Golding’s THE SPIRE. Toni Morrison’s TAR BABY.

Both Nobel Prize Winners. But so very different from each other. Golding, a white Brit male, very much in the centre of the world. Morrison, a black American woman, very much a marginalized entity. And they write about diverse worlds and different eras in these books.

But in their insight into and compassion about the human condition, in their moulding of language into a thing of beauty and awe, they are somehow similar.

Nothing uplifts me like good literature. Nothing makes me feel so wide-eyed and thankful and amazed. And I keep on adding to my list of great books.

WHICH BOOK/S LIFT YOU OUT OF THE MUDDLE F THIS WORLD?

NOW WE HAVE THEM ALL

I am a major fan of A A Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh series, with the line illustrations by E H Shepard. (NOT the remixed, dumbed-down, sanctimonious, over-sweet, botoxed and multi-coloured DISNEY version, which is good only for kids and cakes - this year my three-year old had a Pooh cake for her birthday).

I mean the original books, which number only four. Of these, I had managed to get three earlier (Pooh-book hunting adventures recounted earlier in this blog).

Recently, at the Crossword Sale, I found the remaining book, NOW WE ARE SIX, which is a collection of whimsical rhymes about Christopher Robin's childhood, till he reaches the immensely self-important age of six.

There are poems about 'Us Two' (Who else, but Christopher and Pooh), about his golden-sunlit 'Buttercup Days', about fascinating 'Old Sailors' and 'Charcoal Burners', about the wheezles and 'Sneezles' which force you to be bundled in bed, when all you want is to be 'Busy' going round about and round about.

There are poems which will transport you back to when you were six or so, when you had your own special imaginary friend Binker, who was as fond of sweets as you were, and for whom you had to take two sweets, one for you and one for him, and both of which you had to eat (because his teeth were new, or something).

Adorable, delicious and quite quite wonder-full.

THE DOUBLE LIFE OF BOOKS

Books have two lives - a HAPPY LIFE and a SAD LIFE.


When a book has its HAPPY LIFE, it is much in demand, pulled out daily from its alloted place on the bookshelf, flipped through eagerly, dog-eared and remoulded by over-enthusiastic fans, and read over and over (and over and over...) again (sometimes twice/thrice in a single sitting) and getting tattooed with enthusiastic comments in various coloured crayons and pencils by appreciative readers (or listeners, depending on their age - the human's not the book's).


Right now, in our home, a few lucky books are leading the happy life. Topping the popularity polls is PD Eastman's GO , DOG, GO, which the Copy-Kitten has near-memorised and where many of the dogs are decorated with add-on squiggles. Behind the dog-eared dogs, there is a haphazard list of second-bests like a sweet little book called BEEF STEW where Nicky has a surprise visitor for dinner, which is (the dinner, that is) obviously beef stew; the toils of the LITTLE RED HEN who baked and ate the bread all by herself giving nothing to her lazy friends, and some from the very active DICK and JANE series (those children who seem to endlessly jump and run and play and work).


The Lil Cat, too, is fickle with her favourites (as it the feline nature). Her Famous Fives are languishing while Junie B Jones, that funny opinionated little girl, is best book-friends with my elder daughter at the moment, the friendship threatened only by Sophie, the clever, and equally funny, little farm girl created by Dick King-Smith.


Once these favourites are replaced by new ones, these books will retire to their bookshelf-homes to lead THE SAD LIFE, relegated to dust and neglect, with nobody to open them and close them (as the Copy Kitten over-eagerly does, much to the detriment of the bindings of the books), and only the occasional flicker of the dust-cloth reminding them of the touch of little warm hands and grubby fingers.

The good thing is that re-reading is a frequent phenomenon and so the BOOKS have a REVIVAL of the HAPPY LIFE quite often.

AD-VICE and AD - VERSA

I’m the kind of person who watches ads on TV (and reads them in newspapers and magazines) with avid interest.

Recently, two ads for Cadbury’s Chocolates caught my interest, although for totally opposing reasons.

The TVC for Cadbury’s Dairy Milk showing a crowd of people on a railway station intently watching a nail-biting cricket match is really, really funny and bang-on observant:

It pokes fun at our cricket-obsession. Only a sari-clad woman in a tea-stall is unaffected by the match. All the others are glued to the TV, including the seller hawking Dairy Milk bars in a tray – he foolishly, if magnanimously, offers free bars if India wins.

India doesn’t, as happens so very often (in real life, that is). They lose in the very last ball to the unfancied Kenyans. Again, a wonderfully satiric take-off on the irresistible, if irritating, predilection of the Indian team to lose almost-won matches with monotonous regularity.

After the deflating defeat, the crestfallen crowd is cheered by a young boy, determined not to miss out on the free-chocolate offer. He asks the vendor to give the promised treat because “koi toh jeet gaya” (at least somebody has won). Accurate child psychology and karmic philosophy, that.

And finally the hilarious exit lines – the bewildered vendor, finding his chocolates disappearing at an alarmimg rate (Indians love freebies) amidst much cheering and shouting of “Kenya jeet gaya” (Kenya has won - Indians celebrate at any and every excuse), timidly asks “Yeh Kenya hai kidhar?” (Where is this Kenya?). And the self-satisfied, smug-ly ignorant average monkey-capped middleclass Indian (for whom Kenya is a name that rhymes with Babua and his ilk, common nicknames in INDIA) answers, “Idhar hi toh tha…gaya hoga kidhar” (He was here only…must have gone somewhere). Totally brilliantly ridiculously witty.

NOW, can anybody tell me how this same company can come up with the extremely INANE and sick-making ad about their Celebrations range of chocolates, where a precocious young boy offers his sister a box of gift-wrapped chocolates, saying it is a book. And the girl – the ASININE, BIRD-BRAINED TWIT – actually turns down her mouth in disappointment! How SILLY is that? I do realize that many young children do feel that books are useless, but does the ad (and the company, and the agency, and, by extension, the viewer) really have to endorse that view?

I felt so, so disappointed and disgusted, especially since my expectations were raised by the terrific Dairy Milk ad.

AUTORICKSHAW ENCOUNTERS - I

For those of us living in sub-urban Mumbai, autorickshaw-travel is automatic, so to say. And, in my few years in this crazy city, I've had quite a few interesting conversations with autorickshaw-drivers.

One such memorable man had a book-shelf attached behind the driver's seat, displaying various booklets on religion and self-help by a charitable organisation called the Gayatri Sangathan. To cater to the multilingual client-base of his vehicle, the driver had thoughtfully arranged the booklets language-wise: English, Hindi, Marathi and Gujarati.

Impressed by his devotion (to religion and to books) as well as by his marketing initiative, I chatted with him about the organisation, to which he also belonged. And ended up paying four rupees over and above my fare for a copy (in English) of The Law of Karma.

Since most Mumbaikars, at least in my corner of the city, hardly regard reading as worthwhile karma (action), so this driver seemed to be an exception worth remembering.

CREEPY-CRAWLY

Just a while ago, I was watching a re-run of a Tom and Jerry cartoon where, in a rare instance of camaraderie, Tom and Jerry together take care of a crawling baby while the parents are away and the oblivious baby-sitter is chatting on the phone (can anybody tell me why all fictional babysitters are like this, be it here, or in Calvin and Hobbes, or elsewhere?).

I just love the fluidity of motion in the Tom and Jerry shorts, and the baby shown in this particular cartoon is one heck of a smooth mover. It just crawls everywhere – over baby-cots, under carpets, through chutes, into mailboxes, around table-legs, and even underneath a sink full of dirty water. And all this in angelic silence (or devilish determination, depending on your point of view) with a beatific smile pasted on its face.

Reminded me of the times when my li’l cat (the elder one) and the copy-kitten (her younger sister) were in their creepy-crawly stages. Every surface was crawl-able, and every object was put-in-the-mouth-able! They were absolutely unstoppable when awake, till they thankfully fell asleep at the end of another exciting (for them) and exhausting (for me) day. Sure gave me a lot of heart-in-the-mouth moments and grey hairs.

YOURS INTROSPECTIVELY, TAGGED (AGAIN)!

Sukku, the multi-faceted, globe-trotting, corporate honcho who can cook a mean rasam/sambal/omlette, has tagged me with a meme which required some amount of soul-searching and number-crunching. Thanks Sukku, and here goes:

5 Annoying Things (as in things that annoy ME):

The inevitable wait as my obsolete dial-up net connection blinks and flashes and STRUGGLES to open and move from one site to another

Getting mud-splashed by thoughtless cars while going to work during the rainy season

The didn’t-dry-properly smell of clothes inadequately dried under fans on sunless, rainy days

Going to my fourth class of the day with a mouthful of lectures, only to find that the students have run away after the tiffin break

Being refused by autorickshaw drivers when I’m pressed for time.

8 Habits (that I have):

Waking up reasonably early even on holidays (The Pavlov-effect of weekday alarms at 5.30 a.m)

Snacking on sour/sweet stuff in the staffroom when I’m not taking classes

Blogging post-midnight

Sleeping even later

Opening the refrigerator door and wondering what on earth I wanted to take out from there

Packing more clothes (in the suitcase) than I end up wearing (in the holidays)

Buying loads of stuff that is on sale to ‘stock up on kitchen-essentials’ (my kitchen is a hoarder’s delight)

Working best under pressure (which I self-create by leaving many things for the proverbial last minute)

6 Quirks (of Myself):

I always play Microsoft Solitaire when I open my PC before moving to worthier pursuits

I always carry two bags when I go out

I compulsively straighten bedcovers which are not laid neatly

I love to sprinkle salt on my cola

I cannot stand the sight of unwashed utensils in the kitchen sink piled untidily and always pile them neatly or wash them immediately

I always read books when I’m eating out alone.

That’s it. A whole lot of info about I-Me-Myself. Please feel free to help yourself to this meme if you want to dig deep into yourself. I enjoyed the self-dissection and the dissertation!

TEN TAGGED CHARACTERS, STANDING ON THE WALL…

Thanks to Mystic Margarita, the many characters who leap off the pages of books and take up residence in my head and heart, now have a reason to display themselves. And so here are ten random characters I have long-loved, straight off my memory-wall:

Hercule Poirot: Agatha Christie is one author I never get tired of re-reading and I just adore the pompous and poised Poirot – from his egg-shaped head with the genius grey-cells, to his shiny-patent shoes; from the dapper-waxed moustache to the heart which conceals a sneaky fondness for robust, overdressed femme fatales.

Rhett Butler: Another hirsute hero, though with a completely different appeal. Since Mystic Margarita has appropriated Heathcliff, I lay quick claim to Rhett – his swagger, his swarthy-manliness and his persistent passion for the fiesty Scarlett. The impact on my swooning senses was all the stronger because of Clark Gable’s dashing portrayal – it was the first time I realized that mustaches could be so sexy!

Bridget Jones: Totally feckless, totally madcap-romantic, obsessed with weight-issues, and a wholly freaky-funny peril-prone thirty-something damsel like you and me. What’s not to love? And to top it all, she gets to bed and wed a reincarnated Darcy (another fave-figure appropriated by Mystic…Gaaah!)

Precious Ramotswe: The founder of the No.1 Ladies Detective Agency – the first of its kind in sunny-sinful Botswana. I love her weight (she is ‘traditionally built’) and her wisdom (she solves her cases through observation, intuition, common sense aided by endless cups of bush tea and by diligently referring to her detection-guide-bible) and her wide, all-encompassing, placid acceptance of life.

Karna: The Mahabharata’s anti-hero is my favourite underdog: forever strong, unshakably brave, fiercely loyal, but always dealt a cruel hand by the Fates. I cannot stand Arjun, Righteousness’s poster-boy, and I always root for Karna, although he is Fortune’s eyesore and always at the wrong place at the wrong time – right down to his death when his chariot wheel gets stuck in the battlefield.

Seymour: Seymour was the unnamed narrator’s elder brother in J D Salinger’s short story, Seymour: An Introduction. He had an enormous impact on his brother’s (and my) psyche and he killed himself almost before (or because?) he was thirty. Way out!

Charlie Brown: It’s impossible not to love the round-headed kid, eternally optimistic at baseball, eternally incapable of expressing his feelings to the red-haired girl, and eternally heckled by the crabby Lucy and by his kid-sister. I chose him over Calvin (him and his tiger Hobbes), because I’m a sucker for wistful losers!

King Lear: Another loser who has impacted me greatly (sorry for the irreverence in placing him next to Peanuts). Lear’s impetuosity, his royal arrogance and ignorance, his very human foibles and hamartia, his ability to forgive, accept and embrace and his free-fall into unplumbed depths of suffering – this is the only Shakespearean play which ACTUALLY moves me to tears.

Harry Potter: I’m unashamedly Potter-maniacal. Brave and balanced but not boring, smart and sensible but not smart-alecky, I loved the whole trajectory of his growth through the seven Potter-books. And he is not a loser. He is the boy who lives. And wins.

Winnie-the-Pooh: So what if he’s not human? I love the Bear of Little Brain and the Big Stomach always rumbling for honey. I love his winsome-ness and his wonder-at-such-simple-things and his whole-new-perspective-on-things. Once he entered Rabbit’s hole, ate too much honey and got stuck while coming out of the hole. That’s the way he is, forever stuck in my heart.

This list can actually go on and on and on…Thanks MM. Anybody who wishes to make their own list, please consider yourself tagged. The pleasure of reading will be mine.

I'M TAGGED...AND THRILLED TO A T!

This is the first time I've ever been tagged and, obviously, I'm totally thrilled...like Alice when she entered the magic garden of flowers!

Mystic Margarita has tagged me and I owe her big-time, because this is a tag that I've seen on some other blogs and had wished that I could also play this tag-game.
Ok, here are the rules:
Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you .

The funny thing is, I always sit with a book when I'm using the Internet, simply because net traffic moves so slowly (I have a pre-historic dial-up connection) that I always reach for the book when I'm caught in a net-traffic-jam (while it's loading, I'm reading).

At present I'm reading Dorothy L Sayers' Have His Carcase starring her adorable, aristocratic, amateur- sleuth, Lord Peter Wimsey and his will-she-marry-me detective-novelist girlfriend, Harriet Vane. Most of us have read or heard about the popular Agatha Christie, D L Sayers was her contemporary crime-fiction writer in the Golden Age (Inter-war Britain). Her novels are much more allusive and erudite (and so, less popular), Wimsey is quirky, self-deprecating, well-read and very, very amusing. The plots are convoluted (as they should be), the setting is always vividly re-created and the Wimsey-Vane relationship is a working-comedy-of-manners.

Though the sentences I'm posting (from Page 123, sixth sentence onwards) sadly do not demonstrate Sayers' wit, tag-rules are rules. Here's Inspector Umpelty (I just love the name, don't you?) detailing the mysterious actions of the murder-victim, Paul Alexis, (a few days prior to his murder) to Lord Peter Wimsey (another delightful name!):

"To cut a long story short, they went to the Seahampton branch of the London & Westminister and got the O.K on the notes, after which Bennett handed over the gold and Alexis took it away in a leather hand-bag. And that's all there to it. But we've checked up the dates with the bank-people, and it's quite clear that Alexis drew his money out here for the purpose of changing it to gold as soon as ever he saw the account of Ann Bennett's death in the papers."

Now, doesn't that fill you with suspense - WHY and WHAT HAPPENED NEXT? As I've not finished the book yet (my pagemark's on Page 252), I don't know the answers myself.

To finish my tag-task, I'm tagging
sidhubaba
nancy
scatterbrain
jyotsana
sayani
Happy reading!

TAGORE AND THE TALENTED BENGALI

Today is Pochisey Baisakh (the 25th day of Baisakh month in the Bengali calendar), and Bengalis all over the world are probably celebrating Rabindra-Jayanti, the birth-anniversary of Rabindranath Tagore, the unchallenged Colossus of Bengali culture.

Little girls in plaits and pleated saris will sing Rabindrasangeet (Tagore’s songs) and dance with lissome, undulating (if un-athletic) movements (Rabindranitya). Little boys, chafing in uncomfortable kurta-pajamas (or dhotis) will recite lisping poems from SHISHU (The Child). Their suddenly-self-conscious parents will clear their throats and launch into reinditions of songs, poems, or verse-plays from the prolific output of the Gurudev (Spiritual Father), accompanied by the tabla and the harmonium. The chief guest will place the mandatory garland-of-white-blossoms on the framed portrait of the white-bearded, visionary-eyed, loose-robed gentleman. The boredom of listening to his (the chief-guest’s) long bhason (speech) about the ‘importance of Kabiguru (Poet-prophet-teacher) in Bengali life and culture’ will be somewhat mitigated by the tantalizing aroma of frying luchis (a preparation of refined flour) and alurdom (curried potatoes). Finally, having gorged on food and culture, everybody will return home, criticising the performance of the neighbour’s son/daughter (“Ki aar emon gaye” – no great shakes) and praising their own offspring (“Ki darun aabriti korlo, aamar toh chokhey jal eshey giyechhilo” – his recitation brought tears to my eyes) in true Bengali spirit.

But such obvious (and sometimes odious) panegyrics aside, Tagore is present in the Bengali’s life and self-fashioning in subliminal, sub-conscious, all-encompassing ways. All Bengalis will proudly declare to the rest of the world that Rabindranath Tagore was the FIRST Indian to receive the Nobel Prize (For literature, for his book of poems – GITANJALI - Song Offerings). The Bengali holds his head high during the national anthem, Jana gana mana adhinayak jaya hey (Hail the ruler of the hearts and minds of the people), because Tagore penned it. Each Bengali has his own individual relationship with Tagore’s poems and songs (the bearded-bespectacled-Bengali-intellectual has an almost proprietory relationship with Tagore’s novels, plays and paintings as well).

Most Bengalis grow up force-fed on his songs. That is not to say that they do not like it. When I was young, my father would often, in the evenings, open the battered blue-bound family-copy of GITABITAN (a collection of Tagore’s songs) and randomly sing songs in his untrained-but-melodious baritone and we would all join in at will; Didia (my cousin) would hum a few notes and I would amateurishly dance my self-choreographed dances.

Now, with my daughters, I am going through the rich legacy Tagore has left for children, the simple-but-graded stories and the lyrical nuanced poems of SAHAJ PATH (Easy Reader). I share their wonder at:
“Kal chhilo dal khali,
Aaj phuley jaye bhorey;
Bol dekhi tui maali,
Hoy shey kemon korey?”

("Yesterday’s bare branches
Are today in full flower;
Can you tell me, O gardener,
Who wroughts this strange power?") – Imperfect translation by me.

Each Bengali grows up with his own memories of Tagore. His lyrics-of-many-moods comfort us, cheer us, make us weep, sustain us through the seasons of joy and sorrow, hope and despair. All nostalgia-haunted-Bengalis, separated from home and childhood-friends by time or distance, have sung (or lip-synched or listened to) “Purano shei diner katha bhulbi kirey haye (How can we forget those old days…)”. My aunt had once told me (when I was dismissive of Tagore as overly-sentimental and old-fashioned), that as we grew older, the relevance of Tagore would increase. How true she was! Now in my thirties, though I still have a lot of uncharted Tagore-territory to travel, and though I still do not agree with a lot of his opinions and emotions, in my heart the bond has grown stronger.

LITTLE GOLDEN DISCOVERIES

I have recently discovered the Little Golden Book stories for children. My daughters and I have read together half-a-dozen of these classic reprints by Random House. Most of the books were first published in the 1940s/50s/60s and, charmingly, retain the original illustrations and the original delightfulness.

We have sailed down the stream (almost into the sea) with Scuffy the Tugboat, gone for a walk up and down hills with The Poky Little Puppy, felt happy-sad-happy like The Saggy Baggy Elephant, got our bruises bandaged by Doctor Dan, the Bandage Man and slurped over the ice-creams delivered by The Good Humor Man. So many decades later, the stories remain as enjoyable, truly golden in their unchanged appeal.

But my particular favourite (my elder one liked the ice-cream story best, while the younger one loved the doggy book) is the Seven Little Postmen, written by the reassuringly-named Margaret Wise Brown. This lovely little book took us along the journey (for me a rediscovery, for my daughters a slice of history) of a letter-with-a-secret-message written by a little boy to his lonely-waiting-for-his-visit grandma. This red-wax-sealed letter travels through the hands of the seven postmen, from the mailbox to the BIG Post Office (where it is franked and sorted into a brown mail bag), travelling in mail vans and airplanes and trains, down country lanes and through the tiny village post office and is finally, at last, delivered to the waiting hands and eager eyes of his granny. CAN YOU GUESS THE SECRET MESSAGE IT CONTAINS?

Such a wonderful way of sharing with my daughters the almost-lost process of letter-writing-posting-delivering-receiving!

A BENGALI LESSON IN TIMIDITY

I have started a much-awaited task this month - that of teaching my elder daughter the basics of the Bengali script. At school she learns English and Hindi, so we decided that it was time for home-lessons in her mother-tongue (which she speaks at home, and has also started to read now).
To teach her, I fell back on the age-old primer, Barna Parichay, the favourite introduction to the Bengali language written in the nineteenth-century by Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar (and read by generations of Bengalis - my parents and myself included).
Although Vidyasagar (his name literally means 'sea of knowledge') was a remarkably courageous man and a pioneering social reformer, re-reading his book with my daughter gave me a few insights on why the typical Bengali bhadralok (gentlemen - and women) are regarded as timid, cautious-about-health-and-weather and scared-of-catching-a-cold.
In his lessons in Barna Parichay, Vidyasagar cautions in the same breath : "kakhono michha katha kahio na (do not lie)" and "roder samay daura-dauri korio na (do not run about in the sun)." Then again, he warns incipient naughty children, "tumi douria jao keno, poria jaibe (why are you running, you will fall down)".
As a piece de resistance, the final lesson contrasts the life of a good boy,Gopal (who revises his lessons, never fights with others, and always eats what his parents give him - I should be so lucky!) with that of a bad boy, Rakhal (who enjoys nothing more than a good fight or a good rough-and-tumble game and who apparently manages to lose four sets of schoolbooks in a month - not that he reads any of it, anyway). Obviously, the subodh balak (good boy) is excessively loved (otishoy bhalobashen) by his parents.
No wonder, Bengalis are deemed to excessively love their iconic monkey-caps and umbrellas, especially at the first hint of cold or cloud. Umbrellas, of course, are a must-have outdoor accessory, come rain or shine.
Bengalis also love arguments but abhor fisticuffs, being content to shout "maar, maar shaalake (hit him, hit the rascal)" from the sidelines of any streetfight. And all self-respecting, brought-up-on-Barnaparichay Bengali babus (gentlemen) will diligently shun any work which might take them out under the hot sun.
Lessons learnt at their mother's knee, with a little help from Vidyasagar?

UNACCUSTOMED EARTH

I have just finished reading Jhumpa Lahiri's new book, Unaccustomed Earth. I chose the same title for my blog because the world she writes about - the globe-trotting, non-resident Bengalis living in the United States with their hyphenated identities - is not my accustomed world. I have never been outside India: I have never lived through the hopes and pains of those Bengali people who settle abroad, though I have friends who have done so.
I like the way the stories grow out of the metaphysical quote at the beginnning, which says that human migration is like plants growing in new soil. The stories are also about growing - siblings growing up and then growing apart (Only Goodness), growing old (Unaccustomed Earth), growing apart within a marriage (A Choice of Accommodations), growing close outside a marriage (Going Ashore).
The people in the stories belong to three generations. The older set are first generation non-resident Indians, married to fellow-Bengalis through arranged marriages, never feeling the passion of love for their spouse but growing into a sort of companionship through age and shared struggle and loneliness. The younger set are the Bengalis who have grown up in the US, who do not share their parents' nostalgia but have to undergo their own physical and mental journeys and adjustments in their own marriages/relationships, usually to white Americans. Lahiri taps her own and her parents' histories well. There is also the third generation, children born of these mixed marriages, as yet too young to understand the pulls and tugs of multiculturalism, as yet inhabiting the present only, as yet coccooned in their physicality.
The people in the stories are restless, searching for nameless, elusive things. They travel a lot - across continents, into their past, into old memories, to new terrains. They find love in bits and parts - and this love is taken away, either by death (Going Ashore), or by deception and distance (Nobody's Business).
The material comfort, the professional success masks the undefinable void lurking within the characters. This fractured hell-heaven existence is Lahiri's accustomed earth and she uses a mature, sparse style (with only a few necessary poetic flourishes) to paint its bittersweet colours.

SOPHIE'S BESTSELLA

OK, I admit it. Sophie Kinsella is not intellectual, not highbrow, definitely not LITERATURE (unless you are doing a course in Popular Fiction). If literature is food for the soul (twisting Shakespeare's quote on music), then Kinsella is very definitely junkfood. But she definitely packs in that carbs-kick, the cola-fizz. She is very popular (read: bestseller lists), and she is very, very fictional (read: fantastic rom-coms).
She is also my secret guilty pleasure. I am completely addicted to her books, and have read (and re-read and bought) all her books. I have just finished (in a feverishly-page-turning rush) reading her latest joyride, REMEMBER ME?. I love her SHOPAHOLIC series-heroine Becky Bloomwood (whose head is completely turned by the brand-vanity-fair and who is a credit-card junkie but whose heart is always in the right place), Emma Corrigan (whose life is a book opened by her own big mouth) in CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?, and Samantha Sweeting, the 148-IQ-lawyer who chucks her high-flying job to end up in the arms of her constant gardener and becomes THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS.
Kinsella's books are cheeky/cheesy chicklit at their fluffiest . The heroines are all Bridget Jones-type not-too-bright everywomen, with workplace-woes, mother/sibling-issues, gang of galpals, and a loser boyfriend (REMEMBER ME's Lexi Smart actually has a boyfriend called Loser Dave), who they ditch (or vice-versa) only to land up in the arms of dishy, perfectly-imperfect (and rich) dreamboats. In the course of the roller-coaster narrative, after teetering on the edge of professional disaster (and often falling into workplace humiliation), they also manage to land up with interesting careers where they really shine. Very 21st century fairy-tale-ish. Very improbable-in-real-life. Very, very rapidly readable-irresistable.
Like all chicklit heroines, Kinsella's women remind us of ourselves. They often get the wrong end of the stick, they bitch about their nasty bosses, they slack off at work, they indulge in retail therapy, they have having-it-all-in-technicolour dreams... don't we all? In Kinsella, these dreams come true. Of course, it is all gimmicky and cliched and trite. But it's FUN.
I am completely hooked to this down-downer-downest-up-uppest love//career journey. So, why did I say "GUILTY pleasure"? Because as a college-teacher/Eng. Lit. student, I am expected to be on a strict classics-and-highbrow-stuff-only diet. And although I like to stimulate my brain with 'the right kind of books', I can't help sneaking in for no-brainer treats from the Kinsella-candy store.
To atone for my lapse of taste, I think I should write a suitably-incomprehensible 'paper' critiquing Kinsella. Like how her overt consumerism is a multi-level marketing strategy (from blatant brand-dropping within the text to the air-brushed author- photo on the inside cover). Like how her heroines commoditise intangible values (they trade their goodheartedness in the job/marriage market to earn tangible rewards). Like how the Cinderella-discourses parallel Kinsella's own metamorphosis from financial journalist-nonentity to bestselling author-celebrity (the know-the-author blurb on the book jacket is the ultimate chicklit fantasy-come-true). Like how all this critical-hyphenated hypertext is a load of bull.
Read Kinsella with a warning: "Keep Your Brains Behind". And then enjoy the ride. Read for yourself (if you haven't already) and tell me how you find her.

GIFT-WRAPPED IN BROWN PAPER

Today I spent three mundane-magical hours covering my elder daughter's newly-acquired schoolbooks and notebooks in brown paper.
Shiny, plastic-coated brown paper, fresh off the roll. My daughters helped and hindered - taking away the scissors, sticking the cellotape all over their fingers, allowing me to stick the labels only after I uttered a frequently-changed "password" (which I kept forgetting).
As I busily cut and folded the paper, trying to shape the edges and corners neatly, the brown paper turned to sepia in my eyes. Sepia-tinted with memories.
When I was young, my brother and I loved this annual rite of passage to a new class. The crisp smell and bright colours of the new books , tantalisingly hidden under the brown covers, invited hours of exploration. Writing our names on the precisely-pasted labels gave an unmatched thrill of possession.
I saw the same thrill on my daughter's face today. Exploring and possessing - the age-old human instincts.
And so a chore became an adventure for both of us.

REQUIEM FOR A BOOKSHOP

It was an ill-advised business decision. The western suburbs of Mumbai do not take kindly to bookshops. Here, the only books most people read are self-help books (or chequebooks). Spending money on books is regarded as a frivolous waste of money.
Even the name could not save it. Shree Ganesh Bookshop, named after the god of business who was also the scribe of The Mahabharata, was 'positioned' to fail. In the heart of Kandivili's Thakur Complex, I came across it when it was being set up by its mild-mannered owner. I was its first customer, so the owner informed me, handing me a sacred piece of coconut and a peda. I purchased some storybooks for my daughters at throwaway prices (although the books were new), and an old edition of PEOPLE magazine, documenting Oscar fashions down the years. A collector's item for Rs 100!
Over the next few months, I would often treat myself to a sudden visit to the bookshop. Whenever I would visit my daughter's school, which was nearby. Whenever I had some ice-cream from the next-door Natural's outlet (a double treat - books + food!). It was not an ordinary bookshop. The books (and the huge variety of magazines) were all by foreign publishers; new but often scruffed. I wondered whether they were smuggled/contraband goods, or discarded by the publishers for some reason. The mystery of the transit-history of the books was enhanced by the physical adventure of actually finding ones that I liked. It was a back-breaking treasure hunt to dig around in the narrow shelves and unpacked crates in that cramped space.
Here are some of my 'finds', all at ridiculously inexpensive prices:

• Mixed-up Fairy Tales - a DIY mix-and-match book for children where it is great fun to find the correct/jumbled-up sequence in the fairytales.
• Treasury for Children - a collection of heart-warmingly illustrated animal tales by James Herriot, who was a vet.
• a Parragon illustrated encyclopedia of World History - very useful and succint.
• the very well-written, superbly illustrated-and-produced Orchard Series, on Greek Myths, Viking Stories (for my elder daughter) and Nursery Rhymes (for the younger one).
• a Book of Virtues, where well-known children's folk-and-fairy tales are used to exemplify a human virtue (for my niece).
• two not-so-critically-acclaimed-but readable-nonetheless books by Salman Rushdie: Shame and The Ground Beneath Her Feet (for me and the spouse).
• many many brightly-coloured, boldly-lettered, age-appropriate books as gifts for the children whose birthdays we regularly attend (one of the occupational hazards of motherhood).

These books will remain, some with me, some in the houses and hearts of other people. But the quaintly-named bookshop has closed down. The ruefully-smiling owner took my phone number, promising to inform me of the new address when they re-opened. He hasn't kept his promise.

In always-moving Mumbai, not many people had the time (or inclination) to browse and buy from Shree Ganesh Bookshop.

R.I.P.

POOH TO YOU ALL

A few days back, on one of our regular hunts at a second-hand bookstall near our house, my husband discovered a copy of The House at Pooh Corner by A A Milne. We have the first book of the series, Winnie-The-Pooh, and I had searched and searched for the other three. I was absolutely thrilled to buy this treasure for Rs 30 and I devoured it as soon as my elder daughter finished reading the book. Winnie-the-Pooh, the Bear of Very Little Brain, his human friend Christopher Robin, and their various other oddball friends like Piglet, Eeyore, Tigger, Rabbit, Owl, Kanga and Roo, inhabit a world (the Hundred Acre Wood) where normal concepts of space, time and causality are all suspended. Not a single question gets a predictable answer, yet the animals all behave true-to-type. It is like an alternate reality which gives us insights into many human traits. Most of all, they are funny and nostalgic and make you a child again. The books always bring bring a smile on my face and a lump in my throat. The Disney-fication of Pooh and his friends have made the characters brightly-painted one-dimensional goody-two-shoes. The orginal books are much more interesting, including the quirky illustrations (by E H Shepard) and spellings. If anybody can tell me where to get the other two books (When We Were Very Young and Now We Are Six), I shall be eternally grateful.