tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-150828572024-03-19T05:39:48.343+01:00Writing Life....where I come to write life.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.comBlogger323125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-39555130375922009542013-02-25T17:13:00.000+01:002013-02-26T16:00:07.635+01:00The Next Big Thing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tag! You're it. Or at least, I'm it. Yep, after many a moon and many seasons I am (a) blogging again and after even more moons and more seasons I am (b) doing a tag. There has been much excitement in my personal life chez nous which I will not be blogging about. If you are in my life and a Facebook friend you would have hardly missed this momentous event. So, since this is the Writing Life, this post is to do with writing. I'l raise a toast (or three) to more blogging in 2013.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My wonderful writer friend, <a href="http://danielanorris.com/" target="_blank">Daniela Norris</a> has asked me to participate in 'The Next Big Thing,' 'The Next Big Thing' is an internet project in which authors from different countries with different ways of live and diverse writing backgrounds respond to the same ten questions about their current work in progress. Daniela was tagged by Gwyneth Box and she discusses her own upcoming book of poetry, Around the corner from Hope Street <a href="http://dontconfusethenarrator.wordpress.com/2013/02/09/the-next-big-thing-hope-street/" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, here are my responses to ten questions about one of my works in progress ("one?" you ask? Yep, because I got two. So there!) </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: inherit;">I'm currently working on my first book-length non-fiction project tentatively titled </span><i>The Warrior Queens of India</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: inherit;">. It is part history, part memoir and travelogue.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I really have a beef about genres in writing because I believe there is good writing and bad. I'm glad this question wasn't asked when I was in the middle of writing fiction because my response would have been longer. So, technically for this book the genre would be non-fiction--which is a true genre (unlike the dissected-to-death genres within fiction for instance).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Where did the idea come from for your book?</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You could say it was an idea that was right under my nose. I had read about some of the warrior queens in history books but they were so much a part of the historical tradition in India that they hid in plain sight. And then, one day, when I was still in Geneva, I thought about the most famous one (Lakshmi Bai of Jhansi) and discovered a hankering to read about some of the lesser known ones. I came back and did some web research and found out a singular lack of information about these amazing women--amazing historical people. How was it possible? I decided then to combine them together into a book. The world--especially women--needed to know about these historical role models. The added bonus is that their stories are full of high adventure and intrigue which makes them a great read for everyone. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All I can say is no glossy, pretty Hollywood or Bollywood types. I would like to scout and find intense, obscure stage actors for the queens but I think I can find spots for Irrfan Khan and Naseeruddin Shah and Shabana Azmi. There is probably no role for Gerard Butler or Colin Firth but I am sure I can find roles for both of them *wink*</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?</span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even crushed under the weight of empire, a strong woman can be a mighty warrior.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Will your book be self published or represented by an agency?</span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am represented by <a href="http://www.therightsfactory.com/" target="_blank">The Rights Factory</a>. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?</span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since it is non-fiction I am still working on it. I made two month-long trips to India for research and travel and I've spent a lot of time on writing and research. Writing might end up being the most relaxed and relaxing part of this journey,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?</span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wow! Hmm. I really don't know. Some books by Antonia Frasier. Perhaps White Mughals by William Dalrymple?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Who or what inspired you to write this book?</span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The dichotomy of being an Indian woman inspired me. It's something that has always inspired me. The strongest and most inspirational women I've met, seen or read about have been Indian. And, of course, some of the most atrocious things that happen to women have been Indian. I always say I was shocked when I came to the US and other young women bemoaned the lack of strong female role models. There was no dearth of them in India. There were historical role models who were warriors, mythological strong women, and of course, I grew up in the age of Indira Gandhi. I wanted to highlight this often overlooked (in the West at least) aspect of Indian womanhood.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?</span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">India--and Indian women especially--are seen as objects of pity, something exacerbated by the highlighting of atrocities against women in India. However, I believe people--even those in India who might have overlooked this--need to be aware that Indian womanhood is not analogous to victimhood. Our major role models are not just warriors and other fierce women. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apart from the historical aspects of the book readers might also be interested in reading about the travels of a woman traveling alone all around India. If the reader likes travelogues memoirs and history and feminism or any or all of these this book will appeal to her/him.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you for reading my blog. Here are the links to the blogs of five wonderful writers four of whom will be answering the same ten questions about their work-in-progress or upcoming book. The fifth, Judy Bussey writes about growing up in the hills of Kentucky and is just fascinating. Just click on their names and read on!</span></h2>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="http://champagnewhisky.com/" target="_blank"><b><br /></b></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: small;"><a href="http://champagnewhisky.com/" target="_blank"><b>Paula Read</b></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://katiehayoz.blogspot.fr/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Katie Hayoz</b></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.susantiberghien.com/" target="_blank"><b>Susan Tiberghien</b></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://danielanorris.com/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Daniela Norris</b></span></a></div>
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<a href="http://appalachianroots.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>Judy Bussey</b></span></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-91793903649535745322012-12-30T15:29:00.000+01:002012-12-30T15:57:35.305+01:00A Manifesto for Indian Males<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I feel like I've lived these past few days with alternating bouts of frenzied activity and a rage-filled grief about the situation in India. First the news of the teen rape victim who committed suicide because she was being pressured by the cops to marry her rapist. Then the brave fighter who only wanted to live, died despite that will, in a strange land.<br />
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I want to hit something, someone. And I realize that these events reminded me of how close I've come to Damini's fate. I will call her this because that's what she was--lightning that flashed for a brilliant second and died away. But her name is immaterial. She is me. She is all Indian women.<br />
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I too was a twenty-something in Delhi. It was an unfamiliar city and I was brash, cocky, young, living in that state the young live in--infallibility. I got on to the wrong bus and there I was at night heading towards the U.P. border instead of to Delhi University. I had no idea where I was but I got down with a bunch of other people. It was pitch-dark and I managed to find an auto-rikshaw. Another woman got down with me and begged me to give her a ride because she was scared.<br />
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The area looked dodgy, seedy. She tried convincing me to stay the night at her place. I couldn't trust auto-wallahs. Why did I want to wake up my sister late at night when I could go home early in the morning?<br />
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Some instinct kicked in and I made her get off way before the place she wanted to go. I still don't know. Was she a procurer? Something worse?<br />
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I trusted the auto-wallah. Not because he was great but I had no choice. I could either be stranded somewhere unfamiliar late at night, be sold into something unsavory or risk being in a vehicle with a stranger. I made the right choice by chance that night. Damini did not. Could not. There was no right choice to make.<br />
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I know that feeling of desperation, of fear, of the million what-ifs. I felt it that night and many other times...but I was lucky. That's all. Luck!<br />
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Women can do nothing more in India but be lucky. This problem--this culture of violence and rape--is on the heads of Indian men. And perhaps on the shoulders of the mothers who bring up these little princes by telling them that all other women are fair game and if they are out there they are sluts anyway.<br />
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This is what men need to realize:<br />
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1. Women are are human. Take a minute, and think about this. Is the blood rushing to your head? Sit down then, and think. We are not exotic creatures no matter the books that proclaim our Venus heritage. And as humans we have the same emotions and feelings and dreams and aspirations as you do. And each unwelcome touch, each crude comment, each assault, each anything done without our consent grossly violates our human rights.<br />
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2. Not only are we human but we are fully equal to you. Whoa! Did that blow your mind? It's true. We have the same rights as you do. The right to walk the streets and go to any public place without hindrance. We have the rights to employment and life and liberty and the right to live our lives. Just as you do.<br />
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3. Any right of yours that infringes on ours is not a right. Is this a hard concept too? Let me explain. You too have the right to pursuit your happiness. But if your happiness comes only by molesting or touching someone without their consent it is not a right. Your rights (and mine) stop at the edge of our respective noses. Your pursuit of happiness stops being a pursuit when it only comes at my expense. See two equals cancel each other out and we are equal.<br />
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4. Rape is not sex: Rape is a sexual manifestation of many things. At the very least it is a lack of impulse control. At worst it is about violence, rage, control, domination and a deviant desire to hurt. There are actually women who will have sex with you...willingly. But for those who fail to see your charms? Just move on. Really, you might discover that sex is actually more enjoyable than rape. Sex is about pleasure--mutual pleasure. Rape is about stealing something--sometimes violently--that is not yours and is not about anything mutual.<br />
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5. You can change. Trust me on this. First of all, there many, many wonderful sensitive non-rapy men out there. They manage to live and love and prosper and do all the things they need to do without it being at the expense of women. Some of these men stood shoulder-to-shoulder with women in Delhi protesting the hideous crime in Delhi. If you too think of us people (not goddesses or princesses or any other label that diminishes our humanness) who are kind of like you then you can change. And it might even be fun. You might even make female friends. We're fun and stodgy and irreverent and stuck-up and funny and bitchy and nice and not nice: human. Judge us on our individual merits or de-merits, not just because we are women.<br />
<br />
And mothers of Indian men? Stop making your sons into female-hating assholes. Just because women are not their mothers, sisters or wives and are out there in public does not make them whores ready for the taking. In fact--even they are whores they still have the rights to their own bodies. They still have the right to make their own choices about who can touch them and who cannot.<br />
<br />
You are fond of bleating on about India being poised to be in the first world. Guess what? That is not going to happen unless and until this problem is addressed. It's a human rights issue stupid!<br />
<br />
These are not radical rights. Most of these rights in some way or the other are already enshrined in the Indian constitution. Don't believe me? Read it. Nowhere does it say in that document that women are second class or that we do not have the same rights as men.<br />
<br />
Even if not that: you can think the way you do...but you do not (and moms teach this to your potentially rapy sons)....touch anyone if they don't want you to. I don't believe in thought policing. I do believe in freedom of speech. But actions...they are another thing altogether. You say something crude to a woman in the streets or touch her or assault her...that is a crime!<br />
<br />
See? That wasn't so hard right? Think of all the rights you legally enjoy and take as your birthright. We, as Indian women, have those exact same rights. You can think we are sluts, whores or whatever else. You *cannot* act on that. Just the same way that many Indian women might think most of the males around her are sex-obsessed, crude, assaulting assholes. But if we become vigilantes and start pre-emptively kicking random men in the balls or castrating them...that is a crime.<br />
<br />
Did that make you cringe? Good. That was one-thousandth of what it takes for an Indian woman to go about her daily life, being prepared for a constant barrage of invasion and criminal assaults to various degrees.<br />
<br />
Feel free to pass this along. And feel even freer to change and help others to do the same.<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-90627062275484920852012-12-22T21:43:00.004+01:002012-12-23T02:05:41.433+01:00Crime and Punishment: A Rape in Delhi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://www.cnn.com/2012/12/22/world/asia/india-rape-protest/index.html?hpt=hp_t1" target="_blank">Today the Delhi police arrested and blasted with water cannons </a>those protesting the brutal gang-rape that sparked protests and
social-media outrage. There are pictures too—of a young jean-clad woman being
dragged away by cops. And of signs exhorting the death penalty for rape. And
multitudes of young people protesting apathy or outright police and politician
collusion with criminals in India’s capital.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This has been a media and social media sensation: the awful
terrifying details of the rape, the petitions to make death penalty the
punishment for the crime, the updates on the condition of the ICU-bound victim.
No…not victim. The survivor. She was left for dead. She survived. She is no
victim. A victim does not fight. She fought to live.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And that is why I am against the death penalty for rape
crowd. Rape is an awful, terrible, horrific crime but it is not the same as
murder. Anyone who is raped, , anyone who has been brutalized and lives is a
survivor. If they do not, then by all means apply the penalty for murder. First figure out what rape is, what it really means before you start applying penalties. Penalties, which seem to equate rape with death. Rape is one of the most horrific things to happen to a woman. But it is not the worst. Not surviving a rape is the worst. No matter how much she suffers, dying is still worse. Because until there is life there is a promise of a future. And women do not need to be told that being raped is the end of everything good in their lives. That is giving too much power to the rapist, the men who feel like men only when they take by force what was not theirs to take. Equating rape to death makes women eternally suffering victims.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For too long has rape been akin to murder and to do so is to
diminish the survivor. It feeds into the motivations between honor killings, as in the destruction and besmirching of some man's property.As if the one raped is forever tainted by being forced to have something that mimics sex. Being raped is not the burden of the survivor. The only one dishonored is the
perpetrator. Being raped does not make a woman less a woman. It does not make
her less alive. It does not make her less in control of her future.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Remember those old movies where the raped woman had only two
options: to kill herself or to become a prostitute? That is how Indian society
has viewed raped women. If you are a good girl, recognize your dishonor and
kill yourself. If not, then recognize that the forced violation of your body
has left you with only one recourse, to become a slut and a vehicle for men’s
lust. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bullshit! <o:p></o:p></div>
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The best revenge a survivor has is to go on with her life.
The only way is to go forward, to testify, to face her assailants and gain the
courage to take her life back. Rape is a crime and it needs to be punished. But
is death penalty the solution? Why?<o:p></o:p></div>
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The severity of the punishment is not the solution. Some
kind of punishment is the solution. India has the lowest conviction rates
around. Where is the outrage against that? Why is there no outrage that there
are really no forensics or scientific evidence given in Indian courts? Even
rape cases become a he said-she said scenario with eyewitness accounts and
other archaic tools. So then if a survivor is left paralyzed or unable to speak
how do her assailants get prosecuted? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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If a rapist (as in this case) is from a lower socio-economic
class he might get sentenced. This is still the Indian justice system right?
Where the police catch a hold of the first poor person, beat the hell out of
him and force him to confess to a crime even if the perpetrator was someone
else—especially if that someone is rich of well-connected. This is also the
India where cops believe that a woman who drinks or who has consensual sex has
no business complaining about rape. It is also the India where the “what was
she wearing to bring it on,” is still used successfully in court an where
judges take moralistic stances against those who are raped and advise them to
get married to their rapists.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So it doesn’t matter if rape gets the death penalty. Or if
at the point of death we cut the man down, whip him and string him up again ten
times. It doesn’t matter because the conviction rates for any crime are so low.
It doesn’t matter because as a nation we still don’t agree on what rape is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll tell you what it’s not. Rape is not about sex. What is it about? It is
about control. And violence. And rage. And domination. It is about inflicting
physical, emotional and psychological damage. The fact that it takes on the
parody of a sex act is incidental. Sex is about pleasure. And it is about mutual choice and
consent. Rape is about pain and the lack of choice and the steamrolling of consent.<br />
<br />
We might ask why Indian men have so much anger against Indian women? So much anger that makes them leer and touch and molest and assault openly. Rage that makes them rape and attack? What lets them worship a goddess and kill his female fetus or his already born daughter? There is something, something that is making our male-female ratio plunge to alarming numbers. Something that makes them want to annihilate women. Not all men and not all women but enough to make me wonder. Why? And how can we reverse this trend. Can we? Can Indian women get justice? True justice, not reactionary, bandaid justice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the Delhi Police might blast away protestors—men and
women—but they cannot blast away the truth. Rape is an act of violence. And it
needs an appropriate punishment. What that punishment is can be debated later.
What we need are profound changes so that survivors can live with their heads
held high and perpetrators get appropriate sentences and the justice system is
indeed about that most elusive thing of all—justice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-61416707220244217052012-10-18T03:55:00.002+02:002012-10-18T03:55:39.206+02:00It is so good to be here...today<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I used concepts that can be encapsulated in numbers: four seasons (fall, winter, spring, summer), the elements (earth, wind, fire, water) as writing prompts. Starting from the broad and drilling down helps in narrowing down to yourself. After all, a journal is a safe, exclusive place where the only person important is you.<br />
<br />
"How do you spell, Fall?"<br />
<br />
"Earth?"<br />
<br />
"Sight?"<br />
<br />
I wondered if she had wandered into this class by mistake and hoped she was not uncomfortable there. I even wondered if English was a language she was comfortable with. But this is not a class about learning as such, there is no goal in mind, just a space to be, to think, to write, to relax and get in touch with yourself. So I say nothing. Her voice was soft at first, so low that I could barely make out a single word...even though I sat within touching distance. Each time she asked me to spell something out she winced, seemed to curl up inside.<br />
<br />
Her first sentence tended to be the same, "Summer is good." "The sense of sight is so good."<br />
<br />
Then came the final focus on you exercise. I asked them to write a truth about themselves they did not mind sharing with others. The take-home would be to write a truth that is exclusively theirs, that no one would ever see.<br />
<br />
"I am so happy," she said, "to be sitting in this classroom, to write and to be heard."<br />
<br />
She was a little girl when her parents died. Some people took her in but they could not afford to feed *and* educate her. She never learned to read and write. Then, after a lot of struggle, and living on her own from her teens, she arrived in the U.S. Somehow she learned to read and write...but not well."<br />
<br />
"I can't spell," she said mournfully, "I don't know the right way to write."<br />
<br />
Her voice, still soft, was audible at last.<br />
<br />
"I am 57 years old," she said, "and I am embarrassed but today I am happy, so happy to be here. It is so good."<br />
<br />
I didn't know when I first saw this quiet, shrinking woman walk in that she had magical powers. She could do more to reach a deep, sacred place, and unlock goodness than I ever could with all my babbling about how wonderful writing is. The prickly, disabled woman in the corner who declared that she never told anything to anyone because people used it to hurt her unfroze, just like that.<br />
<br />
"I don't really know you" she said to the quiet one, "but you are the only person who always offer to help me with my walker and you don't stare at me. Do you know how many people just stare and they never talk to me? I am taking my GED and I am older than you. I would be honored to study with you."<br />
<br />
She talked also about her mother throwing her out when she was 13, with a few rolls of pennies and a few clothes in a bag.<br />
<br />
Time was up and we all looked at each other and smiled. It's a cliche to say that I learned more than I taught but it's true. Each time in this little community of homeless, battered and destitute women I find humbling truths that bring me to my knees.<br />
<br />
It is so good...so good to be here, in this basement, where the light filters in softly, it is good to be here with all of you.<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-69765763992971929082012-10-13T03:29:00.000+02:002012-10-13T03:35:17.936+02:00Slicing and Dicing Writing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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First things first…I’m back baby! So, hey everyone. For how
long am I back? I have no idea. I felt no urge to blog for months and then
suddenly I wanted to blog again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second, this might be due to my good friend <a href="http://www.katiehayoz.blogspot.ch/" target="_blank">Katie Hayoz’s new blog</a> <b>applause</b>. She is a fantas…fab....err….totally fantabulous YA
writer. See Katie, one adjective cannot contain you or your writing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, anyway Katie wrote this awesome blog post and it made me
want to re-start blogging too. So here I am, blogging again. Katie wrote a
funny and lovely post about being both a YA reader <b>and</b> a wonderful
writer. Well, she says she writes YA and that’s the label under which her
creative, fun and well-written book is making its rounds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I would say though that she is a writer. A good writer, not
merely a good YA writer, or a YA writer at all. Why, you ask?<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s because I’m old-fashioned, not just plain old. I
remember when there were no genres really except fiction and non-fiction.
Sometimes I would hear that a book was a classic or that it was contemporary…a
‘novel.’ Sometimes there were some kids books thrown into the mix. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And then marketers got their paws on the industry and
suddenly around the time I started writing seriously, what was once a
wonderland of words and phrases became chopped up and divided into genres. So,
just in fiction (forget the non category for now) there is literary fiction,
commercial fiction, commercial womens’ fiction, romance, children’s fiction,
young adult (YA) also known as juvenile fiction, horror, science fiction, mystery,
crime, fantasy, and western. In fact there are many other ways to slice and
dice fiction. Each genre has sub-genres and the whole thing makes my head hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, the word
genre has been applied to the written word before but the boundaries were more
fluid. They were looser generalizations but in the modern marketing machine,
genres have become set in stone almost. So much so that sometimes even writers
become genre-ized.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When my first novel, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Burden-Foreknowledge-Jawahara-Saidullah/dp/8186939318/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1350091651&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Burden+of+Foreknowledge" target="_blank">The Burden of Foreknowledge</a>, was making
the rounds of publishers it was <b>almost</b> sold to one of the big ones. The
acquisitions editor loved the book but it got shot down in the board meeting.
They had already made their quota of, “female Indian authors,” for that
publishing cycle. Yes, this is how publishing decisions are made…sometimes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember when I was a child my parents went to meet the
Dalai Lama. For years afterwards my mother would quote something he said.
“There are only two religions in the world. The religion of the good people and
the religion of the bad people. There is no other religion.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And for me, there are only two kinds of books in the world,
good books and bad books. If a book is good the genre becomes irrelevant. H.G.
Wells’ books are classics not because they are science fiction but because
they’re great books. Little Women is still loved for the same reason. Huckleberry
Finn remains a much-read book but not because it was jammed into an obligatory
genre.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To me, genres limit us, as readers and perhaps as writers.
Writing is supposed to expand our minds, our creativity, and our imagination.
As does reading. But putting ourselves in a little box and saying, ‘here this
is your writing/reading arena. Stay within the lines and you’ll do well,” is
counter-productive to that in my opinion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Readers become entrenched within the genres they read. Think
about this, a man might pick up Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights but would they
be likely to do that if these two were packaged as romance novels with the
obligatory lurid bodice-ripper (neck-biters, the Germans call them) covers?<o:p></o:p></div>
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As far as I am concerned genres should not be tools to guide
readers or writers. They are merely marketing categories that have grown to
encompass and, in my opinion, strangle the way we read books. I read Little
Women and all the other Alcott books but I never knew I was reading YA. I read
Invisible Man without knowing that it might be classified as horror or science
fiction. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Good writing is good writing. It spans boundaries and breaks
them. It defies genres and goes beyond defining them. So…bring on some good
writing and screw the genre.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-86628968559107776012011-09-15T15:29:00.005+02:002011-09-15T16:06:50.499+02:00Seven Days in Concord: The Old North Bridge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgar08onO56xkovpRqTvDxzbphVlqU_r58DPHW9YnFs3aAIDgZQbg1W4DTBuUTx_QJlMfp-rNcJmPO1jAqBc8y9ONw-rJWSdah1QbLek29_AxIX7wTiRYX5m3qqfez-bMZSwdtIBQ/s1600/IMG_2411.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgar08onO56xkovpRqTvDxzbphVlqU_r58DPHW9YnFs3aAIDgZQbg1W4DTBuUTx_QJlMfp-rNcJmPO1jAqBc8y9ONw-rJWSdah1QbLek29_AxIX7wTiRYX5m3qqfez-bMZSwdtIBQ/s400/IMG_2411.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652582416084724274" /></a><br />So...I never said it would be seven consecutive days would it? It has been a lovely summer thus far. The weather has been wonderful and on days it was too hot I realized that one of the things I *love* about being back in the US is air conditioning. Yes, sometimes it's too cold and it's not that great for the environment but man, sometimes it's also just that little bit of heaven to step in from a 100 degree plus day right into the coolness of refrigerated air. So sue me...I'm human.<br /><br />On day two of your virtual journey to Concord we will tour the old north bridge. For all you Americans and history buffs out there...this is where the revolution began. Combine your love of American history with the love of poetry and you come to Ralph Waldo Emerson's lovely poem to commemorate this event in 1837 in his poem "Concord Hymn." I am not much of an Emerson fan but these lines surely resonate to the anti-colonialist in all of us:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXJBGR6ecIfJJ6g8cftP1yEqjm0z6s-FOi5xxIbEmnQ7ZuRbi99xySfSXEvFdF1XFqRoupW4bDWGsa-05o53r7V9LrKYiCh10dnnjgqPBFMVrzw99uE6yEPKBSOyjFUM1EiTkxg/s1600/IMG_2396.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXJBGR6ecIfJJ6g8cftP1yEqjm0z6s-FOi5xxIbEmnQ7ZuRbi99xySfSXEvFdF1XFqRoupW4bDWGsa-05o53r7V9LrKYiCh10dnnjgqPBFMVrzw99uE6yEPKBSOyjFUM1EiTkxg/s400/IMG_2396.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652582681030573762" /></a><br />"By the rude bridge that arched the flood,<br />Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,<br />Here once the embattled farmers stood,<br />And fired the shot heard round the world."<br /><br />I consider our current times some of the darkest days of American history when the GOP is trying to drag us backwards with their no-evolution, leave sick people to die, let's invade the world stances, the economy is in a slump it's not been in over 50 years and there is close to 10% unemployment. Then I remember the shift made by the people whose descendants still live in the Lexington-Concord area. They went from being British subjects to rebels, rebels with a cause. The revolution was not led by people who wanted to go back, they took up arms, these embattled farmers so they could go forward, to become citizens instead of subjects. And citizens are engaged, they have a voice but they also want to know the truth. I hope, for my adopted country, that we become engaged. Even if we are philosophically conservative we can be intelligent. We can believe in God (if we do, I don't) and still believe in evolution. It's not an either/or scenario. Yes, this is what I thought as I ran my hands across the warm wood of the bridge that day and looked across at Daniel Chester's French's statue of the Minuteman with Emerson's quote engraved on the pedestal on which it stood. By the way you might know French from another statue he made: the Lincoln Memorial statue. Ring a bell? But I digress.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrRUxAtGGotAgWB0ihm-ogFyiMkXbPu-cmy3A6Scx3ZEb0OVrYQ6-O8Tv0Pw6puQO_MdX8zNrbu-epJXkrxnVh5a-R8DlaVwGeDXB7oRyNEuJ61HNIufmmylom12R2oqYBeXlCQ/s1600/IMG_2399.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrRUxAtGGotAgWB0ihm-ogFyiMkXbPu-cmy3A6Scx3ZEb0OVrYQ6-O8Tv0Pw6puQO_MdX8zNrbu-epJXkrxnVh5a-R8DlaVwGeDXB7oRyNEuJ61HNIufmmylom12R2oqYBeXlCQ/s400/IMG_2399.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652585352549080338" /></a><br /><br />I wonder what the real Minutemen, those brave men who faced down the British empire would think of the pretenders in their name? They were willing to die to liberate their country. They didn't hunt poor, desperate Mexicans on their borders. They were the underdogs, they didn't create the underdogs.<br /><br />Even as I walked past the peaceful bridge and looked across at the picturesque boat house and the intrepid people canoeing and boating down the Assabet river I was filled with a sense of strange belonging. America and India are not that far apart when we think of our shared colonial past. And our anti-colonial past. We too fought...albeit without guns...to liberate ourselves from the British. We shared a dream. And to various degrees both countries have veered from their onward paths. But paths loop back don't they? I hope both my countries will loop back to the place where we can go forward again.<br /><br />You have been warned: places with histories like the old north bridge make me sentimental and optimistic in the most sickening ways...as chick-flicks do to others.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-3957360839110278642011-03-26T00:26:00.006+01:002011-03-26T00:46:12.614+01:00Among the clouds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ilEmACcQZ1MKtBKGfUJq_Dsf10q3ydn2kB_ywjiKIM7ZcVZW83RJ3ZSQLIBN7H58tE-wlEzD54Wn7naDk0u2aIzxKc5lQVG7zfZNdR1bNHp_r3trH3sP-qMLMgL9vRcPVNUnAw/s1600/Photo+on+2011-03-25+at+19.27.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ilEmACcQZ1MKtBKGfUJq_Dsf10q3ydn2kB_ywjiKIM7ZcVZW83RJ3ZSQLIBN7H58tE-wlEzD54Wn7naDk0u2aIzxKc5lQVG7zfZNdR1bNHp_r3trH3sP-qMLMgL9vRcPVNUnAw/s400/Photo+on+2011-03-25+at+19.27.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588166961186552690" /></a><br /><br />So...I'm on my way to California. Nope, I don't mean I am leaving soon or that I am sitting at the airport, or on my way to the airport. I mean I am actually on the way...in progress, sitting in seat 11D, smushed in next to two fellow-travelers, sipping a Diet Coke.<br /><br />This morning as my plane lined up (number 2 for take-off) at Logan International Airport and lumbered onto the runway, the Atlantic Ocean glistened deeply blue. And I took a few minutes to ponder this modern miracle. In a few hours I would be across a continent, touching down towards another ocean as the evening shadows descended upon that beautiful city by the bay.<br /><br />I am not an adrenaline junkie (really Jawahara? Do tell us more after this shocking announcement) but there are few things as exhilirating to me as taking off in giant plane. The short stop. And then the sudden rush of power and speed and that almost effortless lift off. You can tell me about aerodynamics and air flow or whatever but there is a little bit of magic in flight.<br /><br />Ever since Dedalus's ill-fated adventure captured our imagination humans have been obsessed with flying in the skies. Perhaps even before that. And why not? Despite the hum of the engines, when else can we fly above the clouds?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IbBnjxX1Zs1fz0fm4DIuh2RcUYxa2f7owscF3Rybmdxo8ojp56RR4Hsvf_8o0Pg_5rXqBlLHTnoNnJxi3Zj_v8IjdWGBO0uXI0oDnMvf026q1x9KvgMoL_6RA_at3vdrvSl_Iw/s1600/Photo+on+2011-03-25+at+19.40.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IbBnjxX1Zs1fz0fm4DIuh2RcUYxa2f7owscF3Rybmdxo8ojp56RR4Hsvf_8o0Pg_5rXqBlLHTnoNnJxi3Zj_v8IjdWGBO0uXI0oDnMvf026q1x9KvgMoL_6RA_at3vdrvSl_Iw/s400/Photo+on+2011-03-25+at+19.40.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588166716400001170" /></a><br /><br />And now this. Sitting (uncomfortably) at 32,000 feet I tap into a wifi signal, update my facebook status and my blog. Or is this sad? That I cannot unplug even for a few hours? I'm not sure. This is the first time for me. If I make it a habit it would make me worry. But for right now I am reveling in the newness of it. In front of me is a familiar screen. Next to me is....nothing. The sun is shining pink-golden light onto the dappled clouds below us and I feel a world away from civil wars, earthquakes, tsunamis and nuclear meltdowns. It feels like a respite.<br /><br />So I look out at the clouds below, watch a distant plane fly beside us and take in this new plugged reality. So, friends of my blog...hello from the clouds. Of course, with all this magic...there is something still missing. Yep...my computer is running out of juice and there seems to be no magical way to recharge it...at least no in cattle class.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-62198258836799051992011-03-17T17:58:00.008+01:002011-03-17T18:23:39.869+01:00Crossing a Street in SpringIf you and I are Facebook friends you've seen my album of Boston in Spring pics. The last I lived in the Boston area I hated it. I mean *HATED* it. I looked for things to hate...and there are plenty (potholes that can swallow cars, rude people, the grayness, the crumbling infrastructure, the very fact that it was not California and never would be...wait, that last one was more about me, wasn't it?)<br /><br />Like I said I tried to find things to hate and then felt justified in falling deeper and deeper in hatred with Boston. This time I decided to make it a do over. (Did I mention that I had do-overs in....wait for it...California???!!!! already). And now California is my Shangri-la, my city on the hill...where I hope to live forever and ever in Jawahara heaven! Oh well, on to Operation Boston Love.<br /><br />So Tuesday dawned bright and blue and wonderful and off I went to meet a new friend. She lives in town, on Beacon Hill no less, two blocks from Boston Common. We had a great meal at a lovely Italian place called Fig. Right across from us were quaint, cost the earth little shops on Charles Street, a specialty food store (DeLuca's I think), and lovely little bistros and ice cream shops.<br /><br />Then we walked back to her place....for some freshly brewed Nespresso. I had the Ristretto. It was lovely. Ok, yes, you don't share my passion for the Nespresso...but we bonded something fierce. She's European, she loves Nespresso and has the coolest penthouse pad. And did I mention the Nespresso?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wSMv26FQv6a9AC0SdfoXNR7jz8-zO53G0DSnmA5tPy-x-GmqVU0bBJSOkPalRAVIfpYvEcMy3crVDuKfhyqcPY7MIa4aQTz4y66UyNaCePhxG3HTaCHBo_LbwPMCnjx7WukH7Q/s1600/IMG_1315.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wSMv26FQv6a9AC0SdfoXNR7jz8-zO53G0DSnmA5tPy-x-GmqVU0bBJSOkPalRAVIfpYvEcMy3crVDuKfhyqcPY7MIa4aQTz4y66UyNaCePhxG3HTaCHBo_LbwPMCnjx7WukH7Q/s400/IMG_1315.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585100558352474242" /></a><br /><br />I walked back to my cart that was parked under Boston Common. I walked through the Public Gardens. And I was struck by how just...well beautiful it was. The grass was not really green yet but it was getting there. Even though my backyard still has snow out in the 'burbs, the gardens were devoid of any white stuff. People were walking dogs (one woman had 6), the bronze ducks (inspired by <a href="http://http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Make_Way_for_Ducklings">Make Way for the Ducklings)</a> were decked out in the finest, gaudiest Mardi Gras beads, couples lazed on park benches, and everything gleamed in the way they in the first nice days of Spring.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnttREz3yggKF96J-5hx_eylnkOCavd5PNzWM79ZyoRTn_0sNIRb4BBGDXU7mwy9-_Y9Cs_V_dXQgrHLs0gsBegK6RJkP5b7kJtefhMxAvY04oPR_uNmdrycMNwQU3RbdGyb03w/s1600/IMG_1316.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnttREz3yggKF96J-5hx_eylnkOCavd5PNzWM79ZyoRTn_0sNIRb4BBGDXU7mwy9-_Y9Cs_V_dXQgrHLs0gsBegK6RJkP5b7kJtefhMxAvY04oPR_uNmdrycMNwQU3RbdGyb03w/s400/IMG_1316.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585100100931653826" /></a><br /><br />And I felt alive. And happy. <br /><br />There was Washington's statue, the general and horse frozen mid-stride. There was other statues. The lagoon was drained of water and a few geese and ducks had gathered near a mud-hole in the center of it, cackling loudly. The world was coming alive, climbing out of our long winter.<br /> <br />I crossed the street and entered Boston Common. This is where Bostonians of old grazed their cattle and sometimes got together for bit of family fun and togethernesss...to watch public executions. You know...fun times! Now it's peaceful, verdant....full of joggers and walkers and tiny fashionistas with their tiny dogs dressed in pink winter-wear: both dog and owners. The tall buildings around us gleamed in the strong sunlight, the dome of the State House glistened. Then I heard a jingling bell, yes, the tourist trams were running. No duck tours yet but it's still early.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVxr8DyJC0CaOg6QTTiz-hcCR_hyphenhyphenHNWe2ltR36qnsRKhTcH84JpWmRqLExHYjNDyV4bOeJVlXsbpo2N1Yq9nKzuI5SRkAnApA-NAVdEV8W9v8xXklfsaqYhTRGf9znzh8rtObIg/s1600/IMG_1323.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVxr8DyJC0CaOg6QTTiz-hcCR_hyphenhyphenHNWe2ltR36qnsRKhTcH84JpWmRqLExHYjNDyV4bOeJVlXsbpo2N1Yq9nKzuI5SRkAnApA-NAVdEV8W9v8xXklfsaqYhTRGf9znzh8rtObIg/s400/IMG_1323.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585100356492388290" /></a><br /><br />It was wonderful and I tried not to believe that there was rain forecast for Wednesday. How could that be? Just look at this bright, beautiful day. How could there be rain tomorrow.<br /><br />I paid my parking ticket. $22! Yes, 20 fucking 2 dollars!!! I guess there will be rain tomorrow. And there was. Tons, buckets of rain! Arrrghhh!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-80078308049998439372011-03-09T20:03:00.005+01:002011-03-09T20:18:01.598+01:00Dirty Secrets: Snow and CaffeineSo...the snow is melting and the skies are blue and inexplicably I am a little bit sad. This terrible winter we had was almost like a living thing...an adversary. And for so long it won and kept on winning. Now it's in retreat and there is something sad about a routed enemy. Oh well! I will get over it I'm sure..and apart from my two and a half readers I am not letting in anyone else into this dirty little secret. I am waiting for all the snow to be gone and then I will embark on the great Concord Literary Tour. I plan to do one day (or two) going to Walden Pond, the Alcott House and other locations literary in my new home. So...stay tuned.<br /><br />As those who move from Europe, especially somewhat chi-chi Switzerland know we love our Nespresso machines. So I have one and I love it. I make my renverses, take in the aroma, close my eyes and for a moment am transported back to Geneva. While I was in Geneva, when I was homesick I'd spend time at Starbucks. It was almost like being in a little enclave of the US..and there was free Wifi. Great to hang out, write, meet up with others, etc. But here's my secret....I *hate* Starbucks coffee. To me it tastes burnt, like the beans were over-roasted. Oh well! Waah! Now, that I am back in the US I went to Starbucks a few times because....yes it reminded me of being in Geneva. I am weird, I know...but do you think Starbucks is a wormhole, a conduit between countries and worlds. <br /><br />However, I usually drink fizzy water there or sometimes a light coffee frapp. But now, back in the North-East, especially in the great state of Massachusetts, I have succumbed to our own special coffee addiction. Yes, Dunkin Donuts folks. Down and dirty, coffee (and they put in the milk and sugar for you if you're not a black drinker). I still have my Nespresso but every couple of days I have to stop by and pick up a "medium hot, milk and sugar." And I *love* it. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlpnvEESpHnpMoLvXk1XdpXO4qvaWGSIsjWEIBvqQYkOYLQyWsY6yxGU-8puT2y4ytzVeV0gwQKdXZTMJa2-Y2ipawa4jtRuYFglfcU-zWU1yO8-Ys4Zgkm6qPG3mIA_ES9Ya8Q/s1600/Photo+on+2011-03-09+at+14.01+%25232.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimlpnvEESpHnpMoLvXk1XdpXO4qvaWGSIsjWEIBvqQYkOYLQyWsY6yxGU-8puT2y4ytzVeV0gwQKdXZTMJa2-Y2ipawa4jtRuYFglfcU-zWU1yO8-Ys4Zgkm6qPG3mIA_ES9Ya8Q/s400/Photo+on+2011-03-09+at+14.01+%25232.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582160770193564546" /></a><br /><br />There you have it: Geneva and Bawston living side by side within me. These are my dirty secrets.....or at least some of them.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-62501558158352878732011-03-03T03:25:00.002+01:002011-03-03T03:30:41.460+01:00Welcome back WorldOr is it the blogging world and my two-and-a-half readers who welcome me back? Regardless. I hope to blog about once a week. Sometimes when so much is happening I go into survival and shut-down mode. There was leaving Geneva and my friends, the packing, the moving, our things that arrived in three installments, a vacation in India in the middle of it all, a wonderful birthday. And the worst winter I have ever experienced and I've been in some bad winter situations...but this New England winter was history making and one for the record books. But I survived it all! And I am still here. So...yay!<br /><br />And trying to settle into life in Concord. You know I still haven't been to the Alcott House or to Walden Pond. I guess I was hibernating for the winter. But as the snow piles grow ever shorter and the day becomes just a little bit longer... I am starting to come out of my hiatus.<br /><br />Here's to 2011, to my new life, to all whom I love...and just to life in general. More later.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-58194078666519707442010-10-14T17:15:00.004+02:002010-10-14T17:27:49.754+02:00...and the Zombie Chicken goes to...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6BLDGORj2MtGPqEffgdQUoROH9g13Vi_BL8m8ftzzSkZjTUN8WTiJfg7AHvP8VnJMDb6xCnsN4H5lI_z2UwdvZFTeFjFnUMaCIOh8W0liRsw15oYpEMktKbzL0Kq5K3Y2XT6og/s1600/zombie_chicken_award.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 157px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6BLDGORj2MtGPqEffgdQUoROH9g13Vi_BL8m8ftzzSkZjTUN8WTiJfg7AHvP8VnJMDb6xCnsN4H5lI_z2UwdvZFTeFjFnUMaCIOh8W0liRsw15oYpEMktKbzL0Kq5K3Y2XT6og/s400/zombie_chicken_award.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527921846512242146" /></a><br />me! Well, technically it went to me in April 2009 but heck it's my first and to date only award so I am giving myself permission to be utterly thrilled. Thank you <a href="http://midlifejobhunter.blogspot.com/">Midlife Jobhunter</a> for this wonderful award. I think it's the coolest one out there.<br /><br /><em>The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all...</em><br /><br />So I pass on this award to these bloggers whose work I always enjoy:<br /><br /><a href="http://swiss-family-hendricks.blogspot.com/">Swiss Family Hendricks</a><br /><a href="http://appalachianroots.blogspot.com/">Appalachian Roots</a><br /><a href="http://bethlovesbollywood.blogspot.com/">Beth Loves Bollywood</a><br /><a href="http://themightymumchronicles.blogspot.com/">The Mighty Mom</a>...even though she is not blogging any more and I wish she would<br /><a href="http://blogpourri.blogspot.com/">Blogpourri</a><br /><br />Since this was serious overkill after not blogging for months, that's all folks.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-28905584305591702452010-10-14T16:29:00.002+02:002010-10-14T16:43:50.112+02:00Of straws and twigsI think I haven't blogged much lately: (a)I got lazy and was able to condense my thoughts into Facebook soundbytes and (b)I like blogs that are accompanied by photographs and I haven't transferred any to my computer lately because of sheer laziness...okay so both points are really the same, but like, yeah, whatever!<br /><br />But I have aspirations to be a writer and isn't the purpose of being one to be able to communicate without illustrations and pretty pictures. For heaven's sake, I want to be a 'big-people's' writer as I used to refer to books without pictures when I was a kid. And if there is one thing big-people's writers don't need it's pictures. Yes, I am of the time when graphic novels were known by another name...comic books! Zing! And, if you're a graphic novel afficianado....yes, yes I know they're artistic visions or whatever. They're still comic books to me.<br /><br />So today I lost my clothes drier and some other stuff. Well, not lost, but strangers came to my house, paid me a pittance and took away my things. Yes, I know I advertized for them to do so but it feels wrong. <br /><br />This move feels a bit of a bereavement or a divorce or something. The washer sits forlornly disconnected from its water and electricity supply, wires dangling amputated, missing its constant companion. Soon the washer too will go to someone else's house and wash their clothes. Ewww!<br /><br />Okay, it's not like I'm a freak (ok I am but not *that* kind of freak) attached to inanimate, electronic devices that beep and flash lights. It's that these things are my straws and twigs. You know the kind that birds gather to build their nests. As they say in Hindi, <em>tinka, tinka lekar ghar banaya</em>, and now it is being scattered. You've seen those birds search for the exact right length of twig, how they test the springiness or rigidity of a twig, discarding most, selecting a few, padding it with softness to make a home. And so did I. And so did we all, in our own ways, with our own likes and dislikes and styles.<br /><br />Sure, most important are the living beings in my house and soon we will have another house and this one will become just a memory, but it is elemental, this hurt of seeing my bits of straw and twigs blowing away. It's not easy, this dismantling of a home. No one said it was easy but I don't remember it being quite this hard either.<br /><br />....so this was my first moving post and I did it without any pictures.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-86504839507679065592010-10-13T18:42:00.005+02:002010-10-14T16:29:15.935+02:00Meanwhile...back in Puplinge<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWz3LVo3UE0U1lBN8z9BaGb4aZ0i-xg_XmQcBlON_yczSogehl_HvkHQ7w0BAqwbgUCSq-6AH5U-5GVPczLjkY8IQ3a4Y062GcsYR3DynGlRdcdTtYDq8UV-eK4NGSRo47-ZkJA/s1600/thoreau.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKWz3LVo3UE0U1lBN8z9BaGb4aZ0i-xg_XmQcBlON_yczSogehl_HvkHQ7w0BAqwbgUCSq-6AH5U-5GVPczLjkY8IQ3a4Y062GcsYR3DynGlRdcdTtYDq8UV-eK4NGSRo47-ZkJA/s400/thoreau.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527576787741456226" /></a><br />Forgive me O Blogosphere (otherwise known as my five readers), it has been more than four months since my last post. And a lot has happened. A lot.<br /><br />Well, okay one major thing has happened. Remember those saat samundar paar (across the seven seas) stories from your childhood? Those epic journeys that carried dashing heroes and intrepid heroines far from home towards adventure and love and whatever else!<br /><br />I've had two of those journeys across the seven seas: Number 1 as really a young'un to the shores...errr..the blue grasses of Kentucky from the Ganga kinarey of Allahabad.<br /><br />Number two, more than 20 years later from the snootiness of Boston to the chocolate box prettiness and genuinely wealthy environs of Switzerland. And we settled in the little village of Puplinge which had once been part of Savoy territory and joined the Confederation Helvetique (CH - the real name of Switzerland dont'cha know) and is now barely a hop and skip away (if you can do that for one km) from neighboring France, the little town of Ambilly.<br /><br />Life in this border village of ours has been one of serenity, beauty, friendship. We have vineyards and fields and on clear days impressive views of the Alps and of Mont Blanc. I had friends I met for coffee and wine in the evening and cards at night. We met them at one of our two local restaurants across the road from each other, a 2-5 minute walk from anywhere in the village. We could walk back inebriated after delicious and fun dinners from their homes and they could do the same from ours.<br /><br />You know how this is going to end, don't you? All the old cliches come to mind: all good things must come to an end, etc. etc. The younger me might have railed against letting go of this idyllic life. The older (though not always wiser) me knows that life is ephemeral and happiness is a dew drop. I enjoyed my Swiss contentment but now it is time to move on.<br /><br />To a place I never cared for when I lived there: Boston. But I plan to go back with a better attitude, to find the things, the people, the aura that makes Boston unique and loveable and to live in that. If and when we move on from there so be it. Until then I will enjoy New England's fall colors, tuck into lobster feasts and love its accents.<br /><br />Perhaps I am sanguine because I am moving to that most literary of Massachussett towns: Concord. Yes, home to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Louisa May Alcott among others. Find your three-name authors in Concord. Come November, there will be another three-name (aspiring one) calling Concord home. Moi!<br /><br />Watch this space for updates...and a recording of my Concord life when I get there. C'est la vie!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-33803982544729409342010-06-08T20:16:00.005+02:002010-06-08T20:37:57.269+02:00What's Your Verdict?<a href="http://jawahara.blogspot.com/search/label/Bhopal">In December 2009 I had written </a>about the 1984 Bhopal gas tragedy that remains till date the worst industrial accident in history. And I was surprised by the number of people who did not remember it at all. <br /><br />So, things changed. Union Carbide received a face-lift over the years and became Dow Chemicals. Oh yeah, Warren Anderson continues to live the good life in the Hamptons after skipping out on bail from India during the 1980's. Hypocrisy and self-interest and politicking are still very much alive. And U.S. double standards. They're alive and well too. I'm sorry...did I say things have changed? I meant nothing has changed.<br /><br />Except of course for the verdict? Yes, didn't you hear? All eight Indians accused in the case have been sentenced to two years in prison (yes you read that right too). But this is a lower court verdict so let's not put people in cells right now. Now the case goes onto higher courts. <br /><br />Twenty-five, almost 26 years later we have this verdict with the main accused still absconding. While through the years people have died agonizing deaths, babies have been born with severe birth defects and none of the poor affected people have received much in terms of true compensation, adequate medical let alone vindication.<br /><br />But President Obama hopes the verdict brings "closure" to the families. Really, President Obama? What happened to the honest, open, erudite *real* human being I voted for? When did he become a clone? To be honest I kind of expected that...the nature of the presidency and all...but still it hurts.<br /><br />What else did the U.S. do to commemorate this event?<br /><br />1. It ruled out the reopening of any new enquiries against Union Carbide (now Dow).<br /><br />2. It continued to ignore extradition requests for Warren Anderson and refused to even discuss it.<br /><br /><object style="background-image:url(http://i2.ytimg.com/vi/i1JwrcMIiLQ/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/i1JwrcMIiLQ&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/i1JwrcMIiLQ&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="425" height="344" allowScriptAccess="never" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br /><br />What else?<br /><br />3. Oh yes, it expressed its hope that this verdict (long enough coming) wouldn't inhibit the political and economic ties between India and the U.S. and that it wouldn't impact the passage of the Civil Nuclear Liability Bill.<br /><br />You know what's sadder? India too will walk away from the 25,000 dead who died that night and the hundreds of thousands (yes you read that right) of others who have died because of the leak in the almost twenty six years it took to reach this verdict.<br /><br />Because ultimately what matters is trade and gaining a place among nations of note. In the meantime the Gulf of Mexico continues being over-run with oil. Who will be the losers? The people of the area, the unfortunate living creatures who call the waters and the coast home, and the environment.<br /><br />Who will escape unscathed? BP and the U.S. Admininstration. But you can bet that if the U.S. tries to charge some BP head honcho he ain't going to be living it up in the Hamptons. Like I said....hypocrisy and double standards are still alive. As is the proven notion that some lives are more precious than others. <br /><br />These are the things I know to be true. What do you think?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-42096537260584315072010-02-28T10:11:00.005+01:002010-02-28T10:51:40.224+01:00I'm not a Bollywood Blogger But... I<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dzAygXOAHAbtH9unCVSEyM5Whxp8AnDfYe07Tp2iYEdvnXMpihg8mO2LNtOL2kORSHEiTbbu0sg3YLvulIGhf8QVsehyq1BQJ17u2cR1Js5hOd8PwuZI7Yhh7r0EM9Mww1p3FA/s1600-h/LKNY000Z.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dzAygXOAHAbtH9unCVSEyM5Whxp8AnDfYe07Tp2iYEdvnXMpihg8mO2LNtOL2kORSHEiTbbu0sg3YLvulIGhf8QVsehyq1BQJ17u2cR1Js5hOd8PwuZI7Yhh7r0EM9Mww1p3FA/s400/LKNY000Z.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443228940411714882" /></a><br />I pre-date Bollywood. In fact I detest the word. First, my pet peeves:<br /><br />1. While to most people outside India, all Indian movies are Bollywood, the word refers *only* to the Mumbai-based Hindi film industry. This leaves out the rich (though dying in some cases) regional cinema, as well as artsy, small films that don't have blaring songs, a million costume changes and OTT melodrama. And now the monster that is Bollywood is gobbling up these little and little-known movies created by India's other film industries. A shame!<br /><br />2.The word itself was coined by some smart-mouth BBC guy in a totally pejorative way, making fun of the Hindi film industry. It was, as we know, a combo of Bombay + Hollywood. So, shouldn't it now be Mollywood to reflect the name change? The Shiv Sena needs to get on this ASAP. <br /><br />3. To die-hard fans (and even not so die-hard ones) this makes the largest film industry in the world (at one point it made 900 odd movies a year!) a poor reflection, an even poorer cousin and a totally destitute hanger-on of Hollywood. Whereas, of course, the hindi film indstury developed almost simultaneously with its Western counterpart and is almost as old. Plus, even as Hollywood has almost decimated film industries in other countries, hindi film fans have held strong and so has the industry. The movies are so different from Hollywood, that its world-wide fans (not just Indians and diaspora but in the middle-east, other parts of Asia, etc.) remain loyal and growing, making it *still* the largest, though not the richest film industry in the world.<br /><br />4. A few months ago, during the episode of the <a href="http://bannedbooks-group.blogspot.com/2009/09/showing-pink-sari-to-holy-cow.html">pink sari and the holy cows</a>, one of the people who later went on to bemoan her lost freedom of speech aka being able to get away with stereotyped racism complimented me. So, why am I bitching? All will be made clear now. I was wearing a turquoise skirt. <br />"You look so pretty in that color."<br />"Thanks," I mumble always uncomfortable with compliments and perhaps sensing what was to come.<br />"You know you remind me of this Bollywood movie I saw."<br />"Really?" I cringe.<br />"Yes...oh what was it? Yes...<em>Bride and Prejudice</em>."<br /><br />I politely made my escape after thanking her again. Yes, I'm a coward but I try to be a polite one. Bride and fucking Prejudice is *not* a Bollywood movie. Correction, it's not an Indian/Hindi movie. It's made by a British woman of Indian origin. . Perhaps it's a diaporic tale or a story about immigrants. While we are on this topic, <em>Gandhi</em>, <em>Bend it Like Beckham</em>, or <em>Slumdog Millionaire</em> are not Bollywood movies either though I have sometimes seen them classifed as such. They are British movies, made by British film-makers that happen to have Indian stories and/or actors. This doesn't mean these movies are not great. Despite its problems <em>Gandhi</em> is one of my favorite movies and so is <em>Bend it</em>, but they are *not* Indian movies.<br /><br />Calling any of these movies Bollywood is like saying <em>Captain Corelli's Mandolin </em>was an Italian film or <em>The Da Vinci Code </em>was a French-Vatican City-Scotland production. Perhaps all those movies supposedly in NYC but filmed in Vancouver are Canadian? Putting in a few shimmery costumes in a movie alongwith pretty ladies and dashes of tragic things like poverty and the proper behavior of girls in immigrant families do not an Indian movie make.<br /><br />Indian movies (Hindi or not) have their own sensibility, their way of being and more than that they are Indian because they are made in India by other Indians for Indians inside the country and the diaspora. This doesn't make them better or worse...for we know they regularly still churn out dreck. It's just what they are and what they are not. <br /><br />And even as a diasporic Indian who has not lived in India for a couple of decades there are evenings during which only an Indian movie will do, some emotions that are only plumbed when Amitabh speaks and Vinod twirls his moustache and SRK trembles his voice. It's part of me, in my blood and even as I despise certain aspects of Bollywoodism I cannot escape it.<br /><br />So...I am not a Bollywood writer but in the spirit of Bollywood Blogging about the best movies of the 1970's, put into my motion by a wonderful blogger called <a href="bethlovesbollywood.blogspot.com">bethlovesbollywood.blogspot.com</a>...I will write I'm Not a Bollywood Blogger But...II tomorrow. And yes, it will be about the 1970's.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-58639733005691895062010-02-15T19:12:00.001+01:002010-02-15T19:12:33.712+01:00Could it beee Satannn?Whether you got the old SNL reference or not...my newest blog post is <a href="http://bannedbooks-group.blogspot.com/2010/02/satanic-verses-book-review.html">on The Banned Books blog.</a><br /><br />Read it! :-)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-68998782534693636142010-01-26T08:50:00.004+01:002010-01-26T09:08:41.500+01:00It's January 26th Again...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmADSRFMaWiw71pfGVBVb3iC-FLCHqrNcRm2VGbuVSWlyQn_0oBfi1hLapKZ6qAbl2b9cywuOpJ6QlPR105cXmDp4pzecZWUWHlEW9moKNqdkmnb7TjVQJ-rqqDfNPk_o5pTMPFg/s1600-h/imagesCAOKMP78.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmADSRFMaWiw71pfGVBVb3iC-FLCHqrNcRm2VGbuVSWlyQn_0oBfi1hLapKZ6qAbl2b9cywuOpJ6QlPR105cXmDp4pzecZWUWHlEW9moKNqdkmnb7TjVQJ-rqqDfNPk_o5pTMPFg/s400/imagesCAOKMP78.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430953118745016210" /></a><br /><br />There is a lot made of Indian Independence day which is on 15th August--and is also incidentally my wedding anniversary, but that's another post. But India goes all out and I mean all out on January 26. There is a grand parade in the capital, major celebrations throughout for the 26th is surely something to celebrate. It was on January 26, 1950, three years after India gained its independence in 1947, that India truly became a nation. It was on this date that India formally adopted its own constitution and became a true republic, embraced its standing in the world as a Sovereign, Socialist, Secular Democratic Republic.<br /><br />It was no longer a country in a limbo after the departure of the British, but a nation with its own constitution. Yes, it's a flawed one, and at 450 articles the longest in the world, but it is something all Indians, within the country or outside of it, should be proud. The constitution committee was headed by Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, a member of the scheduled caste of India, yes, the people now called dalit and those in the West who go by the catchy moniker of untouchable. It was a huge step forward and an inspirational one.<br /><br />And no matter that I still wonder at some of the foibles of the Indian constitution--the fact that we have one, and the fact that the world's largest democracy had managed to function as such (apart from a couple of emergency years under Mrs. G) in a volatile region (flanked by Pakistan and Bangladesh, with Sri Lanka at its southern tip) is remarkable.<br /><br />Despite what other problems we have in India we are still a people who are governned by the people and that is no small thing in a nation as large, as diverse, and as populated as India. We the People....could there have been sweeter words at the end of our struggle against colonialism?<br /><br />"We, the people of India, having solemnly resolved to constitute India into a Sovereign Socialist Secular Democratic Republic and to secure to all its citizens:<br /><br />JUSTICE, Social, Economic, and Political;<br />LIBERTY of thought, expression, belief, faith and worship<br />EQUALITY of status and opportunity; and to promote among them all;<br />FRATERNITY assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity and integrity of the Nation;<br /><br />IN OUR CONSTITUENT ASSEMBLY this twenty-sixth day of November, 1949, do hereby ADOPT, ENACT AND GIVE OURSELVES THIS CONSTITUTION”<br /><br />And so, yet again, I am proud and humbled to <a href="http://jawahara.blogspot.com/search/label/birthday">share my own birthday </a> with the true birth of India's nationhood.<br /><br />I've still never made it to the Republic Day parade in New Delhi but I just might one of these days. Jai Hind!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-47631216956059524372010-01-23T20:54:00.005+01:002010-01-23T21:35:46.468+01:00When So-Called Art Imitates Parody<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipk8YobTevC9z0oJGa_Fwr_eLGwhltDanJGMGuh9YUL0XHVfqDGctl178EoArGBOheE61G5F_4DXB5VRhVu8WrzaMNGR7IzKmSOnGURQ6Edj5EbrWVtpvA6BejYfBumQob7eeNjw/s1600-h/fashion_trolley_673690a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 185px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipk8YobTevC9z0oJGa_Fwr_eLGwhltDanJGMGuh9YUL0XHVfqDGctl178EoArGBOheE61G5F_4DXB5VRhVu8WrzaMNGR7IzKmSOnGURQ6Edj5EbrWVtpvA6BejYfBumQob7eeNjw/s400/fashion_trolley_673690a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430030767214383666" /></a><br />Compare the homeless to yourself and your life. What do they have--apart from their freedom, sleeping under the stars, not doing much of anything, a life-long enforced reduced calorie diet plan--that you don't?<br /><br />A sense of style that's what. Think of the wonderful accessories you'll never have...well not unless you decide to rid yourself of all the things that bog you down, of course--your home, family, car, money, heating in winter, clothes that coordinate. Think instead of the amazing sense of style of a trash bag as a garment, the bohemian deliciousness of living in a cardboard box, the casual chic of a shopping cart to hold all your aluminum cans and the occasional feral cat or raccoon. Aaaah....I smell...fashion. Ummm no....that's just the really bad body odor and the feral animal...or both. Never mind!<br /><br />If you thought Derelicte was only a dreamed up bit of funny in the movie Zoolander, think again. Never let it be said that high-end designers are out of touch with reality. Perhaps they're making size 00 and size 0 dresses because that's the only size the homeless tend to be underneath the bulk of the oh-so practical yet chic layers of newspaper, shredded sweaters, and large, shapeless jackets. They're hiding their fierce bodies. Work it ladies n'gents!<br /><br />For there is a designer who is paying true homage to homelessness...by creating a collection based on...you guessed it homeless people. I find myself humbled and inspired by Dame Vivienne Westwood's new autumn-winter collection at Milan. This is the press release from Milan Fashion Week: "Perhaps the oddest of heroes to emerge this season, Vivienne Westwood found inspiration in the roving vagrant whose daily get-up is a battle gear for the harsh weather conditions...Quilted bombers and snug hoodies also well well in keeping the vagrant warm."<br /><br />That is, of course, if the vagrant can afford thousands of Euros for one of her jackets.<br /><br />What is scarier still is if you compare this statement to the one issued by the evil Mugatu (who recruits male models for political assassinations) in Zoolander: "Let me show you Derelicte. It is a fashion, a way of life inspired by the homeless, the vagrants, the crack whores that make this wonderful city so unique."<br /><br />If there is one thing the homeless love more than hot coffee, an occasional meal, shelter, and some warm clothes in winter it's being an inspiration to pampered, rich folk. It's humbling for them I'm sure. Aaah...the homeless!<br /><br />Of homelessness itself, Westwood had this to say: "The nearest I have come to it is <br />going home and finding I don't have my door key...I mean, what a disaster that is, dying to get in your house and you can't."<br /><br />What a disaster indeed. What if you had to pee or need a lie-down on your 10,000 thread-count sheets? I can't bear to think of it. The horror, the tragedy. And they say charity and empathy are dead. Vivienne Westwood you bring a tear...yes at least one tear to my eye. <br /><br />Here is a quote from the Times Online story on the show: "Some carried bedrolls. Another emerged from his cardboard box with a sleeping bag, slung it around his neck and quickly walked away. <br /><br />Several hundred fashion experts burst into rapturous applause as the cameras flashed. Dame Vivienne Westwood was presenting a menswear show at Museo della Permanente, Milan, last night in which the models were supposed to look like rough-sleepers. <a href="http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/fashion/article6991741.ece">Read the whole story here.</a><br /><br />And when you do, ponder how unlucky you are...to be sitting in a warm room, in front of a computer, perhaps with a lovely cup of fragrant tea or a steaming mug of coffee, with your family around you. Life sucks if you aren't sleeping in a cold alley...mainly because your jammies aren't stylish unlike the vagrant's mis-matched, layered fashions. It's just not fair, is it? Thank you Muga....ummm...Vivienne Westwood.<br /><br />Now I must go practice my blue steel look...and perhaps even the magnum! Keep your fingers crossed for me. Maybe I'll go out and observe a few homeless people tonight. It's cold though...they're probably huddled under newspapers in an alley somewhere. Damn!<br /><br />I tried to find the actual Derelicte fashion show clip but here's another one from Zoolander. Note Mugatu's trash bag cravat...and the Derelicte sign on the runway. Enjoy!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tx_ZU-qRD1Q&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tx_ZU-qRD1Q&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-90374764960948636692010-01-08T17:00:00.000+01:002010-01-08T17:01:13.412+01:00Happy 2010A quick note to say Happy 2010 all...no matter how you say it. Is it Twenty ten? Or Two thousand and 10? Or just 10? Whatever you call it, may it be happy for you.<br /><br />Oh yes, there's a <a href="http://bannedbooks-group.blogspot.com/2010/01/announcement-for-2010.html">blog announcement here.</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-28927289748368707632009-12-24T23:33:00.006+01:002009-12-24T23:48:01.444+01:00Urban Cowboys and Starbucks in NYCAs I sat on the 1 train, heading downtown, three urban cowboys got into the car. Red and white sharply pressed shirts, string ties, tight, shiny jeans, and cowboy boots with spurs. One guitarist, one keyboardist, one lead singer. They sang Feliz Navidad. I gave them a couple of dollars but they moved on before I could snap a picture. They were rather good for traveling musicians.<br /><br />Now, I am sitting somewhere which could be anywhere in this corporate world of ours. Starbucks on 72nd street and Broadway, and I have free wifi. It's bitterly cold but the streets are full of people. I think, for these next few days, they will give generously to the beggars who sit still on the frozen ground, watching the ankles of the world go by. Is it guilt or a desire to share the season? It doesn't matter to the recipients. They are just glad I think. They have warm rooms for the homeless and the rootless at various places in the city. It's hard to be without a place to call home, especially in this frantic city.<br /><br />My coffee tastes the same as it does everywhere else. It's warming...and the caffeine buzz is almost instant.<br /><br />To all my readers (yes, all 10 of you :-)...on this Chritmas Eve of 2009, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and as our corporate overlord Starbucks commands, Hope...and Joy! You better do it!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi919FV0D7DS-SrREVgVDkZ-JYTcJpEaA5Szwm0ReNV4Gh1VT-WZkFmPoau_uSBkt3ZL2c5Mq43OzOouWHzQfAHiXvpDWrkHUUZmrzjgqJTTtTy8Y8FWh_C0hUGEbc5kveZfsQZuA/s1600-h/Snapshot_20091224_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi919FV0D7DS-SrREVgVDkZ-JYTcJpEaA5Szwm0ReNV4Gh1VT-WZkFmPoau_uSBkt3ZL2c5Mq43OzOouWHzQfAHiXvpDWrkHUUZmrzjgqJTTtTy8Y8FWh_C0hUGEbc5kveZfsQZuA/s400/Snapshot_20091224_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418937876038860258" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-5774201685626627152009-12-03T20:47:00.007+01:002009-12-03T22:14:31.923+01:00Death Came By One NightTwenty-five years ago today, December 3, 1984, death came to Bhopal as it slept. The nearby Union Carbide (now Dow Chemicals) plant leaked methyl isocyanate (MIC) and other toxins in the air, exposing half a million people to deadly gases. About 4000 people died instantly. A few days later it was estimated that double that number died. In the years after the tragedy, babies were born with an inordinate number of birth defects, and survivors suffered a host of exposure-related illnesses. It is now estimated that 20,000 have died since the accident of gas-related reasons. An additional 100,000 to 200,000 battle the ill-effects of the leak even now.<br /><br />I remember, as a young teenager, waking up to the news of the gas leak. And in the days that followed, I had nightmares about the dead. One photograph in particular has stuck in my mind even after all these years, and I believe it might be one that most people still think of when they think of Bhopal. A hand, palm down is caught in the process of burying a child. All you can see are the staring dead eyes, the mouth slightly open. And that the greyness of the ground and the skin of the child are virtually the same.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SSAZzdt_RbMg7FT0j6lWSb2oCSfut2p7SQ4mzXxk8Uk5J2O3y2KY-rwcdY5uB0PPIAYlxoZPBDo0lgCxt7hUTeb6iYyGyb-DWjgPVWvfRSS3AgxVP3w2GYx0vOBoADGTc2l9ng/s1600-h/bhopal.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-SSAZzdt_RbMg7FT0j6lWSb2oCSfut2p7SQ4mzXxk8Uk5J2O3y2KY-rwcdY5uB0PPIAYlxoZPBDo0lgCxt7hUTeb6iYyGyb-DWjgPVWvfRSS3AgxVP3w2GYx0vOBoADGTc2l9ng/s400/bhopal.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411106806839061666" /></a><br /><br />Twenty-five years have passed and those who lived through the gas leak and those who lost someone are still without any recompense. Not a recompense as much as money to help with their considerable medical expenses. It's sad really when we have frivolous lawsuits in the U.S. (hot McDonald's coffee anyone?) and when the Erin Brokovich's of the world have movies made about them. <br /><br />There are no movies about Bhopal perhaps because there are no heroes. Perhaps because the only true heroes are the ones who survived that night when death crept in slowly and soundlessly. They went on, and despite poverty and the lack of wherewithal to fight against a powerful nexus of corporate greed and government laxity...they live on. But we don't venerate quiet power do we? We want our heroes to smash down barriers to live an arc of cinematic grandeur. And no one in Bhopal did that. <br /><br />Twenty-five years later this is what we know:<br /><br />1. Even now there are some 390 tons of toxic chemicals abandoned at the Union Carbide site, slowly leaching into the ground, continuing to poison those who live in the area.<br /><br />2. There are currently civil and criminal cases pending at the District Court of Bhopal and at the US District Court of Manhattan. There is even a warrant out for the CEO of Union Carbide at the time, Warren Anderson. Yet no one, that's right no one has been arrested, let alone prosecuted for neglilence leading to essentually, <br />mass murder. Warren Anderson has never been extradided to face charges and lives in luxury in Bridgehampton, NY.<br /><br />3. This was not merely an accident. it was pure negligence. Union Carbide used hazardous chemicals like MIC despite the availability of less dangerous ones. The chemicals weres stored in large tanks instead of in steel drums. There was corrosion in the pipelines and there was multiple failure of several systems due to poor maintenance and regulations. In fact, safety systems were shut down to save money. There had also been previous warnings and accidents. In fact in 1981 American experts had warned of the possibility of a disaster in the MIC tank, and local authorities had warned Union Carbide on several occasions from 1979 onwards.<br /><br />Did Union Carbide ignore these warnings due to pure hubris or because it was situated among the poor of Bhopal and their lives truly had no value?<br /><br />4. There was some compensation paid. Widows of the tragedy received Rs 150 (later raised to Rs 750) a month. Yes, that's about USD 3-15. About Rs. 200 was given to everyone who was born before the tragedy. That's about USD 10. A one-time payment of Rs 1,500 (about USD 38) was paid to all families with a monthly income of less than Rs 5000 (USD 100). Other payments are of equally ludicrous amounts.<br /><br />The final payment by Union Carbide (for over 20,000 deaths and about 200,000+) affected was $470 million. That sounds like a huge amount until you compare it to the $333 million paid out to the plaintiffs of Hinckley, CA for the contamination of their ground water by Pacific Gas and Electric (Erin Brokovich)....and this was an issue that affected 40...yes 40 homes!<br /><br />As if the sum decided upon by the Government of India and Union Carbide was not bad enough, the local and state government corruption in the state of Madhya Pradesh, has done its bit to victimize those who had already lost so much on that cold December night 25 years ago. This has taken the form of lost paperwork, paying out more money to richer people with connections, not acknowledging that birth defects or deformities were directly caused by the gas leak, delayed payments, etc.<br /><br />Did I mention there were and are no heroes in Bhopal? There are some unsung ones, those without panache or sex appeal. <a href="http://www.siasat.com/english/news/two-ngos-appeal-parliament-take-cause-bhopal-gas-tragedy-victims-25th-anniversary">There are NGOs </a>in Bhopal working for the victims and for the cause of justice but not much is happening. And isn't true heroism striving even when the results are unknown? <br /><br />But it is up to us to not forget, to remember the horrors of that night, to continue to support NGOs and others working for the victims of Bhopal. I know I can't ever forget because those dead eyes will haunt me no matter where I am. Those eyes and the question I see in their sightless gaze.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-18156458327510111562009-11-23T15:04:00.003+01:002009-11-23T15:11:17.710+01:00GuitwilightOk, so I am not part of the screaming women screaming for Twilight and Robert Pattinson. And *gasp* I haven't read the Twilight saga. But it's impossible to steer clear of the frenzy, and a couple of nights ago I even watched the first movie when it showed up on a Sky movie channel. If I was a teenager I'd swoon too. Young Robert is rather yummy but alarmingly pale.<br /><br />But let's face it, vampires are not new. I used to love Dracula movies, and of, course there's something incredibly sensual and even sexual about being loved by the undead I suppose. And yes, I even read and watched Interview with a Vampire though I was squidged out by then 8-year old Kirsten Dunst locking lips with a grown-up Brad Pitt.<br /><br />Vampires are old hat, whether they be pale teenagers with James Dean hair or a cloaked Count yearning for his Mina. So...what can you do to put a twist on an old favorite? Fear not, I have found the answer where all answers are to be found...the Internet of course.<br /><br />This is to my pals (you know who you are) who are Twilight addicts. You know you're the best, so enjoy this new take on an age-old fave.<br /><br /><table width="480" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tr><td><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=8,0,0,0" width="480" height="270"><param name="movie" value="http://www.take180.com/player/Take180Player.swf?xmlLocation=/s/bx/so0nh&links=true" /><param name="base" value="http://www.take180.com" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"/><param name="wmode" value="transparent"/><embed src="http://www.take180.com/player/Take180Player.swf?xmlLocation=/s/bx/so0nh&links=true" width="480" height="270" base="http://www.take180.com" wmode="transparent" allowFullScreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed></object></td></tr><tr><td><a href="http://www.take180.com/s/Guinew_Moon/so0nh" target="_blank" title="Guinew Moon">Guinew Moon</a> from <a href="http://www.take180.com/show/Electric_Spoofaloo/c53" target="_blank" title="Electric Spoofaloo">Electric Spoofaloo</a> on <a href="http://www.take180.com" target="_blank" title="Take180.com">Take180.com</a></td></tr></table>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-28906313491509723282009-10-26T11:26:00.007+01:002010-01-07T20:17:41.170+01:00Of Winds and Poets and Me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsyzpwit_nFRL-ifUEe4d-KjP8y8N4YGbcvoQR-_x1FUdaZpKgjFbeOgHX3-KW4zPoUSsCOz_tXd6qLTQdO17LBedXELRkW_fwol0SHns_i04-fN0kN6ZsusyAMOhBbCdBet03Q/s1600-h/portrait.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsyzpwit_nFRL-ifUEe4d-KjP8y8N4YGbcvoQR-_x1FUdaZpKgjFbeOgHX3-KW4zPoUSsCOz_tXd6qLTQdO17LBedXELRkW_fwol0SHns_i04-fN0kN6ZsusyAMOhBbCdBet03Q/s320/portrait.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396867839414196530" /></a><br /><br />I have a confession. I wasn't always in love with <a href="http://jawahara.blogspot.com/search/label/Byron">Lord Byron</a>. There was a time, brief though it was, when another poet ruled my heart and still comes a close second to Byron. Initially, there was something repulsive about Byron, what with his debauchery, his lusty affairs...the incest. All the things that would later make him fascinating were a bit much for a child. Okay, maybe I was still fascinating but in an icky way. I needed to be a little older (13? 14?) to swoon for Byron's dark moodiness.<br /><br />But my first dead poetic crush was someone close to Byron, their lives intertwined. Yes, <a href="http://jawahara.blogspot.com/2008/03/and-consumption-too.html">Shelley</a>. I know, I know. He was a bit icky (open marriage anyone?) too but he did have that delicious renegade quality, the romance of the exile, the tangled life...and all by the time he was 26 when he drowned. Most tragic!<br /><br />A few weeks ago the Bise was whipping around Geneva, pushing me from the back as I walked, tangling my hair into a bird's nest around me. And it started me thinking of all things wind-related.<br /><br />How the wind becomes part of our literary selves? How we ascribe certain attributes to the winds we experience.<br /><br />In my childhood in India, there was the <em>loo</em> (no...not a toilet). The <em>loo </em> is a hot, dry wind that blows during the height of summer in the Indo-Gangetic Plains. Rather than doubling my efforts, here is how I describe the loo in my novel <a href="http://www.rolibooks.com/search/Jawahara/?q=Jawahara&x=5&y=5">The Burden of Foreknowledge (2007).</a><br /><br />"When the loo blows, it brings with it the heat of the desert and its gritty sand, driving people indoors for refuge. I go out to feed our cows and it slithers up my nostrils until I choke. I gasp for breath trying to suck in the thin, super-heated air. It is as if a fiery serpent is trying to make its home inside me.<br /><br />Just as I think I cannot bear it any more, I stumble back inside. The wind haunts us for days, whistling and whining like an angry, vengeful ghost. If I venture outside I wind a wet cloth around my head...."<br /><br />But it was also the loo that made watermelons and melons ripen to perfect sweetness, as the dryness sucked out the excess water and concentrated the sugars. It makes Indian mangoes into the almost mythical fruit that they are.<br /><br />In Switzerland, I encoutered the Bise, French for "a light kiss." Let me tell you, there is nothing light about it. It should be French for a "kick in the ass." It is fierce, is generally dry and attacks us from northern climes. The only upside is that it is accompanies blue, clear skies. It creates beautiful days but, as the loo can kill a human being through almost instant dehydration (within hours, even minutes), the Bise acts on the nervous system. How I don't know. It sounds pleasant but I need to research it some more.<br /><br />Victor Hugo wrote a poem, Le Bise about it.<br />"Le bise le bruit d'un geant qui soupire;<br />La fenetre palpite et la port respire;<br />Le vent d'hiver glapit sous les tuile des toits;<br />Le feu fait a mon atre une pale dorure;<br /><br />Le trou de ma serrure<br />Me souffle sur les doigts."<br /><br />(Bad translation but here goes: <br />The Bise is a brutish giant who sighs<br />The window flutters and the harbor breathes<br />The winter wind yelps under the roof tiles<br />The fire has been guilding my atre (??) blade.<br /><br />Through the hole of the lock<br />I feel the wind's breath on my fingers)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoeeVoKnDCpN4-ZVYDSvuUIpvsudNBj0lytVd6DP_Bb6ME4NhcPhteMCnopwKZ-3cvcLYWD2e8zg0BOYniSuQf0jdNi_zUjmhWQlSAM0ZgYlUoDeyswWR2mrLfEwvLZ5E0ZKvPTg/s1600-h/windingeneva.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoeeVoKnDCpN4-ZVYDSvuUIpvsudNBj0lytVd6DP_Bb6ME4NhcPhteMCnopwKZ-3cvcLYWD2e8zg0BOYniSuQf0jdNi_zUjmhWQlSAM0ZgYlUoDeyswWR2mrLfEwvLZ5E0ZKvPTg/s320/windingeneva.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396867212958340114" /></a><br /><br />That's me 'enjoying' a windy evening by the lake. Freezing! Note the hair whipping around, the scrunched eyes, and the frantic waves on our usually calm lake.<br /><br />We are also lucky(?) in Switzerland to sometimes be treated to the Mistral, arguably the wind with the most beautiful name. Isn't it a lovely name for a girl? The Mistral too is strong, cold and usually dry and passes through the Rhone valleys. It can cause Mediterranean storms. In the Provencal Christmas crib there is usually always a shepherd who holds his hat, his cloak billowing around him because of the Mistral. Sadly, but appropriately, a French missile has been named Mistral.<br /><br />Interesting isn't it, that we are rarely moved by gentle breezes. Winds are elemental. They create weather systems and born because of them. They have well-worn paths and we can trace the seasons through the winds that are part of our lives.<br /><br />And, why was it, when I lived in the land of the hot loo, when we looked forward to winter for relief from summer, that the one poem I loved was about a wind. Yes, for it was his lovely Ode to the West Wing that made me fall in love with Shelley. It's a little bit dark, even macabre, it's fanciful, it talks about the power of the wind, its twin roles as destroyer and preserver, and touches on the circle of seasons and that of life. It leaves the reader with hope. Here it is:<br /><br /><strong>Ode to the West Wind</strong> by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1803-1882) <br /><br />I <br />O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,<br />Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead<br />Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,<br /><br />Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,<br />Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0 thou,<br />Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed<br /><br />The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,<br />Each like a corpse within its grave,until<br />Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow<br /><br />Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill<br />(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)<br />With living hues and odours plain and hill:<br /><br />Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;<br />Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!<br /><br />II<br /><br />Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,<br />Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed,<br />Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,<br /><br />Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread<br />On the blue surface of thine airy surge,<br />Like the bright hair uplifted from the head<br /><br />Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge<br />Of the horizon to the zenith's height,<br />The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge<br /><br />Of the dying year, to which this closing night<br />Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre<br />Vaulted with all thy congregated might<br /><br />Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere<br />Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!<br /><br />III<br /><br />Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams<br />The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,<br />Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,<br /><br />Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,<br />And saw in sleep old palaces and towers<br />Quivering within the wave's intenser day,<br /><br />All overgrown with azure moss and flowers<br />So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou<br />For whose path the Atlantic's level powers<br /><br />Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below<br />The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear<br />The sapless foliage of the ocean, know<br /><br />Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,<br />And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!<br /><br />IV<br /><br />If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;<br />If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;<br />A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share<br /><br />The impulse of thy strength, only less free<br />Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even<br />I were as in my boyhood, and could be<br /><br />The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,<br />As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed<br />Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven<br /><br />As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.<br />Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!<br />I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!<br /><br />A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed<br />One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.<br /><br />V<br /><br />Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:<br />What if my leaves are falling like its own!<br />The tumult of thy mighty harmonies<br /><br />Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,<br />Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,<br />My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!<br /><br />Drive my dead thoughts over the universe<br />Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!<br />And, by the incantation of this verse,<br /><br />Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth<br />Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!<br />Be through my lips to unawakened Earth<br /><br />The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,<br />If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-44091290807044709582009-10-17T13:47:00.002+02:002009-10-17T13:48:27.220+02:00What to do? We're like this onlyThere are stereotypes and then there are stereotypes. And, if they're intelligently or funnily done....I like 'em. :-)<br /><br />Here we are. Find out about Indians in 90 seconds. Enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QobfKOrpZT4&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QobfKOrpZT4&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15082857.post-50465624694914373122009-10-07T12:49:00.004+02:002009-10-13T23:29:01.410+02:00Guilt MoneyIn front of the WTO building.<br /><br />He was waiting on the median, waiting for the cars to stop. <br /><br />The Porsches, the Mercedes', a Bentley, a Rolls, and others. <br /><br />Leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes fixed downwards he limped from car to car. <br /><br />Some windows never came down, others waved him away.<br /><br />A quick hand emerged from some, dropped a coin or two in his cupped palm.<br /><br />Guilt money is what I gave him. <br />A few francs into his hand.<br /><br />Merci, he said..<br /><br />His eyes skittered away from mine. <br /><br />And I saw the barely formed peach fuzz on his chin, by his side-burns. <br /><br />I've seen beggars all my life and, yes, sometimes they all tend to blend in. <br /><br />But sometimes, one of them unwittingly reaches out and breaks through the curtain that separates us in this land of plenty, of more than plenty.<br /><br />Does the money go on drink? Drugs? To a crime boss?<br /><br />Or does it buy something to eat? A brief respite from the hardness of the tarmac underfoot? Some softness in a life where other options have been discarded?<br /><br />We can never know this.<br /><br />Do guilt money givers deserve to know this? <br /><br />Do I need to know what my guilt money buys for the temporarily visible?<br /><br />In the side-view mirror I watch his body twist and sway as he makes his slow way down the line of cars behind me.<br /><br />And I think again of the smooth peach-fuzz. He was somebody's baby once, not so long ago? <br /><br />Held. Loved. Fed.<br /><br />What happened?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14934380378741960230noreply@blogger.com4