Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts

Thursday, September 5, 2019

Looking for the perfect weekend read?

15 short stories at ₹99 only - for a limited period


"Refreshing and untold stories"

"the perfect gift for any book lover"

"beautiful writing style and strong narration"

Shadows of the Past - a collection of short stories: Available as paperback (₹190) and Amazon Kindle ebook (₹99).

"offbeat stories"

"Stories are unpredictable, narration is very good keeping readers engrossed"

"the stories cover all the human emotions"


Read sample pages and reviews. 
Purchase now: https://www.amazon.in/Shadows-Past-Jeena-R-Papaadi/dp/9387649369/ (Also available from Amazon International stores, across the globe.)

Read more about the book:
https://navy-blue-jeans.blogspot.com/2018/06/my-book-of-stories-now-in-paperback.html


Please share this post with your friends who like to read.


Thursday, February 7, 2019

We are capable of magic

Why do we read stories?

For entertainment? For a distraction? For learning something new? For living a thousand lives without moving an inch from our seat?

All of the above, of course. And more.

But we also read to find answers. It's like opening an holy text when you're worried, and finding the answers you seek, on the random page you chose. Even in a depressing novel that ends in tragedy, you might find what you are seeking. A sliver of thought, a fragment of philosophy, a shred of an idea. A ray of hope.

Lately I have been finding answers everywhere, in every book I read. Every author has something new to show me. No, they don't solve my problems - if only they could! I've to do the solving all on my own. But they shine a new light on the darkness. They show me something I have forgotten or I have never known. They don't help me with my choice, but they stand by me when I make mine. They expand our horizons and remind us of possibilities.

But when we write, we cannot think of the lessons we ought to leave behind for the reader to find. The moment we do that, the purpose is defeated.

Which, for some reason, reminds me of the water beetle.

“The waterbeetle here shall teach 
A sermon far beyond your reach; 
He flabbergasts the Human race 
By gliding on the water's face 
With ease, celerity, and grace; 
But if he ever stopped to think 
Of how he did it, he would sink.”
- Hilaire Belloc


I come from a book crazy family. Everyone in my immediate circle could be found poring over a book or a magazine; always going to the library to discover something interesting; always talking of books, new and old. I never thought twice about it. I suppose I believed unconsciously that every family was like that. Much later, when I made friends with people who "never read much" I was stunned that such people did exist.

I leave you with a beautiful thought from the inimitable Carl Sagan: "Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic."


(Photo: Sapna Book store, Elements Mall, Bengaluru)

Sunday, November 25, 2018

Books to read

​Sometimes
I wither in panic
Remembering​​ the books I'm yet to read
The many titles I wish to re-read
And fear that
Life will take me away
Before I can savour them
To my heart's content.

Sometimes
I bloom in ecstasy
Remembering the books I'm yet to read
The many titles I wish to re-read
Because no matter how many years pass by
Or I live till eternity
I'll always have something new
To read.

There is no cage that can hold me
No prison that can contain me
No four walls can restrain me
Or take away my freedom
As long as I have a book
Within reach.
Take them away, and you've as good as
Taken my life away.

Friday, October 12, 2018

Book lover

​Whose book is this?
Asks the six-year-old
In a loud whisper,
Awe and respect in her words,
Her hands reverently caressing
The hard cover.

Whose book is this?
She says, looking around
At her mother and friends;
Then she looks around
At her own little friends.
Whose book is this?

Hers, replies the mother
Pointing to me.
The little girl's eyes rest on me
With newfound admiration.
She's known me a long time, but
Today she sees me with new eyes.

Can I see it? Again the polite whisper
As though the majestic book
Must not be disturbed, or
Awakened from its slumber.
Of course, I say, and she
Opens it carefully.

It's not a picture book,
She does not care.
She's not old enough to read it;
The six hundred page book
Does not intimidate her;
The tiny font does not deter her.

I watch her turn the pages
Slowly, lovingly, respectfully,
And when it is time to leave
She replaces it gently,
And smiles at me.
Today I see her with new eyes too.

Thursday, October 4, 2018

Giveaway: my novel "Temple of Time" #ebook #Kindle


My novel, Temple of Time (in ebook format) can be purchased for FREE from Amazon until Sunday, October 7th. Download now. You can also read the first few pages, the synopsis and reviews from the links below.

Amazon India: https://www.amazon.in/dp/B00U54HX3I
Amazon US and other countries: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00U54HX3I

If you have friends who love reading ebooks, please share this with them.

To know more about the book, click here: http://navy-blue-jeans.blogspot.com/2015/03/temple-of-time.html

Monday, July 9, 2018

Every book is a memory...


I picked up The Day of the Jackal from one of the roadside second hand book sellers in Bangalore. The year was 1999 or 2000. M.G.Road, if I am not mistaken. One of those places where they spread the books on the footpath and as we walk past, we experience an irresistible urge to pick up everything lying face up. I stopped and looked at them - I knew these weren't original, most likely photostat copies, and yet I knew for a certainty that I will buy something that day. At least one. And I did. It was my first second-hand book.

Every time I think of or talk about or overhear someone discussing The Day of the Jackal, the movie or the book, that's what I remember. My first job in Trivandrum. My interview in Bangalore. Walking by M.G.Road with my father. Staying with friends who were either working or looking for a job. A book with a green cover. I am not sure if I still have that book. If I do, it would have yellowed, thumbed pages with the print no longer clear. In the first page, I would have scribbled my name and the date I bought it, followed by "M. G. Road." I didn't want to forget.

That's why I always note down the date and where I bought it, in every book I buy. I may remember some of it, but I may forget most. And I want to remember where I was, what I was going through, who I met, and why I chose this book.

The book seller waited patiently. He did not ask if I wanted this book or that. He could tell by the way my eyes were scanning the titles. When I found what I was looking for, he would know. Another person, who had stopped his hasty walk and was looking cursorily at the books, would not buy anything that day. I was the one likely to leave with a lighter purse. My eyes fell on Frederick Forsyth. Ever since my father told me about this anonymous shooter out to kill the French President Charles de Gaulle, I had been intrigued.

I looked up at the seller and pointed to the book. "How much?"

He quoted an amount I cannot recall now. But I remember thinking, photostat copies. Not worth the price. He waited for me to negotiate. "Okay," I said.

I don't regret spending that money at all. (It is possible that my Dad paid for it, but you get what I mean.)

Every book is a memory. A slice from our life. A few moments or days or weeks of time - from the instant we set our eyes on it, or hear about it, to the moment when we let it slip back to our past.

I read it in a crowded train. 
I saw it on her table.
I bought it from M. G. Road.
I gave it to my so-called friend and she never returned it. 
I borrowed it from a library I don't visit any more.
It was a gift.

Sunday, June 3, 2018

My book of stories - now in Paperback!

Shadows of the Past and other stories
15 stories that deal with coincidences, strange and eerie.

A wise person once said, "Coincidences do happen, that's why they have a name."
Sometimes these coincidences stop us on our tracks and make us wonder, “Was that really just a coincidence – or did the hand of Destiny strike ever so gently?” We call them ‘eerie’ or ‘uncanny’, or ‘miracles’ or ‘stroke of luck’ or ‘fate’.

Shadows of the Past” takes you to the crossroads where coincidence meets luck, miracle meets destiny, on the thin line between the strange and the eerie. Perhaps those incidents are mere coincidences, and there is nothing inexplicable about them.

I leave you to judge.


Reviews

"Engaging narrative. Author handles the plot well. Every story has a twist and keeps reader engrossed." - Pradeep on Amazon

"The stories were engaging, and the narration, simple. The eagerness to know what the twist might be keeps the pages turning." - Vinay Leo on Goodreads

"Really enjoyed reading the collection of short stories. My favorites being Rosa and awaiting August. The writing was simple to understand and pleasant." - Tejus on Amazon

"Each story manage to grip the reader and makes him want to read the rest. I liked the fact that no two story was similar, either in treatment or subject." - Anoop on Goodreads



What are you waiting for?? 

Purchase paperback edition from:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.in/Shadows-Past-Jeena-R-Papaadi/dp/9387649369/ (Also available from Amazon international stores)

Flipkart: https://www.flipkart.com/shadows-of-the-past/p/itmf5jshqpyftw7x


If you are an ebook reader, you can find the book on Amazon Kindlehttps://www.amazon.in/Shadows-Past-Jeena-R-Papaadi-ebook/dp/B01L2JURE6/


Add the book to your shelves at Goodreadshttps://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40239056-shadows-of-the-past


Before you go...

... please remember to rate and review the book once you have read it, on the website where you purchased it from, as well as on Goodreads.


And while we're on the topic, check out my other books: https://www.amazon.in/Jeena-R.-Papaadi/e/B005HG4HMY/

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

The Power of Faith a.k.a The Human Will

I happened to read two books almost back to back earlier this year. (The titles are not relevant.) At one look, there is nothing common between the two. You probably cannot find two stories that are more dissimilar.

They take place at two different times - the first, a hundred and fifty years ago and the second, less than a decade ago - and at two different places - almost on opposite sides of the globe. The men follow different religions. Their lifestyles are poles apart. Their circumstances are incomparable. But if we look deeper, there is something that connects them. The protagonists of these tales are thrown into the worst possible situation - that of a slave's life (Indeed, what suffering can nature inflict that is worse than what we do to each other?) - and they survive merely because of the strength of their faith. One prays to Jesus, the other to Allah. At the end, their suffering is over - the one finds peace in death, and the other returns to a life of freedom.

Both stories are not 'real' in the true sense of the word; but based on real people and real incidents, as the authors have explained elsewhere.

I was struck by the common theme that seemed to prevail - every time something happened (in every page, things only got worse, never better), the protagonist said to himself, It is God's wish. And that gave him the strength to endure it. Every time he waited for the suffering to end, he said to himself, God will end it when it is time. One read his Bible, the other knelt and prayed.

Every day they wait for a miracle. However, nothing throughout the story - nothing - happens, which could be termed an intervention from God. He does not move a leaf or give a sign to these people to show that He is with them. On those days when their hearts weaken, they look up to the indifferent sky and wonder, How many more days?

They firmly believe that this suffering has a purpose, and that it will end some day. That God had some plan for them. That we are all travellers tossed into the tumultuous ocean, having to fight our way to the surface day after day. That even in the midst of such torture, if they could lend a hand to one other person, their life has attained some meaning. When they look around, they see other victims, and in their tiniest way, they try to be kind.

Finally, when deliverance does come, it comes of their own efforts, through a chain of events that they themselves had set into motion.

If we change those stories, and remove the suggestion of God from it, say, we make the protagonists atheists, then what would happen? Would they be able to survive the hardships? Probably, yes. Merely by the strength of their will. But the chances are high that they would have given up, long ago.

The Human Will is powerful as well as creative; just look around to see its infinite capabilities. But it is also lazy; we have enough evidence of that around us, too. It would rather be idle than create. It needs to be awakened. It needs to be called.

Which is why, I think, we need God. We need the idea that someone higher than us has the power to change our miserable lives. That there is a purpose to this suffering. If we are told that there is no one up there giving a damn about us, that every thing we do and endure in this life has no meaning whatsoever; we have nothing to struggle for. Not all of us are made with a will of steel. The moment our boats begin to rock, we give up and surrender to our fate. There will be no struggle, no effort to save ourselves. Most of us would perish within no time. If we have faith, we can convince ourselves that He is watching. He will help us. He will save us. 

Which brings us to the conclusion that wise men have arrived at, long ago. There is no God but the one that resides in ourselves. God is the thread that we invoke to find the strength that is already within. When we are afraid, we chant God's name, and wake up the courage that was dormant inside us. Did God do something? Yes, and No. Might I even go so far as to suggest that the notion of God developed as an evolutionary requirement to make the species strong enough to survive? I suppose God and Science aren't on opposite sides, after all. One could very well be the by-product of the other, a tool to ensure survival.

Which is also why it is meaningless to go seeking God, or to argue whether He exists, or to fight over Him. 

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

A Women's Day message from history

I don't think any adult could have put it as well as this fifteen-year old did. From the Diary of Anne Frank, dated 13 June, 1944. (Please click on the images to enlarge)



Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Temple of Time

In the days of Doordarshan and DD-2 (for those who remember the era), my sister and I watched a movie which left a huge impression on both our minds. It was an Australian film titled Picnic at Hanging Rock. About ten or twelve years old at the time, I knew precious little English and the accent was beyond us in many ways. My sister explained the story to me, as much as she could follow. The ending was too mysterious and intriguing. We spoke of (and in all likelihood, argued about) nothing else for weeks, perhaps months. We - at least, I - thought our limited grasp of the language was to blame for our confusion.

I never got a chance to see the movie afterwards.

But its impact on me was such that, over twenty years later, it led me to consider writing a short story titled "Temple of Time" where a couple of children vanish inside a mysterious temple in Kerala. Soon I realised that it was not a concept I could shrink into and contain within a short story. It dawned on me for the first time - I had a novel in my hands.




Temple of Time took two years to write. I had to pause writing as life took me through its ups and downs and shifting of priorities. Occasionally I had to give in when short-stories took precedence over the novel. Nevertheless, I came back to it every time, when the plot became much clearer and the characters developed themselves in my mind.

I finished writing Temple of Time in 2011, but it still had a long way to go. I punished a handful of people by making them read the first draft. Their feedback brought me to the unhappy conclusion that a major chunk of the plot had to be removed. Anyone who has rewritten their own work would know how gruelling a task it is.

Finally in 2013, it was ready (sort of). After a year and a half of futile attempts at finding a publisher for the book (as well as doing a million rounds of editing) and hopes rising moon-high several times only to be dashed to the ground, I decided to put it up on Amazon and see how it fares.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the world my first novel, Temple of Time.

Abstract of Temple of Time
Abhijeet was ten years old when his elder brother was lost, believed dead, during a college tour in the hills of Northern Kerala. Twelve years later, Abhijeet is knocked out of his dull and mundane life by an eerie dream in which his brother calls out to him.

Soon afterwards, Abhijeet finds to his shock that his brother is still alive, but in a horrifying condition and on the verge of death, at the very same place he was last seen. Abhijeet is left with a curious last message that he tries to decipher, for he feels the answer to his brother's disappearance lies in it.

He embarks on a journey to the past, to piece together the events that led to the fateful day years ago, seeking to discover his brother's footprints and finding himself in the process.
Read Temple of Time.


I know many of us prefer print books (I do too), but as of now, it is beyond my capability to offer Temple of Time in print. I hope you will all download and read the book, and I hope some of you will like it, and I hope you will all let me know about it.

Click here to purchase Temple of Time 

Amazon.comhttp://www.amazon.com/dp/B00U54HX3I

Amazon India:  https://www.amazon.in/dp/B00U54HX3I

Saturday, January 4, 2014

"And so it goes with God."

Except for the fact that Irrfan, when he speaks these words, looks profoundly enigmatic and proud, like a man who has seen something we haven't, I have no clue what his words could mean. Even after watching the movie three times and reading the book once.


At the beginning of Life of Pi, there is a claim (by Francis aka Mamaji) that Pi Patel "has a story that will make you believe in God". The movie tries to project it in such a way that when Pi abandons all hope and surrenders to God, God, who was watching all the while, brings him to a strange island to restore his belief and provides him strength to continue. There is no such interpretation in the book.

Surely God, who sank the ship, killed his family and allowed the ship's crew to perish, did not save Pi alone just to prove that He exists? Or is it that, despite the sinking of the ship (an act in which He had no hand), despite Pi finding himself literally at sea, God was with him, giving him the strength to survive? Does it have something to do with Pi being a "practising Hindu, Muslim and Christian"? My takeaway from the story is Pi's inner strength, whether God-given or not. In the face of adversity he does not wither, he blooms (well, as much blooming as a raft at sea and a famished tiger would permit). Richard Parker, his alter ego or a fierce Bengal tiger, depending on which story you want to believe, keeps him alert and alive.

But for Mamaji's confusing statement, the story remains a wonderful watch/read. The first part in India, with little Pi naming himself, encountering God and meeting Richard Parker are all delightful. (Even more so in the book). The lifeboat, the tiger, the vegetarian boy and the raft in the middle of the ocean are spectacular in 3D.

The movie remains true to the novel for the most part. Very minimal (and essential) clipping has been done, as compared to other book adaptations. The dialogs are pretty much Yann Martel's own words. The character of Anandi, the dancer, has been introduced in the movie. In the novel, there is a strange incident when Pi loses his eyesight and hears the voice of a man - who has curiously lost his eyesight as well. A long conversation between the temporarily blinded people ensue, at the end of which the newcomer tries to kill Pi (and devour him, no doubt) but the starving Richard Parker kills him instead. By the time Pi recovers his eyesight, the man is beyond recognition.

But what is it that's staring me in the face and I cannot see?

It was natural that, bereft and desperate as I was, in the throes of unremitting suffering, I should turn to God.

Nothing in the story reinforced or enhanced my faith, but nothing destroyed it either. Nothing answered my questions and doubts, and nothing made me decide either way.

And so it goes with God.

Friday, July 12, 2013

The Writer

I don't know her. Except her name, that is. And that she is on the other side of the globe, speaking a language I know, but living in circumstances I know nothing of, in a culture that is unknown to me. Or was? I don't know that either.

But through her words something seeps through, a familiarity, a connection, a strange sort of camaraderie. Have you been there too? I know what it's like.

Through her words I get a glimpse of her. As though I have climbed into a tap, squeezed through the pipe against the flow of the water, and crawled all the way to its source. I see her. Or rather, I get to see a small window that opens to one corner of her heart.

I do not know her. I do not know what she thinks, what she does, what she wears. But every writer, however cryptic or complex be her writing, leaves a bit of herself in her pages. Like saw dust sprinkled over them. You blow them away when you read, or you see them for what they are. The characters are not her. They are all made up. The author is invisible, no one cares except for the name. But the people in the story point her character out to us. If we are willing to see.

As a reader, you enjoy the book: the story, the plot, the ending, the writing, the characters.

As a writer, you see a little further. You are able to appreciate the tools used, the skills the author has sharpened, her innate talent, her brilliance, her ability to surprise.

As a thinker, sometimes you get to go beyond, much beyond, almost to the other side of the globe. You see her, the person, the mind. As though you are looking out through a foggy glass window. Yes, you see her, vague and fuzzy, you feel her presence.

You realise that the story was not entirely fabricated, it did not come to her one fine morning. It was always there, like a sob deep inside the recesses of her sophisticated mind. It is a metaphor of what she has seen, a thread of a thought, a fear, a desire, a pain, a life. Something I can connect with.

I Google her. For she is no longer a mere name to me. She is someone I know. And if she isn't, if what I have constructed of her isn't true, what does it matter?

She is no longer an unknown. I see her face. I read about her life. She rises in my unworthy eyes. I read about other books she has written. Books I should soon be laying my hands on.


Now reading. The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood.

Friday, January 11, 2013

"Joseph Anton: A Memoir" by Salman Rushdie

The relationship between a book and its author is the same as that of a baby and its mother. A droplet of water and the Ocean. The One that was born from the Other. Both are one and the same, and yet both have their own individuality, uniqueness. Their thoughts are entwined even when they are different. Just as a baby holds on to his mother's hand while he walks: connected, but independent.

I did not discover Salman Rushdie the way I discovered other writers. Many eminent authors came to me highly recommended. I found others at the library or the bookshop. As a hungry reader I pounced on them and lost myself in their worlds. Rushdie, on the other hand, burst into my view a few years ago, largely owing to his famously controversial book. And yet, avid reader, book lover and aspiring writer though I was, I did not for a moment imagine I would want to read him to find out what the furore was all about. It just did not cross my mind that he was an author. He wrote books. I do not understand today why it did not cross my mind - until early last year at the Jaipur Literary Festival, when the controversy resurfaced with Indians and Pakistanis (and probably others) boycotting the event where Rushdie was expected to be present.

Wasn't this issue something like, twenty years old?? I thought. Wasn't it time to put it behind? Hasn't the author written anything else after that, or what? After all, isn't it the book that's considered offensive, and not the author? But without having read The Satanic Verses, how could I form an opinion, any opinion? It dawned on me finally: I should read him. The Satanic Verses being banned in India, the only alternative was Midnight's Children.

Midnight's Children left me spellbound. A new author had just found his way to my Favourite Authors' List.  I had to read more of him. There were other books but my curiosity was piqued by the controversy. If I could not get hold of the banned book, I could read all about it in the memoir, the latest work by Rushdie. I had to.



'Joseph Anton: A Memoir' describes the Satanic Verses days from Rushdie's life. Everything that built up to the book and everything that happened afterwards. I think it was important that Rushdie wrote 'Joseph Anton'. It is a huge book, bulkier than his other books, but people who take the time to read it would at least pause to consider that The Satanic Verses was probably more than a mere 'religion-bashing' or a 'gimmick to make more money by raking up a controversy' (as I was led to believe). It is important to understand what inspired the author to write The Satanic Verses, and how his life changed overnight. What place the book holds in the story of Literature and how the book grew out of its own pages and became a chapter in history. It is important that Salman Rushdie ceases to be merely a "controversial author of a controversial book" in the eyes of people like me.

I haven't read the controversial book. Once (If) I do, I would either decide it was an outstanding Rushdie work and the controversy was blown-out-of-proportion, or that the book, for all its literary merits, did take a step across the limits (whatever that means) and the controversy was justified. I may like the book, or I may not. I cannot say. As a reader, I have the freedom to decide. But my freedom ends when the decision is made, where the author's nose begins.

A book, though it does represent the author's thoughts and ideas, is also an infant that has grown up and finds its own place in the world. It is important for us, as readers, to understand where the author ends and the book begins, where the author gives a free rein to his characters, his plot and his theme, where the book begins to rise to its feet and stand on its own. The book is its author even when it is not. The book takes the imagination of the author to places where he could not go alone. The book flaps its wings and takes flight across the borders of the ordinary, the mundane and the unexplored, only to return at night to its own home, the arms of its author.

It takes considerable courage to write something that could be termed sensitive. To let the beast out that had been struggling to break loose. I have seen authors insert a clause in their foreword to mollify readers, to prevent them from taking offense. It takes considerable courage to write something and not edit it out. To not write a clause in the foreword asking for pardon. To go ahead knowing that this could raise a few red flags across the world. To write nonetheless, just for the sheer joy of writing.

Joseph Anton: A Memoir

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Persepolis

Just finished reading Persepolis: The story of a childhood and Persepolis 2: The story of a return by Marjane Satrapi.

I don't have any words to describe them. If you haven't read these books yet, you should.



The books were recommended by Cartoonist Sunil.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Midnight's Children

At the very outset, I have not read The Satanic Verses. I plan to, but given the fact that the book is banned in India, it may not be easy.

After years of hearing about the Rushdie controversy (which has a habit of popping back up every couple of years or so) I finally decided - and I do not know what finally clinched the decision - that I wanted to read his books, at least one. In fact, now I wonder why all these years I never thought about reading them, even the ones that are not banned.

I cannot now recollect what I was prepared for when I started Midnight's Children. I surely had some kind of expectation about it. But one week and 647 pages and 60+ years of Indian History later, my original expectations are as blurred as (perhaps) the memories of my infancy.

The book gives us a glimpse into what the Satanic Verses could hold: even if I do not know what "religion-bashing" (to use the phrase a friend employed to explain why the book is banned) could be contained in it, I could form a fair idea from Midnight's Children. I could perceive who could be offended and why. But I do not want to venture into it: religion after all is a dicey topic, and the Who-talks-about-it part is more important than the What-they-said.

But by God - forget what the plot is about, forget what the author tries to convey about history, geography, politics, mythology or religion (oh, yes one could take offence all over the place) - what totally blew me over was his style: I didn't know you could write like that! The book defies every (almost) writing rule I have come across, and yet stands firm on its feet. It left me reeling in its wake.
How can you have the first person (I) and third person (he/she) narrative in the same sentence, referring to the same person - for that's how the narrator, Saleem Sinai, tells us his tale: going back and forth from first to third, and the reader does not even notice when the 'I' became a 'he', and then became 'Saleem' and again back to 'I'.
And, man, where are the commas, why are they not where they should be? And why is it that I did not even feel odd (after the first such occurrence) that they are not there?
And when did Saleem switch from past tense to present, even while describing the same scene, from the Bombay (or Karachi or Kashmir) of years ago?
What about  repeated statements, wandering phrases, incomplete sentences that begin and end in thought-provoking dots... words tumbling and cascading over each other in their mad rush.
And so forth.

The first page of the book left me raising my eyebrows, which could mean anything: I was surprised, but was curious to read more, and a little wary (after all, the author is banned in several countries), perhaps sceptical as well. But after page 4 or 5, I caught myself gaping, astounded that such writing was possible, that it was allowed.
And a little disheartened that I would try to call myself a writer in a world where such writers exist.

Enjoying a book is all about deciding what you care about - the literature, plot, characters, theme, premise, backdrop? What captures your attention inevitably stems from who you are, what you are,where you come from, how you see life, what you expect of yourself. Right after I turned the last page of Midnight's Children, I took up another book by a good (perhaps, brilliant) author, but the first couple of pages seemed too plain, linear, ordinary, lifeless, that I put it back. I need more time to get past the hangover. I post this before I have second thoughts, Time always dims our first impression and tries to force its own convictions on us.

Students of literature may claim that similar writing styles have been experimented with by others before or after - I do not know. I haven't come across any. And, as I write this, I am still in a state of shocked disbelief.

I will just say this: after reading 647 pages of Saleem Sinai, my writing can never be the same again.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Those days, those books...


There was a time I spent my spare time reading.
There was a time I planned, made a list and bought books.
There was a time a sizeable chunk of my salary was dedicated to music cassettes and books. Books, more than cassettes.
There was a time there would be a book in the queue waiting for the first to be read.
There was a time I would put the child to bed early so that I can pull out that book from the bedside and read till my eyes close. The last time I did that was when I sat till 2AM to finish Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. That was probably the last time as well.

Now? I just can't hold a book long enough to consume its contents. Oh, I do get my amount of spare time. There is no way I can complain of 'lack of time'. In the last couple of years, I bought two books: Chasing the Monsoon in Winter 2009, and The Catcher in the Rye in Summer 2010. I did not get past 3-4 pages of the first and about one-third of the second. They remained at my bedside for weeks, then next to my computer for another few more. Then, I sidelined them to the book-shelf where they still await my touch.

It's alarming. I just can't hold myself down enough to finish a book. There is this pull, call it Gravity if you will, that draws me away. I know it's all about priorities - if I really want to read, I know I can. But these things that need to be done, the things that suffocate me, they are always on the top of the list.

I miss books. Gawd, I miss reading.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Freedom at Midnight

Yellowed pages ready to tear at the slightest provocation.

A carefully scribbled signature of a person who had just started owning books and marking them to show ownership.

A date written beneath the signature, possibly that of purchase: 25/6/87

The story of a slice of history that needs to be re-read time and again.

Cool breeze on a warm afternoon.
The book slips from my hand as my eyes droop.
The papers flutter and close, stopping at the title page.


Saturday, September 25, 2010

To Kill a MockingBird

Sharing my most favourite passage from Harper Lee's To Kill a Mocking Bird. If you haven't read it (or seen the film), you possibly would not connect. If you have, you'll know what I mean.

*

I looked behind me. To the left of the brown door was a long shuttered window. I walked to it, stood in front of it, and turned around. In daylight, I thought, you could see to the postoffice corner.

Daylight… in my mind, the night faded. It was daytime and the neighborhood was busy. Miss Stephanie Crawford crossed the street to tell the latest to Miss Rachel. Miss Maudie bent over her azaleas. It was summertime, and two children scampered down the sidewalk toward a man approaching in the distance. The man waved, and the children raced each other to him.

It was still summertime, and the children came closer. A boy trudged down the sidewalk dragging a fishingpole behind him. A man stood waiting with his hands on his hips. Summertime, and his children played in the front yard with their friend, enacting a strange little drama of their own invention.

It was fall, and his children fought on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose’s. The boy helped his sister to her feet, and they made their way home. Fall, and his children trotted to and fro around the corner, the day’s woes and triumphs on their faces. They stopped at an oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive.

Winter, and his children shivered at the front gate, silhouetted against a blazing house. Winter, and a man walked into the street, dropped his glasses, and shot a dog.

Summer, and he watched his children’s heart break. Autumn again, and Boo’s children needed him.

Atticus was right. One time he said you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on the Radley porch was enough.

The street lights were fuzzy from the fine rain that was falling. As I made my way home, I felt very old, but when I looked at the tip of my nose I could see fine misty beads, but looking cross-eyed made me dizzy so I quit. As I made my way home, I thought what a thing to tell Jem tomorrow. He’d be so mad he missed it he wouldn’t speak to me for days. As I made my way home, I thought Jem and I would get grown but there wasn’t much else left for us to learn, except possibly algebra.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Love in the time of Cholera


That is how they were: they spent their lives proclaiming their proud origins, the historic merits of the city, the value of its relics, its heroism, its beauty, but they were blind to the decay of the years. Dr. Juvenal Urbino, on the other hand, loved it enough to see it with the eyes of truth.

"How noble this city must be," he would say, "for we have spent four hundred years trying to finish it off and we still have not succeeded."

*
This was not only due to her limited time and the danger of being taken by surprise, it was also her nature that caused her letters to avoid emotional pitfalls and confine themselves to relating the events of her daily life in the utilitarian style of a ship's log. In reality, they were distracted letters, intended to keep the coals alive without putting her hand in the fire, while Florentino Ariza burned himself alive in every line.

*
He did not resemble him in the pictures, or in his memories of him, or in the image transfigured by love that his mother painted, or in the one unpainted by his Uncle Leo XII with his cruel wit. Nevertheless, Florentino Ariza discovered the resemblance many years later, as he was combing his hair in front of the mirror, and only then did he understand that a man knows when he is growing old because he begins to look like his father.

*
He was a perfect husband: he never picked up anything from the floor, or turned out a light, or closed a door. In the morning darkness, when he found a button missing from his clothes, she would hear him say: "A man should have two wives: one to love and one to sew on his buttons."

Gabriel García Márquez