A surprising Monday....managing to pack in a lunch and a movie, in between visits to an ENT surgeon, a general surgeon, a dentist and an X Ray lab.

Onno Kothao, Onno Konokhane

Ahhh..finally a long over-due uninterrupted blogging break..thanks to a half an hour delay in my flight schedule. Now I can finally get around to typing out the post that I started writing on pen and paper, and so it follows:
I have had a very hectic week at work which is nearly snapping at my mental energy level. I have been continuously on travel since Monday, packing in more than 10 hours of work days, in the company of a senior medical doctor who is sometimes forgets that there are people in his team other than HIMSELF. However, I don't deny that being part of a government health programme evaluation team has its advantages. In fact all the 'mai-baap' attitude put on display since our arrival on Monday morning is quite heady-along with the white ambi with stickers in front telling the world who we are,the obsequious smiles on the faces of the people around us, the air of expectation that hangs around the people we meet, the attention that our impromptu meetings in villages draw, the doors to the highest officials in the district opening magically..in fact its quite easy to understand the lure of a sarkari job in India. Who wouldn't love the attention, the best of all creature comforts that sarkari money can buy, the options of making some easy money on the side?
But I digress. The reason why I had this sudden urge to put pen on paper during a meeting with rural health workers is the emotional disconnect that I am currently feeling with the job at hand. I think I am mentally fatigued. My mind, always used to being stretched like an elastic to give more than hundred percent in my job, is finally rebelling. Therefore the meeting sees me pretending to write down the minutes, whereas I am furiously scribbling away, writing something else altogether. All that consumes my mind is where else would I like to be. And my mind throws up a prompt answer. Far away from here. Somewhere where the sky is blue, the sun shines bright, the pine-scented air blows across, and there is always the magic of the white mountains on the horizon. There. Where I can reach people but no one can reach me, me with my long walks through the wooded paths, waking up to birds chirping, and falling asleep in the balcony reading 'The Kindly Ones'. Yes, that's where I would like to be..not here, not here.

I have never been heavier than I am right now at almost 60 kgs, which is about 5-6 kgs heavier than what I ought to be. I have never had a problem with my weight before, and therefore dealing with this is unchartered territory. Of course I know what the answer to that is: to get up early in the morning and go for at least long walks sustained at a furious pace. But even the prospect of an approaching lifetime being over-weight is not enough to motivate me to give up on one pleasure of life that I still cling to: waking up late in the morning, postponing the beginning of the day till it can't be ignored any longer, the feel of the soft duvet against my skin on cold winter mornings..

Leaving..

Finally I can breathe easy. At least my desperation to get myself out of the professional rut that had swallowed me for the last one year will not cloud my mind anymore. The feeling that I was a mere footnote in the running of the organisation and that I was not doing justice to my capabilities by sticking on may now be a thing of the past. Why I say 'may' is because like all things in life, I am also treading into the new job territory softly. Since I live most of my life in a heightened state of awareness about what the future may bring, I do not throw myself headlong into any new experience without also thinking of the ways in which it can go wrong. Is this pessimism? I do not know. But this is certainly a defense mechanism that I have built up around myself just to ensure that my heart is that much safe if the dream breaks up ever.

Another gem I came across on a friend's post:

Not nothing (by Erich Fried)

without you
but not the same

Not nothing
without you
but perhaps less

Not nothing
but less
and less

Perhaps not nothing
without you
but not much more

Weekends are the time for coupling and warm embrace, and emotional disconnect from the rest of the world.

Sometimes I need to get used to my own insignificance.
"... At most I am a heavy and clumsy pestle
Mashing good and bad together
For a little taste
And a little fragrance.
Arrows do not direct me. I conduct
My business carefully and quietly
Like a long will that began to be written
The moment I was born.
Now I stand at the side of the street
Weary, leaning on a parking meter.
I can stand here for nothing, free.
I'm not a car, I'm a person,
A (wo) man-god, a god-(wo) man
Whose days are numbered.”

Love After Love: Derek Walcott

Just saw this poem on a friend's page on Facebook and connected with it instantly. How often do we forget to value ourselves, swayed over by our love for others.

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

I now have a mellower view of people who have stayed exactly where they started. It's not that they didn't want to leave. It's just that nobody was willing to have them.

I am counting hours, waiting for Friday evening. I look forward to spending the weekend doing nothing. Maybe just curling up with the as-yet-unopened Puja Barshikis that Maa and Baba brought with them from Cal. And maybe, just maybe, brushing up on my French lessons. And what about having some biriyani? And to top of it off with ice-cream with brownies? Ahhh..what bliss!

Frankfurt on the last day was kinda cool. Though I was obsessing over the fact that I had mis-planned my whole trip and that I should have stayed one more day in Berlin so that I could pay a visit to Sachsenhausen, which has a Concentration Camp Memorial, the last day turned out pretty ok. One of the great big advantages of traveling alone is that you are forced to make new friends, and so that is how I contacted AK, who's a friend of a friend of mine I went to college with. AK, a PhD degree holder in Physics from Oxford now lives and works in Frankfurt. The advantages of going sight-seeing with a local guy is that he'll know about obscure details like which shop stocks the cheapest German chocolates, the kind I want to know when I am travelling to Europe. So AK picked me up from my hostel and we roamed around the city for quite a while, went on a cruise on Main river which has some awesome views of the city riverfront, and finally had some German dinner: a highpoint certainly, thinking that it was my first turkey dish!
What I loved about Frankfurt (and this is true in general about European cities) is how they have maintained their heritage with the lovely old buildings that were rebuilt after the war in exactly the same style, the cobbled roads which have not been concretised, the squeaky-clean statues which are free from bird-shit, colorful trams that made me feel sad for the rickety ones back in Calcutta, lots of museums and open-spaces that had a happy feel about that, not the feeling of neglected, dark buildings which nobody bothered to visit in India. Oh and the river. Very tough anti-pollution laws in place that nobody dares to break by bribing the authorities. A clean river that brings much beauty to the city, lined with tree-shaded roads where I could see people jogging, cycling or walking even in that cold weather. A scene that onec again brough back unhappy memories of the Yamuna in Delhi and the Ganga in Cal, rivers nearly choking in its own filth, slowly dying, unloved and uncared for.

I saw this in a post and I thought it resonated so much with what is true about my life, so I am posting it here:
how old you are
is all the years spent
wishing, waiting, hoping, praying

how young you are
is all the years spent
living

How young I am and how old!

Goodbye Berlin

Ok so I am finally back in Frankfurt, and I leave for home on the 5th. But my adventures in Berlin must be written down, especially since my hostel gives me free internet.
Yesterday started off on a bad note. I was supposed to go to the Hildesheim station with this other Indian presenter, and I was like 5 minutes late. And when I came down what did I find? That he'd already left! I couldn't believe that. I went up all the way to his room and kept knocking, thinking that he was late. I wanted to catch the train to hannover at 6.40 am and wasted at least 10 precious minutes in trying to trace him. I was lucky enough to have the housekeeper in the kitchen at 6 am and she very kindly offered to call for a cab and that's how I reached the station at 6.10.
And then began the next drama. The ticket vending machine was in German, and I didn't understand how the English version worked. Caught hold of the very next man I could see who clicked some buttons and then professed his utter ignorance of English. Asked another man who looked like a janitor who took me upstairs to a cubicle where two girls sat with very stern expressions (Germans don't laugh easily I have noticed), who told me very politely that though they could speak English they couldn't help me in buying tickets. All this when the clock was ticking towards 6.40. Came down again and again approached two men, one of whom spoke English. Both were reeking of alcohol but with my panic I was beyond caring. They kept shuttling me back and forth between two machines, and finally I ended up buying a ticket for Hannover and not for Berlin. This was just 5 minutes before the train came onto the platform.
Reached Hannover at 7.05 am and rushed to buy another ticket to Berlin. Well, didn't really rush, much as I wanted to. I dragged myself and the suitcase (which put on weight especially when I was lugging it around)down to where the ticket counter was, from where I learnt that the next train to Berlin was leaving in exactly 4 minutes. I nearly died of breathlessness as I rushed back upstairs again to catch the U Bahn. As I reached the train, I found that I was just not able to breathe anymore. The young guy behind me very sweetly offered to pull my suitcase up. 7.21 am:on my way to Berlin finally.
Ok now Berlin has many stations, and being guided by another woman I got down a station ahead of Berlin HBF which was my main destination. So I had to get onto another train which finally reached Berlin at 9.30 am. Now I had to find a place for keeping my bags. Rushed to the policemen (bless them..they have saved me on a few occasions), who very kindly accompanied me to the luggage room. Jumped on a train to the Zoo station at 9.40 am and managed to reach the starting point for the Insiders' Walking tour of Berlin at 10.
The next 5 hours were a maze of walking through East Berlin, through the Museum Island, Checkpoint Charlie, remains of the Berlin Wall, memories of the Third Reich scattered everywhere, and finally a stop in front of the Brandenburg Gate just in time for the German Reunification celebrations. Didn't get my wish fulfilled of getting a pic clicked in front of the Wall. Guess it has to wait for a next time.
And if I had nursed thoughts of going back easily to the main station, God must have laughed cruelly. I found myself crushed between a sea of people, got caught in wrong directions and kept going around in circles, since the Brandenburg station was closed due to the celebrations. I was close to tears, nothing was running in that part of the city, when finally an angel appeared in the guise of an English speaker who advised me to walk down to Potsdam Platz station. I walked for at least 2-3 kilometres, got lost again, nearly took U Bahn instead of S Bahn again, before finally being rescued by two girls who showed me where the Platz U Bhan was.
At Potsdam Platz I found a tiny bit of the wall still left standing so I requested a very distinguished looking man with salt and pepper hair (the kind that Clooney has, and the kind that turns me on) to click a photo which he very happily obliged and even volunteered to take one more. Feeling happy I reached the U Bahn, got lost again, and spoke to various people, including the Police, and felt like a shuttle cock before I finally boarded the right train to Berlin. Oh and I was pushed by what looked like a group of neo-nazis..the ones with punk look, and green and pink hair. Landed at Berlin HBF at 6. What relief!! Nearly wanted to fall on my knees and thank the God above for ending my ordeals. Had a burger in Macdonalds, my only meal of the day before I picked up my luggage again. Of course the ticketing machine wouldn't take my money there and I caused a mini-riot inside the locker because I misunderstood the man's wild hand-gestures and thought I would have to bring my bags back myself. Found a lot of shouting and 4 men rushing in my directions, before I realised my mistake.
Anyways, reached back Frankfurt at 11 pm. No more surprises on the way, and it was all peaceful. Whew..what a day it was!

So is this what my life has come down to? Working day in and day out throughout Pujo? Grrrrrrr

I have installed a software for counting the no of visitors who come to my blog. I do not know why I did that. Maybe I wanted to be sure of what I always suspect: that no one visits my blog. But then it's been a miserable one week after I put the software up. The loneliness and the sheer 'unreadness' of my blog gets too much on my face with the visitor locator. I think I am going to do away with it.

More misery on the workfront: I finish my wonderful and relaxing 6 months Africa sojourn soon and come back to the usual uncertainties which have plagued my work-life for the last 6 years and which I just can't seem to get rid of.

Anywhere but here

So Pujo is almost here. And for the second year in a row, I will not be in Cal. No matter where else you are in the world, pujo just doesn't feel the same if you are not in Cal. And how does one even begin to explain what pujo means in Calcutta? I have been in Bombay during Ganesh Chaturthi and in Delhi during Diwali, but none of these festivals (admittedly with their own charms) can even capture what pujo means to a Bong born and brought up in Cal. I remember when I was studying in Bombay, I had a large number of Bong batch mates and off we went, dressed in our sarees to the BARC pujo right next door. We stood in the line for the pulao bhog and missed many classes that day, but we just didn’t want to come back leaving the sight of the goddess, the sound of the dhak, the scent of crisp tant sarees, and the twinkling of all the jewelry. After Bombay, which boasts of one of the biggest pujos outside Cal, I shifted to Goa where I lived for one year, and trust me, most of which was spent in utter misery. But nothing could beat the desperation of Ashtami, which fell on a weekend and I roamed around the streets of Vasco, looking for a puja pandal-where I could feel home. It seemed cruel that the world didn’t bother that I was alone on a pujo day, all by myself. But when I finally located it-by the sound of the recorded dhak beatings, I was disappointed. And I didn’t know a soul. So I just prayed to the goddess and came back heartbroken. And it was on that day that I promised myself that no matter where I am on the globe, for pujo it will always mean Cal for me. It’s been two years running that I have not been able to keep that promise. Last year I was too drunk on the sights of London to miss it, but this year in Delhi it’s a heart-wrenching feeling. But the best part is that at least unlike last year, this year maa-baba will not be alone in Cal, but will be with us here. That does bring some spirit back.
So what is it that I miss about the pujos in Cal? I am not a religious person..and I think for us Bongs, pujo holds memories more for cultural and sentimental reasons than anything else. And I like it that way, that those 5 days are so full of joy for an otherwise increasingly glumy city, the smell of festivity that you can breathe in..that even the saddest person can not but be touched by the sights and sounds of 1 million happy people out on the streets. But I am digressing. Here are a list of things I miss about the pujo in Cal;
• The air of anticipation which clothes the city for more than two months in advance..when you start counting days
• The planning that I used to do..dividing each of the 5 mornings and evenings into neat little squares meant for different groups: friends, cousins, parents. Answering that question: pujoi ki korchish?
• Eating out…maneuvering the longest queues in the world to finally reach your destination.
• Shopping and going crazy in those pre-mall days of Cal, spoiled with choice over Gariahat, AC Market, Shriram Arcade, New Market..dragging my exhausted mother to yet another shop.
• Meeting with school friends on every shashti..a ritual performed faithfully ever since we were 15-16..gpoing for Thakur Dekha to Ekdalia and Singhee Park and then Biriyani at Bedwin.
• Planning what to wear on each day. This was even more difficult than shopping since I now had to prioritise them.
• Showing pujo to A. once we went to see the pujos in the old zamindar houses of Cal..a heritage tour and we had a great time which finally ended at Shobha Bazar Rajbari with a sumptuous lunch.
• Wearing new shoes and limping through the day because they would leave boils on the feet the size of a tennis ball.
• Reading up on the pujo barshikis..a doomed attempt to recapture childhood through the vastly downgraded copies of Anandamela and Desh.
• Thakur Dekha, with cousins, maa and mashi after a sumptuous meal at mamar bari every saptami.
• The lights, the crowd, the sounds..

In Remembrance

I have never seen any Patrick Swayze film. The main reason why I know of him is that he had come to shoot in Kolkata (or did he not come?) for Ronald Joffe's City of Joy, which ran into a lot of CPI (M) led protests against stereotyping Kolkata through the Western eye. However, ever since I learnt of his death today due to pancreatic cancer I have been in a mood to remember him through songs of Dirty Dancing. And that's what I am doing today-playing his songs on You Tube and remembering a life cut short at only 57. Why does death choose some people early? Is it because of bad karma? Something that you did in your past life that catches up with you? Do we suffer in this life because of the sins of my other life? Isn't that so unfair? If there is no cause and effect in this life then it's a frightening thought, of a life with no set pattern, where goodness doesn't guarntee goodness in return.

A Jagjit Singh Concert. Today evening.

My working hours are somehow made more bearable by songs from the 90s played every morning on Radio Mirchi. But at times while listening to the songs nostalgia grips my heart so tight that I find it difficult to breathe.

The song 'Pehli Baar Muhabbat ki Hai' from Kaminey always transports me to a rain-soaked balcony where I stand looking out at the sea

I do not know why I have this recurring dream that I am in New York. I dreamt it last night again. And that I was spending one day sight-seeing in NY, and taking a two hour plane ride to Namibia from NY. I was going to spend a day in Namibia and come back.
Some times my dreams don't make any sense to me.

I think one of my biggest learnings this year has been to find my own company enjoyable. It's not that I don't like being alone. In fact there are times when I love being alone since it gives me the freedom to mould my day as I wish. But what I mean here is that there are certain things which I can never do on my own, like going for a movie on my own. But there was a time when even travelling on my own was added to that list and I would think of ways to fill up my evenings after work, judiciously noting down phone numbers of friends whom I planned to call after work. But it all changed this year. Forced to fall back on my own companies in far-away lands I have gradually come to a phase where I can even begin to think of roaming around unknown cities on my own and take pleasure in it.
I remember spending three days in Bangalore sometime in April this year, and taking off to Brigade Road in the evenings to explore bookshops and pick up stuff from KFC because no company was available except my own. I found much pleasure gallivanting on my own in Ghana. In Johannesburg, I booked on on sight-seeing trips, and I surprised myself by having a lot of fun while learning about the city and its history in the process. In Uganda, I took off on my own again to trace the origin of the White Nile and to see the gorgeous Bujagali Falls on Lake Victoria slowly being killed by the dam being bult on it. I am already preparing myself for a tor of Frankfurt (provided I get the visa) by reading up on the internet about places of historical and cultural interest.
This is a welcome change. I remember last year when I was in Nairobi I e-mailed a barely known acquaintance just to help me see the city in the night, and how I anxiously waited to hear back from him. I even decided not to do Masai Mara since I was sure that I would not enjoy it on my own.
I am glad that things have changed, and now before leaving for any new or old place I don't have to pour over e-mail lists or phone books just to make sure that I have a good time. I know I'll enjoy myself as long as I have places to see, food to eat and money enough to support my travel.
But going to a movie on my own? Nah. Not yet.

I have a deadline breathing down my neck. I have to submit my paper to University of Hildesheim by 31st August and then do one more important deadline. So how do I deal with it? I bunk office to go the library and the next day I sit at work and read blogs. Not mine of course. But blogs of other women, many of whom have surprisingly turned out to be fellow she-bongs. And right now thanks to so much of wanking around, my mind is totally like an empty slate. I can't even make sense of the paper that I have written so far. And to think that this is an international conference! I am already breaking into sweat thinking how mine will be the most worst-written paper around, which will prove that I know next to nothing about my subject and I sent it in just because I wanted a free trip to Germany. Concentrate, concentrate.
So today we pick up Baba from Gurgaon in the evening. I plan to cook my wonderful chicken curry tomorrow morning. Then after dropping baba off to the airport, I plan to take A by force to watch "Shob Charitro Kalponik". Not that I am big fan of Rituporno, but one chance for me to feel Bengali.
and I cycled today for half an hour inside the sprawling IIT campus. I was rudely awakened by A at 5.30 am for this. And I am so sleepy now that I don't know how to concentrate on my paper. If my paper turns out to be all shit, you'll know whose fault it is.

I learnt in horror from my cousin's update on Facebook that Vedic Village resort has been burnt down. However,as more and more details of what actually happened there emerged, my horror has turned into fascination, reading up in Kolkata newspapers about how the resort changed the lives of the poor villagers living around it, as some turned into owners of land-mafia syndicates, and ensured that other villagers parted with their land or paid for non-compliance through other means. I worry constantly that my state is becoming ungoverned and ungovernable. Greed, corruption and criminalisation will be the its final undoing. And no, Didi is certainly not the great big hope. If anything, her party has its own set of local thugs, who have built up their resistance to the Party, by studying very carefully about what made the Party stay on power for 30 years ( much of it by violence and intimidation) and then using the same techniques against the Party that invented them.

http://www.telegraphindia.com/1090825/jsp/frontpage/story_11405407.jsp

My customary one-liner from Kampala, Uganda

Also I have completed one year of being a blogger. Amazing feat, given how inconsistent I am about other things. My father was surprised to learn that I write a lonely blog, i.e. one that is read by only 3 people on earth. But I like it this way. My blog is not meant to reach out to a lot of people. In fact, hardly anybody knows that I have a blog and I have intentionally not spread the word, though I have often debated whether I should put it up on FB or Orkut but on final analysis have decided against it. I am not sure I want too many people to read what I write here. It's not about writing a famous blog. It's just about getting back in touch with my love of writing,a place for expressing myself, it's about creating an identity in my increasingly uni-dimensional life.

So my fourth dwelling place in three and half years and many many more to come. My beginning to stay on IIT campus has returned me back to my childhood days of long power-cuts. So here's what I am doing on a hot and humid evening with no lights on: sitting on the balcony and blogging while listening to FM. This house is so small that the two of us can barely squeeze ourselves together but what the heck..this is ours. Also, the tiny two room student accommodation has a lovely balcony, spacious, with leafy green branches of neem tree so close that you can reach out and touch them.

Birthday Blues

I am beginning to hate the idea of b'days with a venegeance. They never fail to remind me how fast time is running by. In fact I remember last year's b'day so vividly (the party with school friends, followed by a screening of Jaane Tu) as if it happened yesterday. I don't feel my age at all..inside I am still stuck at being 24. Is that a problem? Anyways, the good part about this day..got 13 phone calls so far, and 3 b'day emails. Not a bad count so far I suppose. I am discounting all the Orkut scraps. Only personal messages count. And Marykutty forgot to wish me as usual (hope she's reading this shamefacedly!)
Count of calls at midnight: 22

Today is a special day, simply because of the fact that I succeeded in doing what I have failed to do for most of my adult life. I got up early and went for a run. This was due partly to A's insistence on my physical fitness and partly due to Murakami's memoir on his love-affair with long-distance running. I have never been a morning person, and I don't know if I will feel like getting up early tomorrow morning, or I will just toss over and go back to sleep. Unfortunately, I do not have a good track record of following things to their logical conclusion, as my aborted experiments with computers, karate and western dance lessons show. So at this juncture all I can hope is that today morning was a new beginning, and that someday I will end up loving running so much that I will do it even in the face of the biggest obstacles.

Living in Johannesburg has given birth to new ideas inside me. I wonder how my life would be if I opted out of what I am doing now, and ran a Bed and Breakfast in Jo'burg, serve awesome food and extend such warm hospitality to my guests that they keep coming back for more. And I take off to Kruger whenever I feel the need to take a break. Of course it wouldn't hurt if I had someone like Jake to lend me a helping hand!!

There are days at work that I spend enveloped in laziness, when my mind refuses to function, when my fingers refuse to type any more words, when my mouth reamins busy in yawning, when my eyelids feel heavy with sleep, and nothing that I can do or think can wake me up from my slumber.

The Judgement

This is one of the days when I feel so privileged and happy that I get to do what I do..I feel that its my victory also, victory of the entire sector, for all of us who do what we do.
Cheers to more such amendments..next on the wish list- a law that separates adult consensual sex from trafficking. Wish it happens in my lifetime in India.

Cityscapes 2

Every time I see a white person on the road, I have this incredible urge to walk up to him and ask if he resents the ending of apartheid, of having to feel like an equal where he was earlier a king.

I saw a sign behind the loo in the office which said 'Please flush the toilet after use'. Now that sort of freaked me out, because I thought that it was only Indians who forgot to flush. This only strengthens my faith that we are all the same, from India to South Africa, and all countries in-between.

I have also realised that I have very unfashionable winter clothes. I somehow managed the winter in London, using borrowed clothes from Karrie, and in Delhi I pretended that I didnt exist everytime a woman in a swish winter-set walked past, but Johannesburg has me feeling very small and inadequately dressed.

Cityscapes 1

I am in Johannesburg, and am loving every minute of the cold here. Which is strange. Because I have this love-hate relationship with cold weather. I hate them with a vengeance yet I await their return or a visit to a cold place like this city. But I love the cold here. This is different from Delhi. The air has a very cosy feeling that makes you want to wrap up yourself in a blanket, and read a book, which is what I plan to do tonight. I have already borrowed two books from Jake, the guest house owner, and oen of them is my dream of reading the newly-discovered Mary Russell series, the fiery feminist detective who works with Holmes and helps him crack his toughest cases.

Here's what I do when I am stuck in a hotel room

Ok..so here's what I do when I am stuck in a hotel at 7 pm in this district HQ of Ghana..I get on the wireless and read random blogs like there's no tommorrow. And while doing it, I chance upon a quiz that I feel like answering..

1) What author do you own the most books by?
That would be 4 authors:Alexander McCall Smith, Jane Austen, Satyajit Ray and PD James. Kind of a weird combination there.

2) What book do you own the most copies of?
I used to own dozens of copies of Amar Chitra when I was growing up. And of course copies of my beloved Anandamela, the children's magazine, with which my fondest childhood memories of reading are associated.

3) Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions?
Nah. I didn't even notice them.

4) What fictional character are you secretly in love with?
So many, but Captain Wentworth from Austen's Persuasion has top-of-the-mind recall, followed by Tridib from Shadow Lines. And Holden Caulfield. And I have always wondered how Maxmillian De Winter would look like. But now that I think about it, I would also like to add some heroes from Shirshendu's novels who made me wish they were real.

5) What book have you read the most times in your life?
It'll probably be the Feluda series. Evertime I desire a return to my childhood, they are what I read. Also some of Buddhadev Guha's early novels.


6) What was your favorite book when you were ten years old?
Enid Blyton's books, esp Malory Towers. I was so influenced by them that I remember begging my mother to send me to a boarding school.


7) What is the worst book you’ve read in the past year?
So many. I keep picking up books that I don't like.

8) What is the best book you’ve read in the past year?
Am back to 'A Case of Exploding Mangoes'.


9) If you could force everyone to read one book, what would it be?
I would make people read holy books of religions other than their own. So much ignorance and prejudice can be done away with.

10) Who deserves to win the next Nobel Prize for literature?
Haruki Murakami.

11) What book would you most like to see made into a movie?
As of now its the Zoya Factor. It's a book made for filming. I would be interested in knowing who play the roles of the Indian cricket captain and his love interest. And Chander Pahar, if only the brilliance of Peter Jackson and BibhutiBhushan combined!

12) What book would you least like to see made into a movie?
Definitely 'Shesher Kabita'. They should stop muddling with Tagore. And I didnt like Rebecca, though Hitchcock won an Oscar. It is just made differently in my head.


13) Describe your weirdest dream involving a writer, book, or literary character.
None really. I don't dream about writers/books/heroes.


14) What is the most lowbrow book you’ve read as an adult?
I read anything I can lay my hands on, but for me the pitts would be Paulo Coelho. I just don't buy into his brand of motivation at all.

15) What is the most difficult book you’ve ever read?
Would be some of the English poets that I studied in college. I always found hard to concentrate on the meaning of each and every word. Oh and how could I forget Hardy, Beckett and EM Forster?

16) Shakespeare, Milton, or Chaucer?
Shakespeare. The others are more difficult.

17) Austen or Eliot?
Austen.I could live a life just re-reading Austen.

18) What is the biggest or most embarrassing gap in your reading?
Shakespeare, James Joyce and Virginia Woolf. Our famous English Professor, Sukanta Choudhuri had violently castigated the entire Eng Lit class for not having finished at least half of Will's original plays. Almost 10 years down the line, I am still happy with Charles Lamb.
Oh and Saul Bellow, Philip Roth and Martin Amis. I am yet to read their works. But this gap I am determined to close.

19) What is your favorite novel?
Shadow Lines.

20) Play?
None.

21) Short story?
Telenipota Abishkar. The writing style electrified me.


22) Work of non-fiction?
All seminal work on feminism.

23) Who is your favorite writer?
So many...Austen, Amitav Ghosh, Orwell,Murakami, Italo Calvino, PD James, BibhutiBhushan, Jeebanananda Das,Satyajit Ray

15th May, Accra

Its 11 pm and I am alone in my hotel room in Accra and I find that I can’t sleep. I am home-sick. But this is a different kind of longing. Oh yes, I miss being away from home, miss my parents, miss my phone conversations with my nephew, the sheer physical togetherness with A, but what I miss the most is my Indian existence. It’s just not about missing the food (though I don’t think I can have one more day of Ghanian food), but missing all that that makes up India for me, the sights, the sounds, the craziness, the chaos, the contradictions, the sheer force of life unfolding itself in all its possible forms around me all the time. I remember when I was in London, even though it was only for a week and even though it was lovely, I was craving for the warm sunlight back home. I was hungry for some contact with life. I felt that London was too ‘sanitised’ for comfort and that I would be divorced from reality if I lived long enough in that environment. And this is why I wonder how I would cope it ever means for me that I would stay away for a long stretch of time from my country. Yes, in contradiction I often contemplate that it would be nice to stay outside, to contemplate order instead of chaos, to view life as it should be and not as it is. But I do not know how long will I last.
As I listen to Gulzar songs on my cell phone I am suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to set foot back in my country, and just to breathe in that warm, musty air of Delhi, which will tell me that I have come home.

Google in Dubai is driving me nuts..everything is in Arabic and I couldnt even sign in to my blog because my sign-in name was going from right to left!! Managed with a lot of difficulty. MM and Abs, if you guys are reading this..am thinking of the 'sisterhood' here too..

Blogging from Dubai

What is the feeling that Dubai airport evokes in me every time I step into it? Do I love it or hate it? Or am I simply indifferent? Am I impressed by the dazzling display of enormous wealth, the shiny duty-free shops beckoning with endless materialism, the gigantic structures that have created a city within an airport? Am I envious that I will never be of one of the multitudes who casually saunter into a perfume shop and pick up a few bottles without mentally calculating the cost into their local currencies? Or am I just disgusted by this blatant display of wealth, limited only to the privileged few belonging to this desert-island and elsewhere in the world, and created no doubt on exploitative structures put up in poorer parts of the world?
Like much else in my life, I am yet to make up my mind about the Dubai airport. Probably it reflects my general inability to come to a conclusion about many important decisions about my life.

Nostalgia

Am switching channels, and I suddenly chance upon Vikram aur Betal, the old Doordarshan version, with that still remembered serial tune in the end which I still remember from my childhood and I am filled with nostalgia. The set is so out-landish, with a paper moon, and Betal wildly flinging his arms as he flies away from Vikram’s shoulders, that you can make out the special effects and clearly understand how the ‘flying’ scenes were shot. But instead of laughing, the scene transports me back to my days of childhood, the days of Doordarshan. Was that actually a more innocent, less divisive world, the times when I was eight, and we only had Doordarshan for our entertainment? That was also India before 1989, before Kashmir insurgency, before Ayodhya temple, before Mumbai blasts, before Mandal Commission, before the 1991 liberalization era. Was that a more innocent, more understated world that the one we have now? or is it as A says, it was all there, except that it didn’t register in the consciousness of an eight year old? Also because that time was free from 24/7 new channels, hungry to serve up real and imagined news, the world only seemed to be a hushed and less discordant place?
I am a sucker for nostalgia..the Bong in me rearing her ugly head

The Neglected Debate

http://www.ndtv.com/news/videos/video_player.php?id=1095624

the Fake IPL Player

Man..am I glad that this Fake IPL Player is here! I have never been a big cricket fan except in my adolescent days (when I could be for given for not having known any better). Now after being with a cricket fanatic for 8 years (and being a cricket-widow for the past three years), it takes humongous amounts of patience on my part not to scream when I see Youvraj Singh and Co..and then as if the over-dose was not enough, there comes IPL. That's why I have welcomed the Fake IPL Player's blog with open arms. In a country given to worshipping false gods, especially those of the cricketing varieties, the blog comes as a breath of fresh air. At least here's no sycophancy, journalists out to prove how the cricketing lions are actually genteel souls wrapped in the clothing of megabucks. Even if 10% of what gets written there is true (am assuming that the fake IPL player is actually a fake IPL player, and the 90% comes from that kind of imagination on which Stardust runs), it will do well to weaken, if not entirely demolish the mythical proportions to which a bunch of over-hyped men in blue are raised.

Apparently according to one estimate, there are 33 million bloggers in the world. I wonder how many of them have more than one reader, beyond the blog-writer.

One of the greatest rewards of being a compulsive reader like me is the chance discovery of an author whose writing has me in his grip, and the sensation is akin to an actual physical sensastion of a heady rush of hormones. And in April, I have been twice lucky.

I have just discovered "Sophie's Choice" and I am already in love with Wlliam Styron's evocative prose, his equal command over depicting humor and heartbreak, his ability to make his characters come alive for me. I am surprised as to why it took me so many years to get down to reading this classic and deny myself the pleasure of discovering Styron much earlier. Probably the biggest testimony to the author lies on the fact that I am holding on to the book at the cost of incurring a fine, but I want to leisure through the whole book and not skip through pages as I have been guilty of doing that at times.

The second one has been Roberto Bolano and his 'Savage Detectives'. Imagine an author being called the inheritor to Marquez and it is only in 2009 that I hear about his existence. I am ready to gobble up anything by Bolano now, but he died in 2003, and only a few of his books have got translated in English. But I like waiting. The thought that my wait will be suitably rewarded by another Bolano gem is something that makes me smack my lips in anticipation, and my tongue hang out.

(the above imagery is pretty gross but that's how I picture myself..like a dog waiting for his bones!!)

I just don't get Twitter. Or status updates on Facebook. Does the whole world need to know or is interested in knowing what is the status of my tummy, or if I am feeling upto completing my obscure thesis (which anyways will be read only by me), or do I love the awesome heat of Delhi? Why do people need to share such minute details of their lives, food habits, political beliefs, mental states, status of children/nephews/nieces every day, every hour? Do they think that I would be seriously interested in knowing if someone skipped gym today and instead bought a pink pan? This information over-load 24 hours a day is not only irritating the hell out of me but also making me feel like the only loser in the world whose life is a complete Twitter free/ Facebook update free zone coz nothing ever happens there that is worth twittering about.

All that he wants

My nephew wants a yellow car and a cake for his 3rd birthday. that's what he said when I asked him on phone today. I am writing this down for Toto to read when he grows up that there was a time in his life when all he wanted in life was a cake and a toy car....

I still remember being 5 years old and being taken for getting my head shaved off every summer (nyaramundi as 5 year olds with shiny, balding plates are called lovingly in Bengali). I would howl and protest this injustice being perpetrated on me by my mother. Somehow all Bengali mothers used to have this strong belief that having a shaven head till your child was at least 10 years old would guarntee a life-time of silky tresses (well, it certainly proved wrong at my case at least), and so I would be dragged to the neighbourhood hair cutting saloon (parlours were unheard of when I was 5). And what would I ask for compensation for such a momumental loss every year? It would only be a pair of Amar Chitra Katha (Ramayan and Mahabharat being special favourites) and a pack of Phantom cigars. They were actually made of Menthols and left this incredibly fresh taste in the mouth while all the time you could hold a Phantom in your mouth and pretend you were smoking, all VERY grown up. And that was all it took to bribe me to go through the humiliation of being a neri (a nyara female).

Now when I look back I wonder how was it that at 5 all that you asked for in life was a bunch of comic books and a pack of chewable menthol sticks, and at what point life moved to being all about wanting what was unattainable. I know that in just another 10 years time Toto would look back in wonder, like me..

I do not know if this happens to anyone else, but on most days my moods swing like a giant pendulum. If I am happy in the morning, all bright and cheerful, and ready to take on the world, then by the time the afternoon comes, I am all edgy, and slightly bitter, and which worsens by the time I go home when all I want to do is to curl up in bed and stare at the celiling and not be bothered to talk to anyone, not even A

Ok..since now it's a Saturday and finally, finally I have a whole blank day streteching out in front of me, beckoning me with possibilities of wasting time in a delicious manner..what do I so? I take one of these quizzes again. So here it goes..
1. Last film I saw in the theater:
Sorry Bhai..yes, it's been that long since I have seen the insides of a theatre.It's not that I havent tried going ever since but either with tickets not being there or with A too busy in exams I really haven't managed.
2. Last movie I watched on dvd/vhs:
13 B. And it scared me in a nice way..
3. Last movie I watched on tv:
Urban Legend. These days I am hungry for horror/slash and gore stuff.
4. Last great movie you saw (for the first time, no repeated viewings):400 Blows and Goodmorning Vietnam.
5. Top three favorite movies of all time:-
Midnight Cowboy, Chungking Express, Sonar Kella.
6. Three comedies I can watch over and over and they still make me laugh:- Friends, Wonder Years, Different Strokes
7. Three dramas I can watch over and over without tiring of them:-
Can't really think of any.
8. Favorite romantic comedy: When Harry met Sally, You've Got Mail, the Truth about Cats and Dogs, Love Actually, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
9. Favorite suspense/horror movie:The Ring
10. Favorite movie musical:Would Hindi films count as musicals? Oh and Sound of Music, of course.
11. My three favorite movies when I was a kid:- Shriman Prithiraj, all of Ray's kids' films.
12. Three movies I loved when I was a kid that I still love now:-all of the above.
13. Favorite movie based on a book: the BBC version of P and P. Darcey never looked hotter!
14. Favorite sequel (think hard): Spiderman.
15. Favorite movie that you know is kind of crappy, but you love it anyway:
there are so many of them!! The Spiderman, Superman and the Batman series..I have this thing for superheroes.
16. Favorite foreign film: Children of Heaven.
17. Best documentary I've seen so far: Ram ke Naam, the Anand Patwardhan doc on Babri Masjid demolition.
18. Movie I put on when I'm really depressed:Sound of Music
19. Movie that can make me cry even if I am in the happiest mood:Pather Panchali, Boys Don't Cry, Edward Scissorhands.
20. A movie someone recommended to me that I ended up loving and the person who recommended it:ummm nothing that I can think of.
21. A movie someone recommended to me that I ended up hating and the person who recommended it (but it's not their fault): same as above.
22. Movie I recommend for everyone to see and why: Muriel's Wedding. I loved its message of hope and resilience, and finding your own meaning of life.
23. Movie I recommended for someone to see and still regret doing so: Why will I recommend a movie like that anyways?
24. Biggest movie let down: Da Vinci Code, Rebecca.
25. Biggest movie surprise (you liked it and thought you wouldn't): Dil Se. The critics had panned it greatly, but I loved it when I saw it.
26. Top three actors you would watch in anything:- Al Pacino, Aamir Khan, and Nasiruddin Shah
27. Top three actresses you would watch in anything:- may be Kajol?? And defintely Meryl Streep, and Bette Davis.
28. Top three directors whose films you would watch no matter what:- The only director that I can think of is Satyajit Ray, whose films I have watched endless no of times, and can still see again.
29. Most overrated movie (please stick with stuff you've seen):Slumdog Millionaire, The Namesake
30. Most overrated actor/actress: most of the current Bollywood crop..
31. Do you have a favorite screenwriter? Who and what is your favorite movie they have written?: my answers are getting repetitive..but it would be Ray again..can't pick a favourite Ray movie. There are too many of them.
32. Three favorite movie quotes:The ending of When Harry met Sally. The scene from Love Actually without any dialogues when Keira Knoghtley's husband's friends wishes her a merry christmas.
33. If you can remember it, worst dialougue in a movie ever: Surely Govinda's films??
.34. Best dialogue in a movie ever: can't pick one.
35. I can repeat every line from this movie verbatim while watching it: Gupi Gayne Bagha Baine maybe
36. Book you would like to see made into a movie and who you would like to see in it/directing it/etc.:The Hungry Tide..the novel is an experiment in visualisation..in the mind's eye.
37. Favorite song from a movie: I have had the time of my life, Dirty Dancing
38. Favorite use of a song in a movie: There are so many!!
39. A musical artist you now love that you discovered by watching a movie and said movie: none really.
40. Movie that you feel compelled to watch when you pass it flipping through channels: any Uttam/Suchitra movie..just to wallow in nostalgia
41. A movie that you really related with in high school (like the maker was your kindred spirit/ these characters were your long-lost best friend): Only You, with Robert Downey, Jr. and Marissa Tomeii
42. Movie you loved when you were a teenager and thought you would always love, but does not hold the same place in your heart: ummm..my movie tastes haven't changed that much.
43. I was completely into __(name of movie)__ when it came out, I even thought about a t-shirt or action figures, but now I don't know what I was thinking. May be the first Batman by Tim Burton?
44. I want to be _(this movie character)_ when I grow up: none
45. Best movie character: AB in his angry young man films, Soumitra as Feluda.
46. Movie I could live in happily: corresponds to my top 3 films.
47. Movie character soulmate (if only he or she was real and then you could live happily ever after): Spiderman..I dig men who are shy.
48. Deserted island movie (I know, why would you have a dvd player on a deserted island? just go with it): P and P (BBC mini series one).
49. Famous movie everyone's seen that I haven't: I have seen em all!!.
50. Movie I never want to see remade:all of Hitchcock's films.
51. Movie that inspires me: TZP
52. Three pieces of movie memorabilia I own:none
53. A movie I saw and asked for my money back: Salaam E Ishq: For once I broke my policy of not paying to watch a Salman Khan film and lived to regret it. Also Sunday and Krazzy 4.
54. Best movie watching experience in a theater (crowd rocked):Lagaan
.55. Worst movie watching experience in a theater (crowd sucked): Bhoot by RGV..people kept twittering nervously at the scariest places
.56. First movie I remember seeing in the theater: Tarzan comes to India..saw this when I was 3. Kept howling because they were hurting elephants in the movie. Baba was clueless about stopping me from bawling my eyes out.
57. People I love to watch movies with: the usual suspects..A, dada..hopefully with ET in the future.
58. Fondest movie memory (home): watching Love Actually on our 1st wedding anniversary.
59. Fondest movie memory (theater): watching Feluda in Cal with A, maa and baba.
60. If there was a movie that I can say might have changed my life, it was this one: Literature has changed my life..not films.

Ok so here's what Facebook has revealed about me. I have the intellectual capacities of Leo Tolstoy, sex appeal of Marilyn Monroe, the good heartedness of Beauty from Beauty and the Beast, and that I should live in the US coz I am meant for bigger things which are only available in cities with skyscrapers....hmmm..so my hunch that I am way above the rest, and that I am some sort of a genius whose real value is being ignored by the world at large was right all along!!

I felt so happy and proud to see this almost 6 ft ball of energy exploding like a ball of fire on the grounds of an Australian cricket field. I am not much of a cricket fan (and have followed even less after acquiring a cricket fanatic as a husband)..but watching Jhulan Goswami lead India to a win against Australia at the ICC WWC was a different ball-game altogether (pun intended!!). I wondered why we do not get to read much about these 11 courageous and brave women who have challenged and won against chauvinism, and have made their place in the face of such tremendous apathy and discouragement. Since Jhulan and I come from the same state, I have read about her struggle, getting up everyday at 4 am, a 3 hr train ride to Kolkata and then back home, fighting grinding poverty-all for the love of the game. And this, in the face of tremendous ridicule from the local boys who refused to let her bat, which is why she became a bowler.
I am sure all the other 10 girls in the team have stories to tell which are pretty similar in their undercurrents..it's not easy being a sportswoman in India, least of all a cricketer. But why doesn't the mainstream media ever highlight such stories? Why do I have to read a paper guestedited by Kareena Kapoor on 8th March? Is India so short of worthy women that we have to fall back on Bollywood once more? Even on 8th March it's Bolly to our rescue? It shames me to think about the level of shallowness that we have all been falling into..the collective stupor..where we dont even recognise real heroes..

So is this it? This? The great, big adventure called life? Just a series of plateaus and some incredibly low depths....??

I haven't updated my blog in days..not because I don't have things to pen down. On the contrary my head is always buzzing with new ideas and concepts around which I mentally construct my blog entries..but something happens when I sit down in front of the computer. I don't know what to call this, but some kind of lethargy overpowers me , and my blogs remain confined in my imagination

Chronicle of a death foretold

Editorial by Lasantha Wicrematunge - written by him to be published after his death. Why I am putting this up on my post is because he says some very very important things, to which I want to keep coming back again..

No other profession calls on its practitioners to lay down their livesfor their art save the armed forces and, in Sri Lanka, journalism. Inthe course of the past few years, the independent media haveincreasingly come under attack. Electronic and print-mediainstitutions have been burnt, bombed, sealed and coerced. Countlessjournalists have been harassed, threatened and killed. It has been myhonour to belong to all those categories and now especially the last.I have been in the business of journalism a good long time. Indeed,2009 will be The Sunday Leader's 15th year. Many things have changedin Sri Lanka during that time, and it does not need me to tell youthat the greater part of that change has been for the worse. We findourselves in the midst of a civil war ruthlessly prosecuted byprotagonists whose bloodlust knows no bounds. Terror, whetherperpetrated by terrorists or the state, has become the order of theday. Indeed, murder has become the primary tool whereby the stateseeks to control the organs of liberty. Today it is the journalists,tomorrow it will be the judges. For neither group have the risks everbeen higher or the stakes lower.Why then do we do it? I often wonder that. After all, I too am ahusband, and the father of three wonderful children. I too haveresponsibilities and obligations that transcend my profession, be itthe law or journalism. Is it worth the risk? Many people tell me it isnot. Friends tell me to revert to the bar, and goodness knows itoffers a better and safer livelihood. Others, including politicalleaders on both sides, have at various times sought to induce me totake to politics, going so far as to offer me ministries of my choice.Diplomats, recognising the risk journalists face in Sri Lanka , haveoffered me safe passage and the right of residence in their countries.Whatever else I may have been stuck for, I have not been stuck forchoice.But there is a calling that is yet above high office, fame, lucre andsecurity. It is the call of conscience.The Sunday Leader has been a controversial newspaper because we say itlike we see it: whether it be a spade, a thief or a murderer, we callit by that name. We do not hide behind euphemism. The investigativearticles we print are supported by documentary evidence thanks to thepublic-spiritedness of citizens who at great risk to themselves passon this material to us. We have exposed scandal after scandal, andnever once in these 15 years has anyone proved us wrong orsuccessfully prosecuted us.The free media serve as a mirror in which the public can see itselfsans mascara and styling gel. From us you learn the state of yournation, and especially its management by the people you elected togive your children a better future. Sometimes the image you see inthat mirror is not a pleasant one. But while you may grumble in theprivacy of your armchair, the journalists who hold the mirror up toyou do so publicly and at great risk to themselves. That is ourcalling, and we do not shirk it.Every newspaper has its angle, and we do not hide the fact that wehave ours. Our commitment is to see Sri Lanka as a transparent,secular, liberal democracy. Think about those words, for they each hasprofound meaning. Transparent because government must be openlyaccountable to the people and never abuse their trust. Secular becausein a multi-ethnic and multi-cultural society such as ours, secularismoffers the only common ground by which we might all be united. Liberalbecause we recognise that all human beings are created different, andwe need to accept others for what they are and not what we would likethem to be. And democratic... well, if you need me to explain why thatis important, you'd best stop buying this paper.The Sunday Leader has never sought safety by unquestioninglyarticulating the majority view. Let's face it that is the way to sellnewspapers. On the contrary, as our opinion pieces over the yearsamply demonstrate, we often voice ideas that many people finddistasteful. For example, we have consistently espoused the view thatwhile separatist terrorism must be eradicated, it is more important toaddress the root causes of terrorism, and urged government to view SriLanka 's ethnic strife in the context of history and not through thetelescope of terrorism. We have also agitated against state terrorismin the so-called war against terror, and made no secret of our horrorthat Sri Lanka is the only country in the world routinely to bomb itsown citizens. For these views we have been labeled traitors, and ifthis be treachery, we wear that label proudly.Many people suspect that The Sunday Leader has a political agenda: itdoes not. If we appear more critical of the government than of theopposition it is only because we believe that - pray excuse cricketingargot - there is no point in bowling to the fielding side. Rememberthat for the few years of our existence in which the UNP was inoffice, we proved to be the biggest thorn in its flesh, exposingexcess and corruption wherever it occurred. Indeed, the steady streamof embarrassing expos's we published may well have served toprecipitate the downfall of that government.Neither should our distaste for the war be interpreted to mean that wesupport the Tigers. The LTTE are among the most ruthless andbloodthirsty organisations ever to have infested the planet. There isno gainsaying that it must be eradicated. But to do so by violatingthe rights of Tamil citizens, bombing and shooting them mercilessly,is not only wrong but shames the Sinhalese, whose claim to becustodians of the dhamma is forever called into question by thissavagery, much of which is unknown to the public because ofcensorship.What is more, a military occupation of the country's north and eastwill require the Tamil people of those regions to live eternally assecond-class citizens, deprived of all self respect. Do not imaginethat you can placate them by showering "development" and"reconstruction" on them in the post-war era. The wounds of war willscar them forever, and you will also have an even more bitter andhateful Diaspora to contend with. A problem amenable to a politicalsolution will thus become a festering wound that will yield strife forall eternity. If I seem angry and frustrated, it is only because mostof my countrymen - and all of the government - cannot see this writingso plainly on the wall.It is well known that I was on two occasions brutally assaulted, whileon another my house was sprayed with machine-gun fire. Despite thegovernment's sanctimonious assurances, there was never a seriouspolice inquiry into the perpetrators of these attacks, and theattackers were never apprehended. In all these cases, I have reason tobelieve the attacks were inspired by the government. When finally I amkilled, it will be the government that kills me.The irony in this is that, unknown to most of the public, Mahinda andI have been friends for more than a quarter century. Indeed, I suspectthat I am one of the few people remaining who routinely addresses himby his first name and uses the familiar Sinhala address oya whentalking to him. Although I do not attend the meetings he periodicallyholds for newspaper editors, hardly a month passes when we do notmeet, privately or with a few close friends present, late at night atPresident's House. There we swap yarns, discuss politics and jokeabout the good old days. A few remarks to him would therefore be inorder here.Mahinda, when you finally fought your way to the SLFP presidentialnomination in 2005, nowhere were you welcomed more warmly than in thiscolumn. Indeed, we broke with a decade of tradition by referring toyou throughout by your first name. So well known were your commitmentsto human rights and liberal values that we ushered you in like abreath of fresh air. Then, through an act of folly, you got yourselfinvolved in the Helping Hambantota scandal. It was after a lot ofsoul-searching that we broke the story, at the same time urging you toreturn the money. By the time you did so several weeks later, a greatblow had been struck to your reputation. It is one you are stilltrying to live down.You have told me yourself that you were not greedy for the presidency.You did not have to hanker after it: it fell into your lap. You havetold me that your sons are your greatest joy, and that you lovespending time with them, leaving your brothers to operate themachinery of state. Now, it is clear to all who will see that thatmachinery has operated so well that my sons and daughter do notthemselves have a father.In the wake of my death I know you will make all the usualsanctimonious noises and call upon the police to hold a swift andthorough inquiry. But like all the inquiries you have ordered in thepast, nothing will come of this one, too. For truth be told, we bothknow who will be behind my death, but dare not call his name. Not justmy life, but yours too, depends on it.Sadly, for all the dreams you had for our country in your youngerdays, in just three years you have reduced it to rubble. In the nameof patriotism you have trampled on human rights, nurtured unbridledcorruption and squandered public money like no other President beforeyou. Indeed, your conduct has been like a small child suddenly letloose in a toyshop. That analogy is perhaps inapt because no childcould have caused so much blood to be spilled on this land as youhave, or trampled on the rights of its citizens as you do. Althoughyou are now so drunk with power that you cannot see it, you will cometo regret your sons having so rich an inheritance of blood. It canonly bring tragedy. As for me, it is with a clear conscience that I goto meet my Maker. I wish, when your time finally comes, you could dothe same. I wish.As for me, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I walked tall andbowed to no man. And I have not travelled this journey alone. Fellowjournalists in other branches of the media walked with me: most ofthem are now dead, imprisoned without trial or exiled in far-offlands. Others walk in the shadow of death that your Presidency hascast on the freedoms for which you once fought so hard. You will neverbe allowed to forget that my death took place under your watch. Asanguished as I know you will be, I also know that you will have nochoice but to protect my killers: you will see to it that the guiltyone is never convicted. You have no choice. I feel sorry for you, andShiranthi will have a long time to spend on her knees when next shegoes for Confession for it is not just her own sins which she mustconfess, but those of her extended family that keeps you in office.As for the readers of The Sunday Leader, what can I say but Thank Youfor supporting our mission. We have espoused unpopular causes, stoodup for those too feeble to stand up for themselves, locked horns withthe high and mighty so swollen with power that they have forgottentheir roots, exposed corruption and the waste of your hard-earned taxrupees, and made sure that whatever the propaganda of the day, youwere allowed to hear a contrary view. For this I - and my family -have now paid the price that I have long known I will one day have topay. I am - and have always been - ready for that. I have done nothingto prevent this outcome: no security, no precautions. I want mymurderer to know that I am not a coward like he is, hiding behindhuman shields while condemning thousands of innocents to death. Whatam I among so many? It has long been written that my life would betaken, and by whom. All that remains to be written is when.That The Sunday Leader will continue fighting the good fight, too, iswritten. For I did not fight this fight alone. Many more of us have tobe - and will be - killed before The Leader is laid to rest. I hope myassassination will be seen not as a defeat of freedom but aninspiration for those who survive to step up their efforts. Indeed, Ihope that it will help galvanise forces that will usher in a new eraof human liberty in our beloved motherland. I also hope it will openthe eyes of your President to the fact that however many areslaughtered in the name of patriotism, the human spirit will endureand flourish. Not all the Rajapakses combined can kill that.People often ask me why I take such risks and tell me it is a matterof time before I am bumped off. Of course I know that: it isinevitable. But if we do not speak out now, there will be no one leftto speak for those who cannot, whether they be ethnic minorities, thedisadvantaged or the persecuted. An example that has inspired methroughout my career in journalism has been that of the Germantheologian, Martin Niem"ller. In his youth he was an anti-Semite andan admirer of Hitler. As Nazism took hold in Germany, however, he sawNazism for what it was: it was not just the Jews Hitler sought toextirpate, it was just about anyone with an alternate point of view.Niem"ller spoke out, and for his trouble was incarcerated in theSachsenhausen and Dachau concentration camps from 1937 to 1945, andvery nearly executed. While incarcerated, Niem"ller wrote a poem that,from the first time I read it in my teenage years, stuck hauntingly inmy mind:First they came for the Jews and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.Then they came for the Communistsand I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.Then they came for the trade unionistsand I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist.Then they came for meand there was no one left to speak out for me.If you remember nothing else, remember this: The Leader is there foryou, be you Sinhalese, Tamil, Muslim, low-caste, homosexual, dissidentor disabled. Its staff will fight on, unbowed and unafraid, with thecourage to which you have become accustomed. Do not take thatcommitment for granted. Let there be no doubt that whatever sacrificeswe journalists make, they are not made for our own glory orenrichment: they are made for you. Whether you deserve their sacrificeis another matter. As for me, God knows I tried.Lasantha Wickrematunge

And curtains on 2008

So here's quick wrap-up on the fanatstic last week of 2008 that I spent in Calcutta. Here are the things I did:

• Ate my favourite Bong food time and time again..so on certain days I had luchi for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I also had Ilish Mach twice and chingri maach many many times.
• Ate out twice, both times with Maa and Baba. First time was at this place called Orko's at City Centre..satisfactory food, and second was at Floatel on 1st Jan. Food was good, especially since I love continental, and secondly because it was on a refurbished steamer on the Ganga which was great fun..especially when Baba and Maa were really really happy to see the river and get some excellent river breeze. Took some lovely snaps too.
• Had a joint B'day celebration of Maa and Fulmama on 2nd Jan at Golpark and it was so much fun!! Had lovely Kolkata biriyani (somehow I just don't seem to enjoy biriyani anywhere else in the country), and then they both cut a cake together (which was Kookie Jar, another thing I desperately miss in Delhi), which was followed by chinese dinner from Hatari (simple, no frills chinese at reasonable rates). Oh and we had a great time hearing about growing up stories from Shejomama, Fulmama, Tunumashi and Maa, the highpoint being the number of admirers these two sisters had. Both of them went blue in the face denying any attachment to any member of the opposite sex unrelated by blood.
• Managed to catch Tintorettor Jishu. A was super-happy to know that his and Feluda's arrival timings in Kolkata have managed to click once more, and I was happy to simly wallow in nostalgia.
• Went to Belur Math with A, Maa and Baba. Good place but just too crowded. Oh well, this is Kolkata that I am talking about.
• Got a haircut (not happy with it though)
• Took A shopping since Maa wanted to buy him jeans. Shopping with him is painless:he walks into a store, picks up a pair, tries it on, pays for it and comes out. I have never ever seen him suffer from the shopping anxities that I go through where I spend an hour to come back to exactly the same thing that I had rejected.
• Bought two books (Premendra Mitra and Saradindu). The reason why I bought Premendra Mitra is that the book is a collection of his books that were turned into films, scripted by him, and I still can't get over my shivers of watching 'Chupi Chupi Ashe' and 'Hanabari' on DD 7.
• Took Maa to CCD for the first time, hearing which Baba complained about how he had to go without coffee since we had gone without him.

All in all, an eventful week.

Music Room

Continuing with my efforts to list out the books that I will read this year. I am currently reading The Music Room and I am loving it. The book lovingly traces the guru-shishya relationship between Dhondutai, one of the last great exponents of Jaipur Gharana of Hindustani classical music, the only disciple of Kesarbai Kerkar who spends her life in dingy one room chawls across Bombay, often on a hand to mouth existence, and who dreams of spreading her lovingly learned craft through her shishya Namita who has written this book. This book is a tribute to the now dying-out guru shishya parampara that used to define learning in India many many years ago. Often sad, but more often than that seriously uplifting, Dhondutai's life story is a tribute to the scores of nameless singers who have clung to their art forms through decay and deprivation. The book has a charming anecdote to illustrate this about Akbar and Tansen, in which Tansen takes Akbar to meet his guru who lives in a hut inside a forest. Akbar listens in rapt attention to Tansen's guruji and then turns towards him and asks why he can never sing like that. And Tansen replies, 'that's because I sing for you, and he sings for God'.

Today to come to my blog I typed in Google and when it showed the search results, I had a strange feeling. I do not quite know how to describe it....it showed something created by me in front of my own eyes, and I had goosebumps all over me at that moment....that I was the creator of this entity, that my thoughts and ramblings had the potential of reaching out to millions at the click of a button, that I was powerful in a way that I can barely begin to imagine..

some highlights of 2008

1. best memories:- London trip
2. saddest memories:-leaving our lovely Ballygunge Circular Road aprtment.
3. Film that I loved:- Chungking Express
4. was glad about:- that I could see Tintorettor Jishu on big screen (amongst many other things of course) and that we finally finally managed a trip to Corbett after years of planning.
5. one lesson learnt:- live one day at a time.
6. one book I didnt want to finish:-Case of Exploding Mangoes
7. one thing that set my teeth on edge:- how we continued to utterly neglect the deaths at CST, as if they had never been.
8. one good thing that I started in 2008:- start this blog.
9. one good thing that I didnt start in 2008:- take up long-distance running.

I have been travelling like crazy since October so I just thought I'll write down the number of places that I have covered in these 3 months just in case I look back on 2008 some day and then don't believe that I was once that much of a traveller:
London, Bangalore, Kolkata, Patna, Muzzaffarpur, Bhopal, Nairobi, Dubai, Jaipur, Dharamshala, Dalhousie, Chamba, Hrishikesh, Kolkata (again) and Delhi.

And some other notable books that I have read in 2008:

1. The White Tiger: Can't claim this book as great literature but if one facet of literature is also to make an attempt to steer our consciousness towards a life that we pass by on streets everyday but do not engage ourselves with, then yes, Adiga does a great job. I think all of us must read it since its' not fiction. The simmering discontent of a large no of people that the malls outshine is alive beneath the surface, and very much so.
2. The Red Sun:- I am still reading it..my fascination with understanding Naxal movement in India continues to grow with this book, no wonder abetted by the fact that I spent more than two years working in Purulia and West Midnapore. Again a mus read.
3. The Other Bolyen Girl:- History and fiction merge seamlessly..but please don't watch the film.
4. A long way home:- autobiography of a child soldier of Sierra Leone Ishmael Beah-what war does to the best of us.

I have decided to write down the names of books that I am reading currently, in order to keep a tab on my reading habits and make sure that I am reading enough. So here's a list of the last 4 books that I picked up and finished from Eloor:

1. Diary of a Manhattan Call girl: now I dont know in which category exactly to put this..with its often dark undertones of the girl who knows that her career choice would be that of a call girl since she was 8 years old is neither fluffy enough for a chick-lit, nor is it high-brow lit..but a breezy fast read.
2. The Zoya Factor:- How I wish I could be sixteen again and read TZF and have lovely dreams in the night about marrying the super-sexy Indian world cup winning cricket team captain who would look past my beauty (or rather the lack of it) and would actually notice the inner beauty which would mean that he would ignore all Miss Indias and instead would come straight into my arms..sometimes growing up isnt so much fun.
3. Marrying Anita:- a disappointing read..with the author trying hard to establish the fact that due to the amazing recovery done by the Indian economy post 1991 there's no difference between men in NY and Guragon. Didnt we know that already? At least it could have been better written.
4. The Moth Smoke:- Pakistani authors seem to be my flavour of the season..suddenly I want to grab anything written by Mohsin Hamid and Md Hanif and Moni Mohsin. I am itching to read The Reluctant Fundamentalist now. I believe strongly that to understand a country one must read its literature..therefore Afghanistan would always mean the Kite Runner to me, Iran through Persepolis and Reading Lolita, Japan through writings of Haruki Murakami and Turkey through Orhan Pamuk..who else..I liked Moth Smoke