Well…Well…Well! If It Isn’t A Coincidence!

Last week, I picked up a book at the biggest bookshop I have seen in the UAE, the Kinokuniya book shop at Dubai Mall. I had felt guilty picking up a book exactly after a week of having blown 2Cs at the newly opened Borders in Sharjah City Centre. When I read the synopsis, I was intrigued by the background of the story – a publishing house. ‘Lost For Words’ by Loreiei Mathias promised to be a routine chicklit romance…yet I paid a good Dhs. 25 for it…And I must say, it was worth every fil of that quarter C. It was humourous, had human, normal characters and gave me great insight into what goes on inside publishing houses…

But what intrigued me most was that the book introduced me to a new word – ‘Moleskine’… I didn’t look up the word as there was sufficient explanation in the book as to what a Moleskine is and of course, reference to Chatwin, Hemmingway and Van Gogh… The book kept me engrossed till the last paragraph and only after I had closed it with a satiated sigh, did I let that word start nibbling at my curiosity. Funnily though, my 2000 edition of Oxford Dictionary did not have the word (though it had Molotov Cocktail) and as usual I had to turn to Google for help. Google is my Agony Aunt cum Jeeves cum Man Friday… and like all the million times in the past two years, Google didn’t fail me. There it was - 6,680,000 sites on all kinds of Moleskines and their connection to Chatwin, Hemmingway and Van Gogh… Wish I had one, I murmured to myself as I read through a good half a dozen sites.

I wallow neck deep sometimes in delusions… Like the time we visited St. Marguerite’s Beach in Dover and Sai Prasad showed us the beach where Ian Fleming used to sit and write… And I fancied myself doing the same… may be near Bhadra river or Shankhumukham Beach… Like Mungerilaal I saw my haseen sapna that like Hemmingway or Chatwin, I’ll carry a Moleskine and jot down all flashes of inspiration and recollect them like Wordsworth in moments of creative tranquility!

Then… three days back we went to Borders to pick up some gift for someone, and lo! Near the payment counter I saw a whole shelf displaying Moleskines of various sizes! I gasped in surprise! I touched them… fondled them… inspected them…wondered when I would be able to buy one. The basest of them cost a good Dhs. 45, and what with the palling gloom of recession and the noble cause of cutting down expenses, I wondered whether I should give in to such fancy… all the time marveling at the wonderful coincidence of it all…

Coincidences! When I was in my teens, my dad had once told me about what he calls the Theory of Coincidence. He told a disbelieving budding reader like me that if I come across a new word, chances are that, within 48 hours, I shall come across the word again. To prove that his theory was cockeyed I started keeping watch on all the new words I came across and was amazed to see that it was true. In fact, I hadn’t even been sure of the word ‘coincidence’ at that time and I remember coming across the word in a Barbara Cartland I was reading secretly!

Later in life, I had told this to my class of Grade 9 students and sure enough a couple of them came back to me saying that it had worked for them too…

And this afternoon, as I was surfing the channels I zeroed in on Star Movies which was about to start a Russel Crowe movie called ‘a good season’ and as I saw the first scene a sense of déjà vu blanketed me… I have seen this movie before, I told myself… Where and when I did not remember… It is about a street smart stock broker Max Skinner who inherits his uncle’s vineyard in France and it is my kind of movie…

As I watched it, it dawned on me… I had watched it last year during our flight from France to Rome. I had seen only the first half of it…and I think in French or with French subtitles interrupting my understanding of the conversations… and as I watched with wonder and delight, I got another jolt of surprise. There’s this scene where Russel Crowe goes through his uncle’s Moleskine recording his memoirs… A slim black bound Moleskine, with a black ribbon bookmark and an elastic band around it, filled with closely written italic hand…

Well…Well…Well! I said to myself… If it isn’t a coincidence…a ruddy coincidence!
Now, recession or no recession, I must buy myself one from Borders…It is something beyond coincidence….it is destiny! Sigh! And fill its pages with creative inputs…like Chatwin, Hemmingway, Van Gogh…and soon…Yours Truly!

SLEEP…BABY…SLEEP!

A woman needn’t be taught how to hold a baby… an instinct tells her what to do. There’s another thing all women do. Sing their babies to sleep. A woman may not claim to be musically accomplished… She may never dare to sing (even in bathrooms) but when she carries her baby in her arms and rocks him/her to sleep, she starts singing lullabies. No one teaches her before marriage or during confinement about how to sing her baby to sleep. Yet, she gets this magical power to mesmerize, soothe and comfort her baby.

There is something so magical and beautiful about these lullabies. The crankiest of babies will settle down to crooning. The most beautiful lullaby I have heard is one without any words. I heard it as a child when my Mom used to rock my baby brother or sister in their ‘dooli’ or ‘thooli’ cradle made by folding and tying an old cotton saree. The tying of the ‘dooli’ itself is an art…perfected by generations of grandmothers and mothers. I used to feel scared seeing the baby in the cloth cradle… What if the knots come undone? What if the baby crawls out ( heh…heh….paranoia about one’s infants is another legacy of mothers ) What if the baby falls out when people rock it to and fro? Mere fears… the baby oblivious to all my fears would be transported to the land of Somnolence thanks to the rhythmic movement and the soft crooning.

The simplest of these magical songs that calms a cranky and sleepy baby is a wordless humming. It is a monotonous series of humming… Every unit of humming has 4 parts to it. One for when you swing it away with the flick of the wrist, one for the inward flick which swings the baby towards the mother , the third when it swings away again and the fourth when it swings back.
The first humming ascends in tone, the second, descends, the third is like the the first and the fourth has a tone of finality… so it goes, mmmmmm- mmmmmm- mmmmmm- mmmm ! mmmmmm- mmmmmm- mmmmmm- mmmm ! mmmmmm- mmmmmm- mmmmmm- mmmm ! The ‘thooli’ swinging to and fro the soothing tone of the mother almost hynotising the baby to sleep.

There is a famous folklore in Malayalam about a king who was playing a chess game finds himself in a tricky position and the queen who sits behind the curtains sings and gives him a clue in the form of a lullaby… She sings ‘undundoo… undundoo… undundoo….undundoo….undundooo…undundoo… AaLe undu! Roughly translated it means “move your pawn”…

For the Malayalees all over the world the most popular lullaby is ‘Omana Thingal Kidaavo’ composed by Irayimman Thampi as a lullaby for the royal prince Swathi Thirunal… I read in a blog sometime back that in Tamil all the lullabies are addressed to boys and not girls… Well… never paid attention to that. I normally associate lullabies with infants or babies- terms which are not gender-bound or sexist. But come to think of it, a good many ( can any one think of any sung for a girl-baby specifically?) ones are religious in tone…

I have listened to English lullabies like “Sleep Baby Sleep” and “Hush Little Baby” but more with academic interest than with any intention of using them…

I love the Bollywood lullabies… They have such soothing effect on me… and calm me down… bring tears to the eyes and lumps to the throat…

Remember the priceless gems Hindi films have given us… Like “ Nanhi Kalee Sone Chalee Hawa Dheere Aana...”
“ Dheere se aajare akhiyan mein nindiya aajaare aaja”, “Mein gaoo thum so jao…” and more recent ones like “ Yashoda ka Nandlaala….” and “ Surmayi akhiyon mein nanha munna ek sapnaa dekha hai” …

A Telugu movie song starting “ Vadapatra Sai ki varahala lali” is a beautiful rendition. The Priya sisters sing a special trademark song “ Laalee” in their concerts which also clogs the throat and moistens the eyes whenever I listen… My husband used to sing Something in Kannada for my twins…” Jo…Jo… Balakrishna…which I could never learn because I feel moved when I hear it…

I love the old lullabies from Malayalam films like “ P. Susheela’s “Paattupaadi uRakkaam njyan thaamarappoompaidale” , “Omana thingalil onam pirakkumbol…”, Kannum Pootiyurangu ga neeyen” by P.Leela, “ Oonjalaa…OOonjala” , “ Omana thingal Pakshi”, malar Kodi pole… and Omanathingal Kidavo (S. Janaki in Ithiri Poove Chuvanna Poove)…

But in spite of knowing all these songs, I used to sing old Hindi filmy hits and some favourite Classical Carnatic songs to croon my babies to sleep. They used to listen to my rendition of “Karpagavalli nin porpadangal” , a long ragamalika and “Naanoru Vilayaattu Bommayaa”. At the end of both the songs, they will open an eye and say “Kappalli” and I’d start off again… It will go on and on till some days, I fall asleep… Otherwise it ued to be a long medley of songs starting with “Pyaar hua Ikraar Hua… Aaja sanam Madhur Chandini mein hum…. Yeh Raat bheegi Bheegi….Ramaya Vastaavayya… Dam Bhar jo udhar Moo … and go on to Devanand hits and then Dilip Kumar songs… all songs from old AL Mansoor Video Casettes we used to borrow from the club while living in an Indian Project Camp in Iraq… All …Dard Bhare Geet, Bhoole Bisre Geet and whatnot! But they needed songs to sleep… Now a days, they stuff the ear phones into their ears for falling asleep listen to noisy stuff which I can hardly comprehend or enjoy... but each to his own, I guess!

I thought humming and crooning to put your baby to sleep is passé. But surprisingly, I found RP’s cousin in UK ( with whom we stayed) who is the youngest of our generation was humming away gloriously…like only mothers can, while soothing her baby to sleep.

Some things will never change…
Thank God for that!

REST IN PEACE

‘Dey, Sriram… Naan Shaththenna neenga vaikunda samaaraadhanai annikku vera onnum pannavendaam… ellarumaa shendu cards velayaadinaale podum, naan sorgathukku poyiduven!’

Rukku Athai’s words made me burst into laughter. That was typical of her! She wants me to organize a card session on the thirteenth day of her death instead of performing the religious rites?

I knew the words had tumbled out of her loose dentures in a fit of frustration. In the past fortnight we had been playing rummy whenever we found free time. Rummy was a passion in our family. Probably generations of kids picked it up from their mothers’ wombs… and cut their teeth on frayed playing cards… Whoever generated the joke about the cardshark’s child counting ….8,9,10,J,Q,K,A… must have done a research on our family’s addiction to the game. Not for us, the grandiosity of Bridge… Nor for us, the speculative suspense of ‘Flash’… We didn’t ever want to lose our tempers with the thrilling ‘Trumps’…or ‘Twenty-eight’… We were not hardcore gamblers… for our soul’s satisfaction sessions after sessions of Rummy sufficed.

That doesn’t mean we played for fun only… we did have stakes… very nominal ones so that the womenfolk of the family need not drain their ‘Swiss Accounts’ if they lost out on a day’s session…Well… I need not worry about that because the womenfolk were very shrewd players especially my mother and my aunts…And, I must say that the real maestro in the field …er…at the table… was my grandmother. Her expertise at playing used to baffle me initially and I used to think that she was a cardshark… till I started watching and studying her game. She took risks, she had phenomenal memory about who took what card and which cards were in demand… All she had to do was call a card, say a joker, and it would come to her! She had what we others never had - Lady Luck dancing to her tunes!

Grandma’s luck was Rukku Athai’s nemesis. Rukku Athai, grandma’s naathanar
( sister in law) too had a passion for the game, but her matches were hampered by over-ambition…Also, She could never manage to hold cards in one hand… Each sequence or set she would tuck inside the folds of her saree; cards would often fall from her stiff arthritic fingers and she is famous for throwing away jokers… In short, she almost never won! Sometimes out of frustration I have caught her cheat while counting the points… but somehow, I never ratted on her… She, as the regular loser, earned my sympathy rather than ire.

She would try desperate measures like changing places with the winner… Starting a new account…I even suspected that she prayed to her Gods to give her a winning streak… What can poor Gods do? She never believed in scooting a game. Insisted on playing every single hand she got, however ‘unplayable’ it was… and ended up giving full hands!

I could understand her frustration… “ Adukkennaa Athe, Jamaaichchuppudarom!” I consoled her and was glared at by my Mom who was dealing the cards. I mean, I didn’t mean to insult her… But my mom is like that. Initially she used to frown at me if I joined their sessions. “No kids allowed” she’d say in a voice that brooked no resistance. I’d meekly retire behind Paati (grandma) and imbibe her techniques. It was only after my graduation and that too when I confessed to mom that many study holidays at the hostel had been spent in honing my Rummy skills rather than in Error Coding or Optical Systems Design, that she had resigned to the fact that Genes meant business in this family and gave in. Thus,my initiation as the youngest member of card player had happened. Maybe, Rukku Athai thought, she’d have better prospects of winning with a greenhorn like me around, but she soon found out that I did justice to my stock… she carried on as the resident loser.

Well, what astuteness Athai lacked in Rummy, she used in concocting perfect meals, especially the traditional dishes that I am so fond of. After the session when I tucked into her ‘piece de resistance’ Kollau Rasam and Usili, I remarked like a satiated gourmand, “Athai, for this kollu rasam and usili only, I’ll hold a marathon card session from your Paththu* ( Tenth day ceremonies) to Vaikunda samaaraadhanai’*!
(Thirteenth Day rites) I got a ‘kizhukku’* ( knock) on my head from my mother’s knuckles for that, something she had not dealt since my Primary School days and I howled in anger rubbing the spot that throbbed, thanks to her knuckles landing in such an ‘unmotherly’ manner! But I didn’t leave the table like I would have fifteen years ago… I meant to enjoy another course of those patented dishes…


*******************


I entered the house that teemed with silent people. Rukku Atahi had passed away. When I saw my sister’s SMS, I had immediately applied for a week’s leave. My project leader wasn’t too pleased, but I cared two hoots for his displeasure. Family came first…job was secondary! But when the TL told me my job would not be secondary but non existent when I returned, I had to resort to second thoughts. Finally, negotiations ended in the offer of a week’s holiday provided I completed my bit of the project in 48 hours. Folks back home turned out to be more understanding … naturally… they didn’t have deadlines…er…pardon the pun…to hold on to.

Thus I reached home two days after Rukku Athai left for her Heavenly Abode as Thatha ( Grandpa) had put in the Hindu obituary section. I found all family members going about their duties like poker players… not revealing their grief and waxing philosophical about how she had had a peaceful end.

“ I hope she doesn’t rope in Yamadharma raja and Chithraguptan to play rummy with her,” I said invoking my sister’s guffaw and was shushed by my mother.

“ Don’t speak ill of the poor departed soul,” she admonished me, as she handed me the customary tumbler of coffee, though I could see laughter sparkling in her eyes.

Around mid day, there was discussion about the obsequies. One thing I must admit, the Tam Brahm penchant for long drawn rituals start right when one is in the womb
( Seemantham) and is extended till he is safely sent to his Heavenly abode ( Vaikunta Samaradhanai). All rites must be performed under the guidance of a priest, and families like ours have their resident priest or ‘Aathu Vadhyar’ who decides the Whats, Whens and the Hows.

It is unheard of for pipsqueaks to speak up when the adults in the family discuss grave matters (again, no pun intended) but as usual I blurted out my proposal when Kadukkai Vadhyar, our archbishop, presided over the quorum that assembled to discuss the strategy and campaign for turning Late Rukku Athai from ‘pretha to pitru’( ghost to ancestor). My words shattered the babel of proposers and there was deathly silence.

“Go inside!” whispered mom urgently, on seeing my father’s face, prodding me none too gently on my ribs. “Don’t talk rubbish in front of elders.”

“That’s okay, Gayathri,” said Thatha. He has always been my advocate in my tussles with my ironfisted (I rub my head as I say this) mom. I place my proposal in front of Kadukkai Vadhyar. Now, don’t laugh at the nickname of the priest. It was my Chithappa ( paternal uncle) who had given him that monicker. As a three year old he had been fascinated by the ear rings sported by the vadhyar – the ones called ‘kadukkan’ but he had said ‘kadukkai’ instead- the Tamil word for Galnut - and the misnomer had stuck in the family circles.

I stray… I explained to Kadukkai Vadhyar how Rukku Athai had instructed me to ensure that she will be properly mourned by her kith and kin.
“ But it is unheard of… Our shastras will not condone such heretic acts,” said Vadhyar. I stood my ground. I had had 32 hours on board the Rajdhani Express to Google out on my laptop excerpts from Garuda Purana and instances vindicating my plans to Requiescat In Pace, my grand Athai. Oh, I forgot to tell you, she’s not really my Athai…but my father’s.

Reluctantly Kadukkai Shastrigal acceded, provided he was there to witness the rituals. ‘He did not intend to be cheated out of his fees,’ I told my sister later. My father was visibly upset by the turn of events, but surprisingly, my Thatha was calm and so daddy-mine had to keep his anger in leash. After all, we were going to help Thatha’s only sister reunite with his ancestors. My father then demanded that these idiosyncrasies be carried out away from our hometown where tongues would wag and we decided on Gokarnam as our venue.

“Athai, darling! I am going to fulfill your last wishes” I whispered to her garlanded portrait as I held it on our way to Gokarnam.

x x x x x x

Everything went ritualistically till Kadukkai declared “Now I need someone on whom I will do the ‘aavaahanam’ of the late soul.” Everyone looked at me. I was a bit reluctant. Fulfilling the last desire of a person was gung-ho but invoking that person’s soul into me was something I hadn’t reckoned with. But backing out meant losing the battle of will I was waging with my parents, so I volunteered, albeit a slight tremor inside me somewhere.
“But I won’t wear any sari,” I attempted to be flippant and didn’t like that glint in my sister’s eyes.

With great solemnity we all gathered in a circle. I sat there at the head of the invisible card table, with Rukku Athai’s favourite mustard and red checked Kanjeevaram draped around me like a cape. Surprisingly, Kadukkai had joined the players ( it seems, the performer of tharpanams and aayushhomams rode on his hobby horse called Rummy, occasionally!)

Well… the guy must have really invoked Rukku Athai into me, for I kept losing every hand. In great alarm, I realized that I was playing like her, taking risks… dropping jokers… doing faulty shows, while others were winning and grinning at my discomfiture. After the fourth full hand, I just glanced at her portrait and found that she was glaring at me.
“Ayyo! I can’t do this!” I yelled and flinging away the sari, got to my feet!

******************

“Ennadaa? Ennaachchu? ( What happened? ) Someone was shaking me. I opened my eyes. Rukku Athai stood in front of me holding out a cup of tea.

“Ayyo! Athai neenga sethupogallayaa?” ( You didn’t die?) I blurted out, stupefied.

“ Appane! I won’t die so soon… I must at least win a few sessions before I will give up ghost. Drink your tea and come to my room. We are starting a new session till evening tiffin time, “she said laughingly, ruffling my hair.

Gulping down my tea, I followed the octagenarian with a sheepish grin, three packs of cards in my hands. I hope I can rest in peace after everyone pulls my leg about this dream! I blame it all on that overdose of that Kollu rasam and Usili! My greed will be the death of me, pardon my pun!

MY DAILY MORNING WALK IN MY BLOGOSPHERES

People who look at me hardly believe it when I tell them I go walking every morning… Understandable, when I hardly leave the confines of my home. But, I do go along a familiar route every day. I stop like Robert frost, by the woods ( every morning , though ) and tell myself, I know whose woods are these…

I enter each one’s gates and savour the refreshing air in their garden… sometimes there are new blossoms… sometimes, the garden is in neglect… but the ritual has become a compulsive habit for me.

My route in blogspot takes me first to Ammani’s home… Ammani, who is the most creative writer of quick tales I have ever come across… I stumbled into her foodblog while googling for a recipe and unearthed a treasure chest of inspiration, talent and creativity. Her blog is my raison d’etre as a blogger. I started writing in her various interesting contests in her comments section … Ammani still remains my favourite…

My next trot is to Shoefiend’s. She is a close friend of Ammani’s and another great creator of tales. I was fascinated by her handle: ‘ my other shoes are manolos’… Ammani and Shoefiend are creative complementaries to each other…

From there I trot fast to ‘Ageless Bonding’ Usha. Usha is one intelligent woman and she writes beautifully on contemporary issues and of course personal rambles… I need to check in on her daily and enjoy the fragrance of her latest blog, which rejuvenates me, before dashing away to Anitha Murthy.

Anitha Murthy, another Bangalore blogger ( like Usha ) is a dedicated writer of fiction. Her short stories and novelettes are fascinating… but what I enjoyed the most in her garden were her Nonsense Rhymes and Six Degrees… Though I could do justice to Six Degrees, I could not create anything like her nonsense verses… They are sparkling gems… Her handle ‘Thought Raker’ is just apt for her!

From her place, I visit Hiphop Grandma… who is just that…. Very hip-hop. I can identify with her, as she is a teacher… a lecturer… whose blogs on her students and her own son are real life experiences…

Then I look in on shyam, a spunky young girl who speaks her mind and whose comments on current issues are so refreshingly candid that it is a pleasure to go through… I find myself nodding fiercely as I read her.

Now I peep into the garden of ponnarasi to see if anything has sprouted there… But she is also becoming an erratic blogger…

My next stopovers are quick ones… short soujorns to Chitraiyer, Boo’s Baby Talk and Madmomma… then a peep into Mahadevan’s compound, ganagjal’s , Mumbai girl’s, phoenix’s and Pisasu’s… Like Wee Willy Winkie… I go peeping in to as many gardens as possible…

I used to trespass, I guess, into some gardens like Akkare’s and Flotsam Jetsam’s enjoying all their orchids… but recently they have erected electric fences around their gardens, and access is denied to the occasional visitor like me… I need to get a Gate Pass …but I have not got around to that…

Sometimes, again like Robert Frost, I stand at the fork of Ammani’s or Usha’s blogsite and ponder…” Should I take a road not taken and explore new lovely new paths that lead from theirs…or should I stick to the familiarity of my regular blog-route? Like him I know the new path will lead me away from my normal route…each new diversion created by intriguing handles beckoning me to explore them…till I never return…
Yet, like Frost, I decide to take the road not taken and am delighted by new discoveries of talented writers…with amazing creativity and expression… and I sigh at the end of such a trek realizing what Frost meant when he wrote,

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”


I rarely let any of these people except Ammani know that I have visited them. Does that make me a tresspasser? I don’t know… I don’t trample on the beds, I don’t pluck their flowers to adorn my own home, I don’t leave foot marks behind… I enjoy their intellect… their creativity… There was a time when I was a resident in their neighbourhood… but it was as though someone had thrown an invisibility cloak on me which I just could not throw off… Not many knew that I even existed in that part of the blogosphere… May be my pseudonym put them off… I was random a4isms…
( concocted just after a brief liaison with Dan Brown… all codes… which fizzled out!) So I struggled like a larva inside the chrysalis, I struggled to break free and find my wings and flutter into freedom of expression where I will find admirers…

And I did… I shifted to a new neighbourhood called Sulekha and the rest is history… sorry… ‘Her Story’ – of recognition, instant gratification, of short term celebrityhood on getting featured, of fan mails and communication with the friendly neighbourhood boys and girls…

It is like a botanical garden with a wide variety of Flora and Fauna… Only, there’s no way I can pick a regular route. I peep, I peer…. I wander… I loiter… I stop by a small wood… stoop to smell a couple of roses.. I walk on in a haphazard manner… I can not chart a course… regular route? Not Possible. This is a democratic public garden… Anyone has access… and you can access anywhere…too many sightseers for your comfort. Till recently, even tresspassers were rampant in this garden of Eden - those poachers with their Copy Paste Electric saws. Felling and carrying away trees so painstakingly nurtured by others… compulsive kleptomaniacs with fingers itching to pluck flowers that blossom in someone’s corner…

The caretakers of the garden do let the visitors know of new blossoms, of their favourite kind… But it would be nice if residents like me can decide to stop by a cedar or a cherryblossom, a daffodil or a mighty oak, every morning and since I am allowed to, leave a couple of footprints around the beds and the soft earth that nourishes creative life!
That may involve more renovation inside the Botanical Garden… Anyway, the winds of change have been blowing inside the garden… Who knows? May be my words will be carried by these winds to the greenhouse where it will get preferential treatment and germinate as new facilities in individual dashboards… like the April Showers that bring May flowers…

My Reading Suffers Due to Blogical Interference

I have become a very erratic and undisciplined reader… Earlier I used to take a book and finish it… Today, I am reading 4 to 5 books at a time… absurd, isn’t it? Impossible? No!

I am currently reading Paulo Coelho’s ‘Like a Flowing River’, Shashi Tharoor’s ‘Bookless in Baghdad’ and ‘The Elephant, the Tiger and the Cell Phone’, Bill Bryson’s ‘Thunderbolt Kid’ and the ‘Chicken Soup for the African American Soul.’

And I am equally involved in all the books, enjoying every word that I read… At times I wonder why I have become like this. In the past, I used to finish books in single sittings. Or in straight shifts… in a week or less depending on the ‘unputdownableness’ of the book concerned. Like a Dan Brown… or the book by Sydney Sheldon called ‘Are You Afraid of the Dark’ which I finished in a reading marathon of six hours…. Or any of the Rowling sagas…

There was a time in my teen years when I used to devour book after book by Mills & Boons publications… But today, I start on a romance and within a few minutes with snorts of disgust and impatience toss it away and reach for a more serious read.

Obviously, I have changed… I can’t blame the books… books are eternal… humans and their whims and fancies ephimeral… Has age killed the romantic in me? No… because I read an Irish best seller by Sarah Webb. It was romantic… but it was also humourous, about people with whom I could identify… So obviously I enjoyed it.

So what is it about Paulo Coelho that I can identify myself with? My aunt is a fan of Coelho. I have access to his books in my favourite secondhand book shop… but I had never bothered to pick him off the shelf… But suddenly I get myself a copy of his reflections on life and his writings… like a compilation of his blogs… and I savour every word of his…including his fervent catholic sentiments…

Tharoor is a favourite… but both the books I have mentioned above are collections of essays published in newspapers and magazines…The diplomat and the writer in him are equally impressive. Bryson’s Thunderbolt Kid is more interesting than his other books, I feel…as I perceive in this book, an America of the 50’s… that seems to be full of genuine people… a country that has not yet started masquerading as world police…

I have half a dozen books untouched, still smelling brand new a V. S Naipaul, another Tharoor, a set of Richard Gordons, Musn’t Grumble by Joe Bennett, Marley and Me and Hills of Angheri by Kaveri Nambeesan. I don’t know when I will get round to finishing all these… for these days I seem to be buying books faster than reading them.

I miss reading books in Malayalam and Tamil. For these, I have to wait till I join my Mom. She is my reservoire of vernacular reads. Every year, when I visit her, she’ll have saved for me a few good books in Malayalam and Tamil which I finish during my visit of carry away with me… to be savoured at leisure. Only, my Tamil reading speed is pathetic. I finished a novel she had torn out of Ananda Vikatan or Kumudam and bound for me called ‘ Enge En Kannan’ in fifteen days… Absurd! When in that time I would have read five books in English or Malayalam.

My handicap with Tamil is mainly because I never read the language when I was young. I knew the Tamil alphabet but that was that. I was exposed to Malayalam books at school and college libraries. In fact, the maximum number of Malayalam books, I have read were during the two years I spent in Thiruvananthapuram for my post graduation… I was put up in YWCA while pursuing my Masters in English Language and Literature at the Institute of English and my friends were pursuing their Masters in Malayalam … Those two years exposed me to the best in Malayalam literature… Besides, a class-fellow of mine was the son of an eminent Malayalam writer and this sparked off a curiosity in me about him and I borrowed volumes from the university library…. though much of his kind of writing was not my cup of tea at the time.
I can read Kannada fairly well…. Though I have not bothered to read short stories or novels in the language… again, due to lack of self-motivation!

Tamil, Malayalam or English, reading is like breathing for me. I feel I shall die the day I am unable to read…

When I analyze why my reading has become erratic, I can find only one scapegoat… Blogging! I keep straying to the PC to check status quos and latest posts and comments, tossing my book aside. In fact, blogging has created in me an ‘attention deficit disorder syndrome’… Am metamorphosing into a butterfly, flitting from blog to blog… It is immature to pass the buck like this… but my behavioural changes seem to have occurred in the last couple of years… and it needs no psychiatrist to confirm my obsessive behaviour when it comes to blogging!

The counter-argument is that blogging is also reading of another kind… and when I read works of the same blogger, it is like reading chapters of a book… Some consolation eh?

But then, I hate e-books. I don’t enjoy staring onto the monitor screen while reading a book. Scrolling the page is a nightmare compared a fluid motion like turning a page. And flipping back a few pages to re read some point or some passage is more satisfying than manipulating the pages on monitor screen!

No! Books shall never be replaced by e-books… or blogs… Of course, blog posts may get compiled into books…
So… my problem is caused by blogical interference… But there’s hope… I know that blogs are just for instant gratification… Books, long spells in paradise!