André Kertész

I didn't know about André Kertész until I came across this link about an hour ago.

I liked these photographs, especially the way everyone looks absorbed into the words they are reading – whether it's a boy reading the cartoon strips sitting on a pile of newspapers; or, a university girl slumped on a couch, reading and (it seems) absent-mindedly toying with a ball-point pen; or, a circus performer taking a break in the dressing room, lying on his (or her?) stomach and reading a paperback; or, an old man carefully scrutinizing a book from what seems like a second-hand book sale on the pavements; or, a young man enjoying a book, quietly, sitting on stool, beside a big window and a few cramped dormitory beds, possibly while all other inmates are out – all these, an ode to the act of reading.

Away

The last weekend was spent in delicious tranquility – amidst tree-lined avenues, manicured lawns, and neat little blocks of a residential academic campus. I've gone there to meet a long-time friend who is leading a recluse academic life, which mainly comprises of spending long hours in their excellent campus library, reading tomes of books, researching on subjects often unheard of, and taking afternoon naps. Well, there may be other things in the routine that I don't know of, but this is pretty much what I could gather.

Anyway, like I said, the campus is gorgeous. And it looked especially so because of the profusion of various shades of green, the continuous drizzle, and the accompanying quiet and deserted look. And, oh, besides the flora, they also have some interesting fauna – flocks of migratory birds with long legs and equally long beaks, scurrying army of squirrels, and the ubiquitous monkeys. So, I was absolutely smitten the moment my friend ushered me into the campus. Yes, the campus almost had a picture-perfect look, although my friend reminded me that all's not quite as picture-perfect as it seems. Which, I guess, applies to everything and his cynicism is justified. However, the good thing about this friend is that, despite the bone-crushing academic rigour, he still retains his verve and sense of humour. As a result, we found ourselves talking endlessly about inane things and generally indulging in the kind of laziness that we both appreciate. To spark things up, we also watched some of the trashy music videos of early 90s (which were quite a rage in our teenage days) and discussed the whereabouts of those faded music stars of yesteryears. Much fun was derived out of that.

To sum up, I had a nice time there amidst much of eating, munching, talking, walking, watching, and dozing. Okay, it might seem a little unusual that I travelled about a thousand kilometer to do such mundane things (and not doing any sightseeing or other such touristy things) but, really, who cares as long as we had all the fun.

PS: In the few sleepless moments when I was trying to accustom myself to the new bed and smell that hung in the empty hostel room that was allotted to me, it struck me that it’s been long since I’ve spent some time in an academic campus. And it did bring in a bout of nostalgia, of the place and the people from the past that’s been in hibernation.

Past, present, and future

• It was summer vacation time and we – our family, that is – were doing the yearly tour of relatives. But that summer, for some reason that I cannot remember now, I was left midway at one of my aunt’s place while the rest of the family continued with their tour. So, there I was, living in a hospital quarter (the uncle worked in a hospital) in some remote hills, spending half of the summer vacation. There was absolutely nothing I could do there, except take a stroll around the lush green compound or sit at home as it rained endlessly. Some afternoons, when it was sunny, me and my aunt would go bring some sweet corncobs from the wilderness that was their kitchen garden and boil them to have as snacks. At other times, I read the only book that was present in the house – it was a book about the dacoits of Chambal, who, I learnt from the book, roamed around the ravines of Chambal on horses, with gun in their hand and revenge in their hearts. Even though I was of an impressionable age, I wasn’t much impressed with those dacoits. I was still bored and longing to be back home among my friends, who, I knew, were having much fun. I still don’t know why the memories of those days haven’t faded away into oblivion. Memory is a tricky thing, indeed.

• I’m reading Bill Bryson’s Neither Here Nor There. It’s a travel book about the author’s (mis)adventures while travelling through the whole of Europe – from Hammerfest, the northernmost town of Europe, to Istanbul, where it touches Asia. Bill Bryson is an author I enjoy to read. Having previously read A Walk in the Woods, in which he writes about his funnily informative trekking expeditions in the Appalachian Trail, I decided to read him again. With Neither Here Nor There, Bill Bryson is again in his reckless humour form. The last I placed the bookmark, Bill Bryson has already gone through parts of Norway, France, Belgium, and Germany and is about to enter Amsterdam. I’m following him closely, as he dishes out anecdotes, histories, travel tips, and plain memories, one after another, in his inimitable style.

• The other day I saw in Facebook (yes, I’m there too) a quiz which went something like “What kind of old person will you be?” Of course, I didn’t take part in the quiz, but it got me thinking for some time. Indeed, how different do we get by the time we reach old age? I’ll probably remain as skeptical about things as I’m now. Probably, a little more cynical even. And I don’t see myself shedding my laziness either. Things, especially, I definitely wouldn’t want to be are – to intrude on others’ lives or to become talkative to the point of boring people to death (two hallmark traits of old people). But, well, isn’t future a funny thing? I might just become the person I despise now.

To win a bet

What is it like to write with abandon? I mean, without the worry of being scrutinized or the awkwardness of being too self conscious. What is it to like write on endlessly, uncontrollably, without knowing where it will end, and how? Writing for just the pleasure of writing, or as a catharsis, I realized, I haven’t done for long. (Maybe, I used to do it in those angst-ridden teenage years.) These days, I just write only as much is needed – not a sentence too long. I write official emails with carefully chosen words, in a business-like manner. To friends, I write cursory emails – unsure about how much information to fit in them, I often cut off whole paragraphs after reading the draft. I write to fetch me money, counting each word. I write mechanically – aloof and impersonal – so that I don’t give away what I don’t want to give away.

Sounds a tad pessimistic? Not really. It’s not bad as it sounds. I’ll write few words being in control, rather than too much. I am a little afraid of going overboard, of excess, of saying too much. So, I may end up spending a good deal of time typing letters out, rearranging them, fiddling with sentences, playing with punctuation marks, and finally delete the whole thing. And that's okay with me.

Maybe, writing with real abandon needs much more hard-work, patience, and courage than I know of. Maybe, I suffer from a mental block that stops me from doing so. Whatever it is that stops me, I know no cure of it.

So, at the end of the day, I’ll just write little odd posts like this and obliterate the rest.

PS: If you are stumped by the title of this post, I wrote this up last night so that I don't lose some of my hard-earned money to this poet.

When you sit at office for long...

... you come up with a lame post like this.

Okay, just composed a hurried post and wanted to put it up before June turns into July. Not that posting it in July is going to make any difference. But, you see, I'm practicing some self-imposed deadline to discipline myself. This post is just a sort of a quick update, if you please.

• Although it's monsoon time the rains are nowhere in sight. Obviously, absence of rain is the talk of the town these days. Which is not such a bad thing, I guess. Whenever I run out of things to say, I can always initiate a conversation about how awful the delayed monsoon is proving to be.

• Apart from monsoon rain, the other thing that is not happening is my cooking. I have gone into a non-cooking mode for quite some time now. The recent acquisition of a refrigerator has not helped much. Bad!

• I'm sometimes awed by the swiftness of people. The way people make life-altering decisions. The way they appear to be in control of what they do. The self-assurance. And look at me: I ponder hours about whether I should do the dishes, wash the clothes, and mop the floor; or, should I just lie down and stare at the ceiling. Exasperating!

• Recently, I had been asked whether I have any long-term plans. Like, where do I want to be after, maybe, 5/10 years. Needless to say, I had none. But, now, I'm sort of getting the idea. Is it time to assess and evaluate?

• The area I live in has recently got many new shops and stores and eating joints – and some old ones closed down. Meanwhile, many people I knew have moved away, changed jobs, bought property, got married, or did some such important thing. And, I'm wondering how much unchanged my life has remained in the last few years.

• By the way, seriously, where has the last six months gone? I just realized that half of the year is over.

Procrastination

Today, I was going through an online training session about time management (what else?) in office. This one was a recorded webinar, one where the participants were communicating with the presenter by typing in their responses onto the presentation slides.

So, during the presentation, one particular question the presenter asked was, "Why procrastinate?"

There were many fervent responses typed onto the slide. All true and relevant to various extent.

But the show-stealer response was, "I hope it will go away."

I felt like the person who wrote this was me.

Reading update

After an upsetting day, I come home, sprawl down on the bed, and open the pages of Unaccustomed Earth, a book I had been reading all throughout the week, often keeping myself awake late into the night. It was obvious that I liked the book. Jhumpa Lahiri’s words drew me like a force, in a quiet and unassuming manner. And it allowed me to take a peep into others’ life and forget my own. But, well, there were moments when the peep into others’ life gave a glimpse of the pain and wonder that lay buried within self, freshly coming alive from the recess of forgotten memories. And that, probably, is the triumph of Jhumpa Lahiri’s fictional characters; they allow us to feel the pain and alienation of their lives in a way few fictional characters can.

Long back, I had been stumped by the stories in Jhumpa Lahiri’s debut short story collection, The Interpreter of Maladies, which I had read when I was still in college. I realize now that there were some pretty sloppy stories in that collection; but, nonetheless, some of the stories have withstood the test of time and still remain etched in my memory, the characters still alive like I’ve seen them in real life. In fact, I can still recall the way some of the stories – A Temporary Matter, Sexy, and The Third and Final Continent – touched me. Of course I was young and impressionable back then, but I have a feeling that I’ll like them even if I reread these stories today.

The next book of Jhumpa Lahiri, The Namesake, didn’t come my way for a long time. And when it finally came, I didn’t get a chance to finish it. Till date it remains half-read, and I have ambivalent feelings towards that.

Now, with Unaccustomed Earth, I am again back to the fold, gleefully admiring the stories contained in this collection. Some of the stories in this collection had kept me awake late into the night, and these sleepless nights are probably my compliments to these stories. I have often come across comments disparaging Jhumpa Lahiri’s writing as being confined to the Indian diaspora. I don’t care much about such comments, of course. I have liked these stories and that’s it. Period. As long as she can invent stories of such quality drawn from the limited milieu of Indian (read Bengali) diaspora and still not appear hackneyed, I have no issues reading about her stories.

Among other books I recently read, Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies was a bit of let-down; Irène Némirovsky’s All Our Worldly Goods was pretty good (am picking up Suite Française next); and Qurratulain Haider’s Fireflies in the Mist was an absorbing read.

Books are piling up, unread, beside my bed at an alarming rate, and my pulse races just by looking at them and imagining how much catching-up I have to do. Sigh!

A summer day

When I wake up and get ready, it is still dark outside. I load my bag with food and water and come out on the road. At the railway station, however, it’s already busy. Trains arrive and leave, people jump in and out of them. Like any other time of the day.

The day breaks as the train picks speed. The sunlight touches the trees and fields near the railway track. The morning breeze ruffles our hair. Gradually, the city thins out, the buildings and shops give way to wide open fields. After about an hour’s travel, our train is already on the hills and is passing through several tunnels. Far below, in some village, smoke is rising out of a hut.

As soon as we alight at the platform, we run towards the bus station, hop into a bus (lucky that got there in time), and travel for one more hour to reach a dusty little place from where our walk starts. After rushing around since morning, this tranquil place charms us with the very first look. We cross a tiny primary school (it’s closed today, being a holiday), a small shop, and then take the road that goes up in the hills.

During our climb up the hill, we come across several small groups of villagers, all dressed in festival clothes, ambling down to the hill. We find out the reason of festivity soon enough, when an old woman from one such group catches us for a little chat while we rest under a shade. Apparently, it’s the wedding day for one of the boys from the village on top of the hill, and the whole village is heading towards the wedding. And as if on cue, the groom also appears shortly, with garlands around his neck and a bright headgear, but, strangely, walking bare-feet. He gives us a shy grin as he passes us by. We give him an encouraging smile in return.

We finally reach the pinnacle of the fort, after negotiating a steep climb. It’s a small fort – just a few caves and water tanks, one dilapidated stone gate, and one solitary cannon. After moving around the place for some time, we find a shaded place sit down for lunch. And there, looking lazily at the valley below and the nearby hills, I gobble down two paranthas and two gulab jamuns.

The climbing down proves to be extremely difficult – the heat exhausts us completely. The good thing, however, is that the hills are full of wild karonda fruits. We pick the ripe tangy-sweet fruits – eat as much as we can and stash the rest in the polythene bags to carry home.

Rest of the return journey goes pretty uneventfully. We negotiate two bumpy tempo rides to reach the railway platform and then catch our train back.

Of course, this isn't the advisable way to spend a summer day – out in the sun when the temperature soars to 41 degree centigrade. But, well, I needed to go away somewhere, especially after the insane April I had gone through.

All in a day

• This morning, while still in bed, I heard a cuckoo sing. It felt so good that I decide to stay some more time in bed, and practice a little bit of whistling myself. Well, I suck at whistling and I got late for office, but doesn’t matter.

• The Food Bazaar has already started stocking mangoes. Is it mango time already? They kind of look shriveled and emaciated. But, mangoes are good nostalgia material. Reminds me of hailstorms. You know, back then, hailstorms were so much fun, because we could run out and collect fallen mangoes.

• The eucalyptus tree in front of the balcony is full of new leaves. A few amaltas trees on the roadside are showing off gorgeous yellow bunches of flowers, dangling like chandeliers off the branches. In the nearby hills, some unknown trees have shed all their leaves and are donning pink flowers instead. In a few more weeks, I hope, the fiery red gulmohars, for which I seem to have a soft spot, will also join in.

"the memories of last spring"

Memories of mountains, lost tongues, and encroaching birds

• The place where I go the other day to withdraw money from an ATM has a new shining office of a travel company. You know the ones that sell holiday packages and arrange for your travel and stay at exotic locations. I am briskly walking past it when, through the glass walls, I see names of popular holiday destinations emblazoned all over the walls of the brightly lit office. And there, among other names, I see Naukuchiyatal. Not a very popular name perhaps (at least, not as popular as Nainital), but it rings a bell in my head. My steps stop briefly there as the splendour of the Kumaon hills come out from the recess of memory – tall trees, winding roads, deep gorges, shady groves, crisp air, and the distant towering cliffs of the Himalayas. Later in the evening, when I am struggling to cross the busy road on my way home, I think of the languid afternoon walk from that trip in the hills, and my lips curl in an imperceptible smile.

• A recent article I read says that about 2500 languages of the world are presently endangered, out of which 199 languages have fewer than 10 speakers left. This data comes specifically from the UNESCO report UNESCO Interactive Atlas of the World's Languages in Danger. Piqued, I did a search there for the language ‘Koch,’ which is my mother tongue (if I strictly go by the definition, i.e., the language I inherited from my parents, even if I cannot speak it properly myself) and I found it to be listed as a definitely endangered language, with only about 31000 speakers at present. It seems, with globalization, as we move towards a more homogeneous world, there are many aspects of our lives that are being quietly wiped away. I don’t know whether to feel sad about the dwindling numbers or accept it as an inevitable sign of changing times. Yes, I agree that we should protect languages like we try to protect endangered flora and fauna, but eventually isn’t it time that determines what should survive and what should perish.
  

• There is a family (I guess?) of crazy doves that lives on the cornices of the building where I live. They are forever looking for a chance to get into my house and drive me nuts. Whenever I leave the kitchen window open, they come in and create a big mess throwing things around. Previously, they had broken a bottle of soya sauce, and a few days back they broke the handle of a cup, besides many other smaller mischiefs at regular intervals. Enraged, I have tried a few times to trap them and teach them a lesson, but they are always quicker than me. And once they have flown out at a safe distance, they sit quietly and peck each other playfully as if nothing has happened, all the while giving me a nonchalant look. Occasionally, they also make a big ruckus and wake me up from my nap. Whoever thought of doves being a symbol of peace obviously was never troubled by a family of unruly doves. But, well, I guess one has to learn to live with neighbours, however obnoxious they seem. Well, while we are talking of birds, you may want to have a look at the clever crows as well.

Suddenly

As it happens on Sunday afternoons, I am lazy and drowsy. But, well, I have a deadline and I have to finish something; so I try to keep myself awake and work. The going gets difficult at times though, and I have to take short breaks once in a while to get my concentration back. A little pacing inside the room, a little absent-minded gaze on the walls, a cursory look at the pile of books by my side, a quick snacking of fruits (oranges today) – one of these methods eventually gets me rejuvenated and I get back to my work. The concentration, on an average, stays between half an hour and one hour. After that, of course, it’s time for the next break. Indeed, how much lazier can one get!

So, I was practicing the absent-minded-gaze this afternoon, when my eyes fell on the multiple unread books lying in small heaps all around. I should mention here that I have a habit of tossing up books all around the room and it takes about a week to turn neatly stacked books into a mess that I lovingly create. It’s not easy to understand why I do it, but I would love to call it ‘carefully careless reading’ if that can help me do away with being messy.

Well, for those who’ve known me, nothing new in all these, of course. What is new about today, however, is that I happened to be quite amused this afternoon by looking at the way these piles of books were lying. So, on one side of my pillow lay books of Murakami’s short stories with Nalini Jonses’, both half read, with pages open, spine up, flat upon their bellies. On the other side lay unread books by three writers, as disparate as they can be – Alice Munro’s short stories and Thomas Mann’s grave-looking novel sandwiching the newbie writer Siddhartha Deb (poor Deb, who knew he would ever come between such heavyweights). The other bed on which I sit and work, I find that the scene is a little more crowded. Here, Vikram Seth’s slim travelogue is sitting atop Marquez, Guenter Grass, and Vikram Chandra (which, incidentally, is a giant book, enough to serve as a mini pillow). Beside this stack is another one where Kamila Shamsie’s feisty (bright and colorful cover) novel is jostling for space with Dario Fo’s memoir, Rana Dasgupta’s modern-day fables of stranded passengers on their way to Tokyo, and some other authors who I’m suddenly too lazy to write down now. But, of course, I cannot get away without mentioning the Qurratulain Haider’s novel, which sits alone, a little farther from the hustle and bustle, as if it decided to do so on its own will. Probably, some books do have their own personality, after all.

Hmm, enough of running wild, I guess. The work beckons me again.

PS: Barring a couple of them, all these books are waiting to be picked up some day. Sigh!

Strange worlds

I’ve earlier mentioned about my liking for fiction. But, in fiction too, I have a particular liking for short stories, which I probably haven’t mentioned earlier. Anyway, what I’m getting at is: these days my readings are usually so novel-centric that short stories do not get as much attention, although it was short stories that attracted me to books in the first place. In fact, not just stories in books, I also grew up listening to stories narrated by my grandmother. So, the taste of stories actually built up even before I picked up a book.

My earlier reading of short stories revolved around simple narratives, where something always happened, someone died or lived happily ever after, someone got punished or rewarded. They were linear, straightforward, and easy to read. I devoured them. Those were days of simple unbridled joys.

Then came the discoveries of other short stories – more experimental – not necessarily concerned with time span, more with the inner workings of the characters. And sometimes, the characters behaved in a manner so uncouth and unbecoming (so I thought back then) that I was startled to no end. In these stories, people behaved in manners not deemed proper, there were no happy endings; well, sometimes no endings at all. And not to mention, sometimes, the stories touched on themes that were probably not meant for young readers like me. But, I read them anyway, with palpitating heart and a strange awakening of something inside that was all hazy yet attractive. I was lucky in a way that nobody monitored what I read. Those were the days of strange discoveries, unknown fears and joys. And, probably, those days are still not over, never will. I'm still discovering stranger worlds.

Anyway, the reason I blabbered all these is because I had been reading Haruki Murakami’s excellent collection of short stories Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman (link to a review of the book), which is full of strange, elliptical, and yet delightful stories. Many a times, after reading a story from the book, I throw the book aside, come out to the balcony, stare outside and wonder who these people in the stories may be.

Well, I guess I shouldn't wonder. I would probably appear as strange if someone writes a story about me. Or, about anyone else for that matter.

Almost

I don’t know if you may have noticed earlier, but there were many times when I came very close to give up writing this blog for various reasons – caught up with work, nothing to write about, worried about money and career, depressed with life, unhappy with the shoddy attempts at writing, etc. But so far, somehow, I have remained unsuccessful to bring it to a complete end. I invariably came back every time after a brief hiatus.

I was going through one such phase again. And, well, this time it came pretty close to an end. Or, so I thought. I was almost convinced that this blog was going nowhere – it can just as well be done away with and left alone to die a quiet death.

The last few days, I must admit, I swung like a pendulum, thinking over it. I had no obvious answers either way. And I almost lost my sleep trying to decide. However, I later realized, from the little I know about the workings of my mind, that given a lifetime, I would still be indecisive about it.

I know it seems funny that I could have been agitated over such a petty thing. After all, why could it even matter in any real sense? Seriously, I still cannot understand why I should’ve lost my sleep for something like this. But, well, I guess I don’t understand many things about me anyway.

Okay, so if you are reading this, you can see that I did finally make the decision. But, it was an impulsive decision, like always, and I can’t say what good will come out of it. Moreover, it really could have gone either way, just like the toss of a coin. The reason that it didn’t go the other way, is purely accidental, and therefore beyond any explanation.

I can see that this has turned out to be a strange post, very unusual for a first post of the new year. Don’t know what this portends.

Anyway, for now, I am back.

Snippets

• We go eating sizzlers. At a bustling place, with old friends from college days. As it happens on such occasions, we talk about halcyon days of past and stir up memories of people we knew. We talk incessantly, behave noisily, eat clumsily, and laugh out loudly at the tiniest of anecdotes we share. After so many years, even the painful memories now seem laughable.

• I’m packing my bags for year-end holidays. I am going away for few days and there’s not much to pack anyway, I think. But this morning, I run around and pile up things that I need to carry – clothes, tickets, slippers, books. Oh, books! I take maximum time to decide which books to carry with me for holiday read. I know, I won’t probably read much, but then I am bugged by the thought, “What if I feel like picking up a book? What if I feel like picking up this particular book?”

• So, another year went by. And minor ups and downs apart, I think it went quite well with me. I don’t really like to do year-end assessments, nor new-year resolutions. Therefore, instead, I’m going on hibernation for the next two weeks.

By the way, my best wishes to you all for the coming year.

Happy 2009!

Am still here

I feel flattered that some people are taking out time from their busy schedules and wondering about why I haven’t posted on the blog for so long. It is even more surprising (pleasantly, of course) to find that these people are coming in regularly to check whether something new has been written on the blog. Neither my stony silence nor the repeated disappointments could deter them from visiting.

And I must say I am mighty impressed by their remarkable persistence. And I thought that I owed one post for them, even if it is just to signal that I’m not dead yet.

So what kept me away from writing? Well, it was work mostly, but I also somehow didn’t feel the desire to say anything. It is, as if, I have run out of things to say, and whatever I want to say seems totally dispensable. This feeling has somehow made into my mind and I don't see any changes to it happening in the coming days.

Cannot say when I shall be back again, but don't worry because I am alive and kicking.

By the way, before I leave, here are three photos from a recent trip. Posting photos, as you know, is a sign that I have run out of things to write about. Hope I get over this phase soon.

dragonflies flitting about at vijaydurg

sunshine on water at sindhudurg

sunset at the quiet beach at devgad

And no, this post was not written with pen and paper. In fact, recently, I have started typing away even more furiously on the keyboard; haven't got much chance to write with the pen ever since.

Penmanship

The last few days I had been trying to write with a fountain pen. I got it as a gift this Diwali and had since been itching to write something with it. The gleaming pen itself looked very inviting – the nib glided effortlessly on paper, the ink flowed smoothly, and my own handwriting (dare I say) appeared likeable, if not exactly calligraphic.

Anyway, so, with pen in my hand I started scribbling everywhere – a signature here on the flyleaf of a book, a random line there between the newspaper columns, or even at the back of grocery bills. Well, basically, on anything that came close to the pen. Obviously, I was delighted with this new possession.

That was until I sat down to write something in a more disciplined way. Now I realized the trouble I had in my hand – I cannot do a Ctrl + z to undo what I just wrote, I have to strike out and leave an ugly mark; I cannot Ctrl + c and Ctrl + v a line, I have to write every single character; I cannot hyperlink, neither can I run a spellchecker. Probably, the only saving grace was that I was relieved from doing a Ctrl + s every time I wrote anything. But it was a small consolation. In the absence of an undo option, the page I was writing on resembled more like a cryptic puzzle with misbehaved words running randomly between the lines and making a complete mess.

Much though I tried writing with the pen, it was apparent how much I relied upon Microsoft Word. Usually, I am not the one who always laments giving up all old ways of doing things, but it was a bit unsettling to find that I could feel so uneasy when writing with a pen, which I once enjoyed much.

However, I am not giving up on writing with the pen yet. I still playfully scribble with it everywhere. And hopefully, one of these days, I shall write a blog post with the pen. Or, a letter maybe. Well, anything, as long as it gets written.

PS: One thing makes me wonder. Now that there are technologies assisting us to write and format better, it's odd that I find increasing instances of shoddy writing. And I don’t just mean the ubiquitous misspelled hoardings and signboards. I mean the emails, the SMSes, the chat messages, the documents you come across at workplaces. Everywhere.

Hunger

This novel cannot even claim to have a redeeming social value. Although Hunger puts us in the jaws of misery, it offers no analysis of that misery, contains no call for political action. Hamsun, who turned a fascist in his old age during the Second World War, never concerned himself with the problems of class injustice, and his narrator – hero, like Dostoevsky's Raskolnikov, is not so much of an underdog as a monster of intellectual arrogance. Pity plays no part in Hunger. The hero suffers, but only because he has chosen to suffer. Hamsun's art is such that he rigorously prevents us from feeling any compassion for his character. From the very beginning, it is made clear that the hero need not starve. Solutions exist, if not in the city, then at least in departure. But buoyed by an obsessive, suicidal pride, the young man's action continually betray a scorn for his own best interests.

– Paul Auster, in an Introduction to Knut Hamsun's Hunger

If it's not for you, it's not for you

The first time I saw this one, I just felt it was way too intelligent. The second time I saw it, I thought the tag line sounded almost prophetic. The third time I saw it, I chose to forget my earlier promise (of not linking to YouTube videos) and decided to put it up on the blog, anyway.

On dull evenings

For the last few days, I was a little annoyed with the fact that my reading had taken a back seat. Each evening after coming home I would be overcome with a strange sense of futility for all things I do, reading included. And all I really wanted on these evenings was to blot out my thoughts altogether, if at all that was possible. I was reading less not because I had been busy doing other things, but because I was overcome with a strange sense of – what can I call it – ennui, maybe. Each day, I watched at the pile of books lying unread, and I got more annoyed with myself. And the more I thought about them, the more I became aware of the time passing me by, most of which, I am afraid, rather gone as a waste.

Still, the little I read recently, I read mostly by jumping from one book to another. As a result, I have a series of unfinished books, strewn all over the place.

I don’t know when I am going to catch up with my reading. But, in the meantime, I am busy with something else – watching Kieslowski’s Dekalog (or, The Decalogue), one part each evening. I watched the first two parts of this Kieslowski masterpiece two years back at Pune International Film Festival, and was completely bowled over by what I saw. And, it’s been a wish since then to catch all the ten films of Dekalog someday. As it happens, I have recently come across the complete Dekalog. And thus, at least for 10 days, I have my evenings occupied.

I have read/heard so many different accounts from people declaring how Dekalog has changed their attitude and perspective to films that I am mildly excited to find out how my own experience will be. Of course, the first two parts were influential enough, but I wanted to see the whole thing and then decide for myself.

So, for now I'll be just watching a part each evening and hopefully, I’ll try to write about my experience when I am done watching the complete Dekalog.

Disparate

• A few days back, coming home late one night, I felt a mild chill in the air. It’s mid-October, and winter is slowly making its way, I realized. Of course, the days are still warm, sometimes even hot, but the evenings have started to show distinct signs of the changing season. However, unlike the other places I have lived, winter here is mild and short-lived – none of those thick shroud of fog or biting cold days are seen here – but it’s pleasant and enjoyable nevertheless. As I was riding back home that evening, my mind flew back to many winter days and nights from yesteryears – the sound of dewdrops dripping from the mango tree near the window at night, back at my home; the fogs floating over the surface of the lakes in my college campus, adding bits of mystery to the drab winter mornings, when I walked to class; the bonfires I saw at the grandparents village, which besides giving warmth on winter evenings, were also a huge attraction in my childhood, often the smell of smoke clinging to the clothes as I fell into a cozy sleep; the grey winter mornings of Delhi, which seemed extremely dry, cold, and cruel. Also, not to forget, the heavenly delight of eating oranges sitting in the mild winter afternoon sun, especially after a siesta. Ah, I never realized I had been through so many winters already!

• In my building, just near the place where I park my bike, there is a pair of trees with tiny fragrant flowers; the air around them gets heavy and fragrant in the evenings when they bloom, and in the mornings they fall off and the ground becomes almost a white carpet of flowers. I know the name of the flower – shewali it is called in my tongue, but I think it’s known as prajakta here, also harshingar in some other parts – it generally starts flowering early October in eastern India and signals the arrival of Durga Puja. Though it’s associated with a happy festival, for some unknown reason it is known as a ‘flower of sorrow.’ Maybe, it’s because of its haunting fragrance, or maybe because the poor flower cannot withstand the harsh light of day. I don’t know, really.
  

• The other day, when I was in one of the training sessions, the talk veered to the concept of trust. The presenter said, “Trust is something like a tree – a long time is needed to make it grow, but it can be sawed down in minutes.” For some reason, I liked this definition, and it got into my head.

• Deepavali (or Diwali), the Indian festival of lights, is just a few days away. In many ways it’s a beautiful festival, especially with the rows of lights lit up at each household. The last few Deepavalis, I have mostly spent alone, watching the flickering earthen diyas, and it made me be at peace, despite the shattering noise of crackers in the neighborhood. These days, I realize, Deepavali doesn’t make me very cheerful or upbeat like yesteryears, but neither does it make me outright gloomy; only a feeling quiet well-being and contentment surrounds me on the festive evening, just like the soothing light of the diyas – it keeps the darkness away, but it's not so bright that it can dazzle the eye. Well, this is strange analogy, maybe. Growing age really does strange things to you!