The Idea-smithy

Eight years after hearing about it for the first time, I finally watched The Vagina Monologues. Wish me a happy birthday since I’m being reborn. On second thoughts, don’t say a word. Just listen as we speak - my vagina and I.

I hated being a woman. The restrictions, the rules, the fears of my mother, it made me angry.

I hated being a woman. Being smaller built than the boys, slower than them at games, lagging behind them on my bicycle, my scrawny legs pedalling furiously to keep up. I never could.

I hated being a woman. It took me a long time to get used to my curves. I walked like my flat-chested 12-year-old self till I was 17. Till a classmate told that it wasn’t the done thing for a girl to walk with such a straight back. Till, a boy said, “You walk with your boobs thrust right out at the world.” And when I did get used to them, I took them on with a vengeance and used them as lethal weapons. Bait? Hah! Call them Venus fly-traps! I loved their power and I hated them for the compromise they were.

I hated being a woman. Bleeding every month, feeling pukey and giddy-headed and sticky and smelly.

I hated being a woman. 10 years old and being told, “Boys can do whatever they like. But a girl’s reputation is like glass.” Twelve and my tuition teacher’s voice, “What a horrible laugh, so loud and monstrous! Look at Sonya, how prettily she covers her mouth when she laughs. And she doesn’t make a sound.” Thirteen and being admonished, “Sit with your legs together. Only a slut sits with her legs apart.” Yes, I really and truly hated being a woman.

But I didn’t always. I didn’t know I was a woman for some time. And then suddenly I did. Or more accurately, I suddenly knew he was a man. As he introduced me to his manhood and asked me to pat it, hold it, feel it.

Oh stop! I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I held myself back. And I held myself in. Realizing suddenly that if I didn’t, everything inside me would fall out of the hole.  And in that moment, I seperated my vagina from me.

Sometime later, I summoned up the courage to tell my parents. I said he had tried to kiss me once. ‘Tried to’, not did. ‘Once’, not many times. ‘Kiss me’, not…. 

My classes were stopped and we didn’t speak about it again. I gave up trust that day as well as faith in men. I even stopped hugging my father. I assumed a genderless identity. And later, sexuality was paraded as an accessory, not experienced from within.

As the years passed, I built armour upon armour. The strongest of them was the desicion that when I was uncomfortable or hurt or unsure or unwell, no one would know, least of all the person who caused me pain. I banished the fears. I suppressed the blushing and giggles. I stifled innocence and wonder. I held back pain. I shut down tears. I sent them all to the dungeon to keep my shameful prisoner company. 

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I didn’t speak of it for ten years. One day a neighbor asked my mother about the guitar lessons I’d taken, since she wanted to send 8-year-old daughter for them too. When my mother told me, I asked her to tell our neighbor what had happened. She admitted that she was too embarassed to. I said, “If someone had told us the truth a decade ago…” and I left the room. There was nothing more to say.

Four years later, I was playing a silly game with my boyfriend, slapping and giggling. Then in a dramatic flourish, he pinned me down and held my wrists. That’s the last thing I remembered. The next thing I knew, he was shaking me very gently and asking, “What happened? I was only playing.” I didn’t say a word. Apparantly I’d gone all stiff and began whimpering.

My vagina was locked away into a dungeon when I was nine and went into silence after that. 

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As I watched the monologues and the vaginas of women around me sing and squeal and laugh and moan, I asked myself,

If my vagina could speak, what would she say?

And I heard her stammering, painfully shy reply so clear it made me cry.

She said,

I AM SORRY.

I’m sorry I disappointed you.
I’m sorry I hurt you.
I’m sorry you are in pain.
I’m sorry that I remind you of my existance.
I’m sorry I exist.
I’m so very sorry that I didn’t make you happy.
I’m really sorry that I don’t make you proud.
I’m sorry that you’re ashamed of me.
I’m so, so very sorry.

And as she spoke, her fellow prisoners stepped free from two decades of confinement. I had scratched off the worst I’d seen in my life and sent them down to my vagina, keeping the best bits for the part of me on show to the world.

My poor vagina, surrounded by my shame,
my guilt,
my pain,
my bad memories,
my nightmares,
my anguish,
my betrayal,
my agony,
my frustration,
my sorrow
…and my tears.

She cried, my vagina cried. And for the first time in years, I did too, with her.

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Small wonder then that my relationships failed. Such a hellish place it had turned into that I’d only send those I wanted to banish down there. No wonder the very worst of men appealed to me and the very worst in them turned me on. And even they were petrified by what they found there.

I hated doing it in the dark.
I hated doing it on my back.
I hated doing it in bed. Or a couch. Or a car. Or in the open.
In fact I hated doing it so much that I never did.

Those who came to visit were offered a gracious cup of tea and then lulled into a battery of tests - a moat, a dragon, an army of defenses. And those that got past, walked up to the gates to find them locked. No entry into this love-lane, we’re shut, you’re unwelcome, go home. They did.

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My new friend calls me a child and tells me that there’s a little girl he sees when he looks at me. Now I understand. At long last, I’m in the throes of an emotion nearly long-forgotten - TRUST. I banished it to my basement along with the other more tender emotions. If other people trust with their hearts, mine has gone made its home in the hovel downstairs. I trust from deep down there, like a slender creeper growing out of the ground. And what do you know? He’s right after all. My vagina thinks she’s only nine years old. That’s the last time she breathed free. Sweet child of mine indeed.

I used to be a sweet child. Warm, affectionate, trusting and open and always getting into scrapes. All of that went away with the confinement, right down into my vagina which is everything I am not. Sweet, pure, soft and warm. And it stayed that way for twenty years despite the confinement.

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The book was wonderful. But the play brought it to life. It made me laugh (not smirk) and cry (not scowl). It gave my vagina her freedom and her voice too.

This is for Mahabanoo, Dolly Thakore, Avantika, Jayati (the moaner!) and Sonal Sachdev, the wonderful, spirited ladies who made last night come alive at Prithvi theatre. You made me whole again. You brought me back to life.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

If my vagina were to dress up, what would it wear?

Well, it’s worn iron shackles for two decades. Now, if she could, she’d like something light and airy - preferably nothing at all.

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I read Lolita when I was eighteen. It was a revelation. One more step in what turns out to be a long journey. A journey of healing. A lot of people I’ve discussed the book with say that it is a sick book, making excuses for paedophilic behaviour. But I think, they just don’t know. Of all the people, I can hardly be an advocate for child abuse.

But reading Lolita gave me some perspective on what happened to me. I suddenly saw my abuser as a human being - a very bad and flawed human being, a sick human being but a human being nevertheless. Not a monster, but human. And human beings can be overcome, overpowered and even forgotten. Almost.

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About 5 years ago I was at a doctor’s clinic when I suddenly realised that the man sitting across me was my former guitar teacher. I was shocked that it had taken me that long to recognize him. Even more shocked at what I felt - nothing at all. In my memories he was a big-built man. But in person, after all these years he just looked so tired, so small, so weak, so obscure and so old. I can’t change what happened and it would a lie to say that I’ve forgiven. This is a wound that cut me so deep, it bled me right out of the right to be angry and seek revenge. Seeing him again was like someone smoothing over the scars of the wound.

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I didn’t have the courage to put this up online immediately. I had to ask a few friends about it. Two of them told me that it was deeply moving and should be shared. One cautioned me that I should remember to ignore any weird-ass reactions. Finally two others,  told me about their own personal accounts of horror. And in the end, that’s really what gave me the courage to share this.

Happy birthday to my vagina. And welcome to the world of the living again.

Good morning, my lovely readers! I was almost tempted to say ‘ my garam-samosas’ and then I realised I was just carrying the Honey-from-HT Cafe hangover too far.

I had the most brilliant day yesterday! The morning rain ruined the grand plans of the day for me….grrr, if I could get my hands on that stoopid shower, I’d strangle it! An hour and a half on a journey that shouldn’t have taken more than half an hour, missed meetings, crunched deadlines, panic all over the place…don’t even ask. Then I stepped out on my own, realizing quite suddenly that I had half a day to myself with no meetings to attend, no appointments to keep up and actually - nothing to do!

So what did I do? (more…)

I’m back! Yes, on Friday the thirteenth. Firstly tell me that you think it’s a great day already because if you don’t I’m going to make you say it. I was born on a Friday the thirteenth!!! Not this one obviously but another one long, long ago (uh, not that long ago). I’ve been so terribly thrilled to know that I picked a big day to be born that I’m almost disappointed that no one’s making a big deal of it today.

Now to other things. I’m posting after a week. No, this was not a self-imposed exile, not another case of blog-i-cide. I’ve been busy. And for a real change in a long, long time, busy in a satisfying way. You know in the way that drains out every drop of energy from you and fall back into bed, asleep almost as soon as you hit the pillow, thinking that what a lot of things happened to you today and weren’t they all great?

So yes, I’ve been busy (in a good way) and expect to be so for a few weeks at least. I’ve managed to do much that I feel good about though nothing that I want to write about. I still don’t have much to say but I’ve been experiencing - how do you say it - bloggydrawal symptoms? Lekhni kindly points me a way out of it and gives me something to talk about today.

I’m cheating ever so slightly on this since the tag is meant to use the nearest book you find lying next to you. I picked a book in the morning, knowing fully well that I’d do this tag today. (What kind of a loser plans to do a blog-tag, huh? This one does, compulsive to-do list-maker coming up!!)  So I kind of bent the rules if not actually break them. Good thing too, the damn things needed flexing and exercise just like my back. Speaking of which, I really should join the yoga institute now instead of just stretching along my instructer’s lessons. And I need a mackintosh and no one tells me where I can find one - the rain gear not the computer!!!

Okay, okay I’ll come back. *Huff Puff* It’s been awhile since I did this. Sticking to the point that is. So here the tag be -

• Pick up the nearest book.
• Open to page 123.
• Find the fifth sentence.
• Post the next three sentences.
• Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.

The book I picked up is The Good Husband of Zebra Drive by Alexander McCall Smith. Sentences 6, 7 and 8 on Page 123 are:

She reached across and laid a hand upon his wrist. He looked down at where her hand rested.
‘You mustn’t be sad, Rra,’ she said.

Blah, I wish I had more than 3 sentences to go by. At least there’s an entire action in this set and a conversation bit as well as two characters. Which is much considering it’s only 3 sentences. What’s more, they’re as good a representation of the book as anything. I haven’t actually gotten to page 123 as yet. I’m savouring this book page by page since its the very, very, very last (or just most recent I hope) book in the Mma.Ramotswe series.

And I’m tagging five people I suspect would have a good selection of books to pick from:

1. Sensorcaine
2. Rada
3. E Vestigio
4. The Saint
5. Chronicus Skepticus

Boy, I wish I had something profound or interesting to say about my contribution to this tag. All I can say is that it is a reminder of the emotion of compassion and probably one I could do well to remember.

Gah, I can do better than this, I know. Oh please tell me that you believe it too. Foo (as the boy would have it), I’ll let you go and take my blogger’s blocked self off to enjoy Friday the thirteenth.

Jeffrey Archer on Landmark tour!

..proclaims a hoarding on Andheri Link Road a few feet before Infiniti Mall which houses the Landmark store. The lower two floors look fairly sane, I think to myself as far as weekdays go. Even the second floor which looms into sight as the escalator rides up looks remarkably normal. Then I notice the mountain of bags lying at the entrance. And I’m stopped by the polite but firm female guard who shakes her head almost sorrowfully and tells me that I cannot carry my battered copy of As the Crow Flies in.

I push my way past the jewelery counter, the New Releases rack and past the music section. Voila!! What’s a celebrity without the crowd? Archer has succeeded in drawing the mob to the store on a weekday. It’s so crowded that people are stepping on each other’s toes even among the magazines racks that signal the start of that heaven that is Landmark’s book section.

I slither through the crowd in a manner perfected by years of Mumbai train travel and end up right at the back, smushed up against Movies while Jeffrey Archer regales a crowd from a stage in what is otherwise the aisle between Maps and Language.

(more…)

I stopped by this pavement stall last evening. It has been…oh, so very long..since I visited this place. Getting to be a real book-snob, are we, patronizing only the big bookstores? Yet, the bookseller recognized me in trice and his eyes bore no rebuke.

There’s one at every corner, if you know where to look and I’ve given away a few of my secrets before. This is (or used to be) one of my favorite haunts before convenience and credit cards took over.

From the evergreen Sidney Sheldons, John Grishams and Jeffrey Archers to the ubiquitous management books, this place still holds its charm. It’s hard to supress that innate sense of superiority in pulling out a book and placing it in the ‘right’ stack along with others in the genre. So pop fiction to the sides, classics in the middle, bestsellers on top. Then realisation strikes that the dynamics of cataloguing work differently in a street-stall.
(more…)

It’s January and time for all of Mumbai’s iconic events. After the Mumbai Marathon and the Mumbai Festival comes the Strand Book sale. Book-lovers across the city have looked forward to this annual event far before the gleaming interiors of the other bookstores came into being.

While on this, here’s something that was written sometime back but will still be of interest to anyone who’s kicked about the Strand Book sale.

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Much as I love this city, the one thing I have to admit it doesn’t satisfy is my raging craving for books. Mumbai isn’t a booklover’s city. There aren’t nearly as many people in this place that love books.

Still I can see the winds of change blowing over the Island. J.K.Rowling may not have added to fine literature but she did bring an entire generation of children back to books. And some adults as well, judging by the number of Harry Potters I’ve seen being toted around to bus-stops, on train journeys, coffee shops and what-nots.

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Over these years of nosing around for good reads, I think I’ve developed a kind of sense for bookshops across the city. So here’s a list of the places I love because they cater to the one vice I admit to.

THE GIANTS:

Landmark: Heading my list is this huuuuuggggge bookshop in the heart of Andheri West. You may wonder what a bookshop of this magnitude is doing, bang in the middle of “I’m so duuuuhhhh, but I’m beautiful, yeah” land. They must have known what they were doing since Landmark is getting a lot of recognition. It was probably set up to cater to the burgeoning suburbs taste for books but now it has become the new hotspot for readers from across the city.

Landmark has two things going for it: A great collection and staff that really do know books. They’re friendly without being intrusive and always willing to assist, no matter how ludicrous the query. I was super-impressed to see that their categories included Humour, Classics, Science Fiction and Modern Fiction….all of which are usually clubbed together in certain other wannabe bookshops.

Oxford: I discovered this place rather late, inconveniently located as it is, at the other end of town. My few visits tell me that this is probably the second-best place for books in the city. I won’t wax eloquent on its interiors, the coffee shop and the multitudnous collection of books. Suffice to say, this is one other place that has a good collection and friendly staff that actually know their books. What more does a good bookshop need?

Nalanda: This is the bookshop in the Taj hotel lobby. It is small (not in size but in terms of how many books they could have stuffed in there) but it has a reasonable collection. In the absence of Landmark and Oxford, this is where I used to buy my original, ‘good’ books.

Grand Maratha Sheraton: I haven’t visited their bookshop myself but Filmiholic tipped me off to this place, adding that,

People may roll their eyes at this, but I was quite surprised to find that the Grand Maratha, waaaaaaaaaay out by the airport (but so comfy to stay at), has a compact but well stocked bookshop, especially for anyone looking for books about India, be they fiction or non-fiction.

For example, two surprises were that they carried Sooni Taraporevala’s reissued coffeetable book on Parsis, and a massive road map/atlas of Bombay that I had called several large Crossword’s for, to no avail.

Seeing how long it takes to get there from downtown, I wouldn’t go just for the bookstore, but if one is out there for some other reason (afternoon quickie?), it’s worth popping in.

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THE SHOPS AROUND THE CORNER: That description is supposed to be reminscent of Meg Ryan’s place in ‘You’ve Got Mail’. Yes, Mumbai has it’s own answer to her store. Several, in fact. You just have to look carefully. Here are my favorite friendly neighborhood bookshops.

The new & second-hand bookshop: The jewel of my collection of book-troves in this city, I actually have a nice little story to tell about this one. I discovered this place, entirely by mistake. One rainy, depressing afternoon, I was wandering about town, close to St.Xaviers’ college. I trundled down the filthy little lane that’s across the signal from the college’s road (that is the lane on the right of Furtado & sons, who are the place to visit if you want to pick up a musical instrument). I don’t know quite why I was there and alone of all things, getting soaked in the rain but I know I was looking for a bookshop. Ahem…so I’m slightly mad sometimes….to go looking for a bookshop in a random corner of the city. But you know what…I actually found it! A few mucky steps down that road, on the left, hidden away so you almost miss it is a little doorway with a dusty magazine rack (you know the kind that swirls around and is used to stack tourist guides in hotels and airports?). When you see that, you’ll be standing at the entrance to the New and Second-hand bookstore. Can I be corny and sing a line?

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave….

That’s how I felt when I left the shop that day. Incidently this first visit there, I spent over 2 hours in the shop. Imagine a dusty, high-ceiling room stacked ceiling to floor with books, pillars too…except they aren’t pillars, they’re more stacks of books. Turn the corner and try to keep from screaming if you see a little old man at the desk. That’s the person who’ll make your bill and he’s very nice. I usually pick up a bookmark at the shop that I buy a book in and in this place I picked two of the nondescript paper strips stamped with the shop’s name. This man looked at me for a minute and then suddenly spread out a whole lot of bookmarks on the table. I’ve never seen bookmarks like these…there was one in leather, one with a hand-painted Krishna and several other masterpieces. I looked at him ruefully and said,

They’re lovely. But I’ve spent all my money. I’ll come back next time for them, will you save them for me?

He smiled and said,

They’re for you. I can recognize a book-lover when I see one and I know these will be appreciated.

Yes, sir, I have. I’ve actually never used a single one of them, they’re just too precious a gift. And a lovely memory of a stranger who reached out to a fellow booklover, even if she was a muddy-toed, vagrant-like teenager.

Horizon: Now this isn’t a dusty, musty old shop, its just a tiny (and I mean REALLY tiny) nook that stores books. Horizon’s charm comes from the fact that it is a book-oasis bang in the middle of a busy, bustling vegetable market and stone’s throw away from the noise & bustle of the railway line.

Get off Vileparle station (Western line) and come out of on the west side. This spills you out onto a madly busy road and straight ahead, the sights and smells of the sabzi-mandi will greet you. Take a sharp turn to your left and look for a roadside magazine stall across the road (next to the corner restaurant and veggie-seller). If you have sharp eyes, you’ll spot a nicely paved path leading in from next to the mag-seller. Go down there and on your left you’ll spot Horizon. Step up and step into the wonderful world of book-browsing. The owners are wonderfully emphatic of penniless students and generally broke people who love books. If you like looking, they won’t mind your being there…there’s even a comfortable little stool for you to perch on…tiny, in keeping with the size of the place. If you know me in person, do tell the owner….some of our conversations date back 10 years.

Book Lovers: Another one in the same genre as Horizon except this one is right at the start of Lokhandwala market (closest to Andheri station, Western line. Also very close to Infinity mall, Fame Ad labs and Lakshmi Industrial Estate). I don’t find the owner of this place as friendly as Horizon but well, maybe he just is a quiet type and after all he and I don’t go back 10 years. However, the people who run this place are well-informed about books and will be able to procure a copy of whatever you want if you don’t have it. Incidently they’re probably losing business to Landmark these days so they might have some good offers available. The last I heard there was a 25% off on all books….which is great, I say.

Granth: This is another Horizon-like shop furthur north. The first Granth was set up in a mall in Malad. Granth is another of those shops that delighted the suburban bibliophile in the late 90s, insofar used to making the trip to TOWN to buy books. Granth’s collection, while compact is diverse enough to hold interest. They’ve expanded now and have another store in Juhu. I’ve been to this new place only once and while it doesn’t compare with Landmark and Oxford, its definitely worth a dekko. The sweeping view next to the couch also helps.

Danai: Located in a quiet lane just off Linking Road (the one stretching from Bandra to Borivali), Danai is one of the earliest book-and-music shops in the suburbs. Their book collection is located in the basement (brightly lit though) while music is housed upstairs. Like many of the other small shops in Mumbai, small spaces make for a restricted collection. Still, they have a really good collection, catering well to certain niches like fantasy fiction, travel guides and occult/astrology.

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READING ON THE GO:

If you aren’t averse to reading books that have already been thumbed through by other people, you’re advised to check out the second-hand book-sellers across the city as well. Raddiwala is the local lingo for junkyard guy and some of these guys stock books that have been out of circulation for years. There’s a raddiwala at almost every corner of Mumbai and you’ll do well to discover your own personal recycler. Some places that I’ve noticed:

Irla bridge: I bet most people don’t even know where Irla is. Well, Irla is the narrow stretch connecting Andheri and Vileparle west. There’s a huge, smelly gutter and the road goes over it and hence….you guessed it, its called Irla bridge. Start walking down from Shoppers’ Stop, crossing a Barista on the way. Just before you reach the nulla, on the same side of the road, you’ll find a raddi-walla…..old newspaper bundles on the floor, back issues of Cosmopolitan, India Today, Business World and Debonair clipped neatly with clothes-clips. If you don’t already know, that’s the standard uniform of any second-hand bookshop.

This guy has a fantastic collection that’s constantly being replenished. Watch it with his attitude though. At the risk of sounding extremely bigoted, you might swing some great deals here if you speak Gujarati and end up paying more (with a few disdainful looks thrown your way) if you don’t. If you’re willing to live with that, check it out, his collection is good. And oh, throw an insult his way for me (I’ve had a few arguments with him…). Or if you speak Gujarati, please do me a return-favour for this tip and get me good bargains.

Andheri station: Come out of the second most maddening railway station in Mumbai (after Dadar) and catch your breath. Cross the road and look around for the telltale stacks of books. Did I miss something? Oh yes, I didn’t tell you east or west (Ain’t I soooo Bambaiyya?). Hmm, that’s because you’ll find a bookseller on either side of the track. The one on the east is a little way to the left of the station exit and across the road, right outside the bunch of shops. The one on the west sits on the pavement of S.V.Road, next to those two corridors full of shops.

Parel/Elphinstone Road railway bridge: Are we starting to sound familiar now? Ah, yes, the Mumbail Railway network seems to be running through my post with the same frequency as it does through the city. Well, I like most true Mumbaikers (so there, townies!) spend a fair bit of time on the train line so my addas are to be found on and around it. Coming back, some people know that the Western and Central railway lines cross at Dadar station. Well, did you know that this connection continues one station furthur south? Parel station on the Central line and Elphinstone station on the Western line are the siamese twins of the Mumbai rail network, connected as they are by one narrow bridge. You can even hear the announcements for one line, on the other platform. Well, what’s the significance of that bit of trivia? The fact that there’s a damn good bookseller perched on that bridge up there. There’re usually two of them, grown-up street kid-like with all the characteristic street-smartness and Mumbaiker warmth. They’re also surprisingly well informed where books are concerned and will be able to hand you just the right books if you ask for say…a Booker winner or perhaps, a volume on hypnosis. The ’shop’ is just a sheet of cloth with books laid out neatly but the collection is big enough to merit a second glance. Please note here that some of the books are reprinted copies of the more expensive publications. Okay that spells PIRACY for a lot of people, so if you have an issue with that, you’ve been forewarned.

Flora fountain: As a book-lover in Mumbai, it is probably vital for me to make a mention of this road close to Churchgate station. True, this used to be the Mecca for us a few years back. However with all the shops getting frequently cleared away and a lot of little ‘konas’ sprouting up in the other parts of the city, Flora just doesn’t do it anymore.

Ah…allow me to reminisce for a moment about the times when I was a penniless student and I’d spend 3 hours walking down this road and spending my hard-saved pocket money on books. I think the total I must have spent at a time on books would have been 800 bucks (top top absolute tops) but I’d go home with bulging bags of cookery books (for mum), a sci-fi (for dad), mystery, self-help, thrillers (for me) and bestsellers (for all of us). Those were the days….and somehow these days when I can walk into a brightly lit, snazzy store and snap up a load of brand-new books on my credit card….it just doesn’t feel the same. Okay, end of nostalgia trip. Sniff snifff.

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You will notice I haven’t made any mention of a certain other well-known chain that’s spread its tentacles across the city. They don’t have a particularly impressive collection unless you read only management books and the ‘faddy’ books. Their staff doesn’t appear to know anything about books and worse still, they’re openly rude and unhelpful. It is a sheer insult to a book-lovers’ intelligence to try and have a conversation with them. If I’m venomous its because I’m appalled by the lack of good service (or books) and what’s more, I now have several alternatives. So chuck the yellow-and-black guys and go out and find some real book-treasure-troves!

These then are the secrets of my bibliophile self, lovingly compiled from my lifelong love affair with books. Happy book-browsing!

Mum was my first teacher, especially in English. I think I get my love of language and words from her side. Oh, and the sense of humor too, perhaps?

We’ve been subscribing to the Readers’ Digest for donkey’s years now. I don’t even remember when I started reading it myself. Only that it was one of the many books, newspapers and magazines always around. I started with the end-of-story filler jokes and then graduated to the colorfully illustrated Laughter-The Best Medicine, Life’s Like That and All in a Day’s work. Before I knew it, I was reading the stories and articles as well and my parents had one more contender to the monthly issue. It was always a tussle.

In the house that I grew up in, we had a magazine stand, stuffed to spilling point with mum’s Tamizh magazines but also with the month’s issue of RD discreetly tucked away. Once it was found under a pillow after the last reader fell asleep on it and made the bed over it by mistake. But there was always a struggle over who got to read it the day it arrived.

Now, I find that RD eventually ends up in my parents’ room where both of them take their turn reading it and then it lies atop their respective bedside ‘to-read’ stacks. Then the next one arrives and the ‘old’ issue is relegated to the newspaper drawers. I don’t get to see it at all unless I salvage it before it goes to the raddiwallah!!!!!!

Foul! I cried and stole it away this month, whereupon it lay on my bedstead for 3 days with dad turning their room upside down looking for it. Though I actually got to read it only today. Sprawled on my tummy with mum idling next to me, I leaf through it and announce that I am going to do the Word Power challenge.

Aloud, she urges. So I start…little thinking that it will turn out to be another episode of Mum’s haha-pie. Ten minutes later, after I’m done, I read out the answers with the notes that follow (”knowing the root of the word improves your understanding of other related words…a trick I picked up after the CAT entrances” I tell her). She yawns in response and I am tempted to make my usual wise-cracks about…

I need all this. After all, I didn’t study in a convent like you! All I went to was some unknown village school.

All because the area my school was in, used to be a village in…godknows, the 18th century?

Ahem, ahem, I preen, anticipating a high score…and tell her that ‘tangent’ is derived from the Latin word tangere.

She says,

I’ve heard of Tanjere. I think its a place in Africa.

I interrupt her to tell her that she might be thinking of Tanzania.

No, there’s some place called…

..she continues

Or maybe you’re thinking of Tanjore, where our ancestors were from!!

And we both dissolve in laughter as she calls me a very silly girl .

Every word and its meaning becomes a new discussion, a new joke. So ferre contributing to circumference turns into a story of faireewallas who are actually those men who pull hand-carts.

Maybe they’re called that because they ferry things around, I observe.

She laughs and tells me that it’s more likely because they do feras around the city with those carts.

When I get to genus and read out the example: ‘Some trees are called oak but do not belong to the genus Quercus’ , mum says it reminds her of a childhood poem and starts to chant. Mid-way through the first word, I join in and we go

Oak before ash, in for a splash!
Ash before oak, in for a soak!

As we end in unison, she asks wide-eyed, if I had studied it too. I tell her no, I’ve just heard her say it so often, I may as well know it too now.
Parse (meaning to analyze grammatically) has mum observing in all seriousness,

So a parson is a person who analyzes the sins of the parishioners?

And she begs me not to be write this down, for fear of offending our Christian friends. I laugh her off and tell her not to worry, everyone has a funny bone somewhere.

Integer leads us to a weird conversation since it comes from the Latin word for ‘intact, whole’. This makes perfect sense to me but mum asks why we say something is an ‘integral part’ of something. I tell it that’s used to describe a part without which the whole does not have integrity. I conclude,

So it is something that brings integrity to the whole.

She disagrees and tells me that it has to do with doing what you say you will. And when I shake my head, she counters with

If I’ve said I will murder somebody, I must do it or lose my integrity???!

Great. Grammar lessons turn into philosophical debates with mum. I laugh and announce that she’s not meant to be thinking of such esoteric ideas.

Precambrian has us both stumped. The options aren’t of any help either:

a. 50 million years ago
b. 200 million years ago
c. 400 million years ago
d. 2 billion years ago

No wonder we didn’t know it, we weren’t around then!

says mum in finality which ends the discussion.

And finally there’s pedagogy which sounds vaguely familiar to me but she claims to not have heard of.

I only know synagogue!

My claim to knowledge goes kaput as I get it wrong too. And I read out:

Relating to education; the profession or theory of teaching. Greek paidagogs (slave who escorted children to school). You had one of those, didn’t you?

She bristles and says,

He wasn’t a slave! He was an orderly, a paid, government servant.

Whatever…I grin and shut the issue. Dad wants to read it and my grammar lesson is over.

In the Snake Woman issue that I read, Jessica says:

Maybe that’s what growing up is….realizing the things we do don’t mean anything. Things aren’t right or wrong. They’re just impulses. They just are.

Or perhaps in the grander scheme of things, beyond everyday breaths, in an entire lifetime some things cease to matter. Even within one relationship in a few years, it may be forgotten - those details of who spoke first, who made the first move and who ended it. Where then, is there any significance of our mundane emotions and selves in the grand panorama of multiple lifetimes?

Is it possible to live several lifetimes in one? I always liked taking stock at the end, summarizing, taking one key point out of each of the lengthy stories beforehand. What if this lifetime were nothing more than a fast-forward of a thousand others, a recap, a reminder to pick one sentence, one word from each lesson? An executive summary of everything thus far.

Then that’s why there’s so much room for deja vu, familiarity and seemingly-magical connections in my life. No wonder then I’m frequently bored…I’ve seen all of this before. Who’s got the time or the inclination..or the need, to recreate the entire production again? When all I have to do is run through it just to pull out the very essence of it? Ah, no wonder I seem cold and even slightly mad sometimes. I’m running the same tape, but just at a different speed than you are. And I loved you no less than yesterday. Or was it three lifetimes ago? I forget, the order doesn’t matter anyway.

My love, my hate, my passion, my indifference, my callousness, my grief….everything was just a series of impulses. Ha.

I realized yesterday that you can’t control your friendships any more than you can control your love life. I heard someone ask, almost reproachfully,

Since love happens on its own,
Without will or volition,
Why hate someone for loving you,
Or, for not being able to?

I thought long and hard but I never had an answer to that.

You certainly can’t control who you fall in love with. Or who falls in love with you.
You can’t control who to like or not like. Or who places you up on the pedestal of friendship. Or sacrifices you on the alter of love.

All you can do, is turn your back on relationships that you think aren’t right…and hope to heaven that they leave you alone and don’t come knocking on the door of your unconscious every now and then.

J once told me that,

A relationship is like eye-contact. It takes two to maintain it. But only one to look away and it is broken.

I disagree. As long as one person is still looking, the gaze exists, the spotlight, the glare and eventually, the other must come back to look again. It takes one to start and two to end.

In my mind, I effectively killed off those that hurt me and inadvertently created the ghosts of my past. Now, I am done and wish them nothing any more. Not joy, not fear, not hatred, not love. I’ve been the response to their initiation. Each spell of wonder, of lust and of love that was cast on me, I reciprocated with a counter-spell of murky attachment, of resentful longing, of secret guilt.

I wrote this months ago but did not publish it because it didn’t feel real. And now, finally that the impulse has caught up with the truth….like colour filling into the lines of what must come to pass…here it is.

I never did learn how to make a person stay
But it seemed like I learnt how to let them go
And I’ve always known how to make sure I’d be missed

Today, after all the grand entrances and exits,
All the passing throughs and mixed memories
I acknowledge what I’ve done

And to all the people I’ve bound to me,
Without seeming to,
I set you free

I stole my freedom away from you and us
Now I give you back yours, as a parting gift

You have been loved. And hated. And indulged. And denied. And finally absolved.
Your crimes washed away along with mine. And your pain redeemed for my tears.

I don’t have any regrets
And I hope, neither do you

Go in peace.

This is for everybody I’ve had any kind of strong attachment to, especially in the past few years. Friends, lovers, foes, ex-boyfriends, rivals. I’m letting you go. Not with any ulterior motives or from misplaced pride anymore but because…it is the only thing left to do. Please let me go. And let’s just get on with the rest of our lives. And lifetimes.

My latest fascination is for the Botswana of Mma.Precious Ramotswe. I’m talking about the main character of ‘The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency‘ and her world. There are those who write well, there are tales that make you think. Alexander McCall achieves both with his series about a  proud African lady detective. Mma.Ramotswe has an opinion on politics, morality, relationships and business. She is a modern lady of traditional build.

It has been a fair while since I could wax eloquent about a book. Alexander McCall gives us six:

• The No.1 Ladies Detective Agency
• Tears of the Giraffe
• Morality for Beautiful Girls
• The Kalahari Typing School for men
• The Full Cupboard of Life
• Blue Shoes and Happiness

Mma. Ramotswe’s Botswana is gentle, unostentatious and simple. The problems she attempts to solve involve other people’s errors of judgement and plain human folly. Her methods combine logic, intuition and some traditional Botswana values. And they work! You know how the mark of a good book is that it gives you something to think about every time you read it? I’ll add to that, a good book, like a good person also helps you see a side of yourself.

I’ve been going through this series in the past couple of months (occasionally alternated with another book). I’ve also been feeling considerably content with life. Yes, a powerful character, even if she is fictitious can change your way of thinking. And Mma.Ramotswe has all sorts of tricks up her ample sleeve, including the basic yet complex trick of being happy. Read the books, they really are a joyful experience.

In the meantime I wonder what it must feel like to be J.K.Rowling at the moment. She’s one of the richest people in the world, by virtue of her role as creator of Harry Potter, the one and only cult figure in my generation. At the moment, she is also one of the few people who knows exactly what happens to Harry, Ron, Hermione, Snape, Voldemort and the rest of the characters in the magical world that has regaled all of us for the better part of a decade. To those who compare her unfavorably with Tolkien, I think that’s a tad unfair. The influence is undeniable but then who’s denying it? Anyone who has read the works of the father of fantasy cannot help but show traces of his impact. Besides, think….she has brought an entire generation of children back into the world of books. Reading is fashionable again. I admit it isn’t her handiwork alone but she certainly has helped spawn an entire tribe of new readers, not to mention the sub-genre of ‘magical fiction’ that gives us such books as Eragon.

Her website has an amused/stern warning to the kids that frequent her house and rummage her cupboards that,

What they are looking for has long before been moved to a safe location!

Why blame the kids when hordes of adults are waiting with bated breath for the final instalment of the Hogwarts books?

A few thoughts from someone who’s been following the series closely:

1. Will Harry die in the seventh book? I think not. While Rowling has maintained a trend of killing off a key character in each book, I doubt she’ll attack the protagonist himself. It stops her from writing future (more money-spinning) Potter books, doesn’t it? On the other hand, as the debate goes, she might just do it, just to prevent other authors writing sequels. She has promised to not ‘go the Star Wars way’ and write pre-quels. I’d think her only option is keep Potter’s future open and available for the fans to lap up and keep her in money for a long, long time to come.

2. Did Sirius Black really die? Once again, I doubt it. After all, there wasn’t ever a body or even blood. Remember Gandalf the Grey in Lord of the Rings and his ‘death’ and re-appearance in the third book? Hmm, bear in mind the Tolkien influence.

3. Who on earth is R.A.B.? Her website says that ‘Regulus Black is a very good guess’. I’ve been running through my memory for other characters whose names fit those initials and I’ve come up with duds. No one else. Guess that’s pretty clear then, unless there’s a new character?

4. Somehow I thought Luna Lovegood would make a great partner for Harry Potter. Wasn’t expecting Ginny Weasley…that’s so Bollywood, isn’t it? But then again, I’m partial to the odd one…if I’d been a character in the book, I’d have been Loony Luna.

5. Harry isn’t really a powerful wizard per se. All his victories have been helped greatly by other people - Hermione, Dumbledore, Fawkes the phoenix, members of the Order. The sixth book keeps stressing on how Voldemort has marked him out to be his equal. What if Neville Longbottom, the other option, turns up with hitherto unsuspected genius? He fits the bill too, doesn’t he as the nerdy, unobstrusive, clumsy kid? I’ll bank on this one. I only wish they’d gotten a boy with better teeth to play the role. He’s turning out to be fairly ugly in the movie series.

6. Where’s Percy in all this? And whatever happened to that girlfriend of his who was Petrified in the second book..Penny something I think? If the seventh book really does tie off all loose ends, then there ought to be mention of this somewhere. And Charlie Weasley hasn’t made a satisfactory appearance in the series, except for a brief glimpse in The Goblet of Fire. Who’s betting he’ll be back?

7. I’d love to know more about Mr.Ollivander, the maker of wands. Where did he disappear and what was he all about?

8. Oh and by the way I have some strong notions on the movies. The actor who plays Sirius Black is a shattering disappointment. I was expecting an unshaven, tall rogue with all the dash and glamour of the Bad Boy. Instead they give us someone who looks like a neighborhood goonda gone to seed. While on this, I imagined Lupin to be this nice looking, fairly pleasant faced man. The werewolf-wizard instead looks like a shifty-eyed rascal even in his ‘human’ form. And what’s this about Snape? Instead of lean, lanky, greasy-haired menacing evil, we have someone who just looks like a grumpy Punjabi (incidently have you ever met a grumpy Punju? I haven’t.)

I’ll end this rambling here. The past few days have been spent immersed deeply in the lives of Mma.Ramotswe and Harry Potter and they’re starting to seem more real to me than the rains outside my window. Maybe X is right and I should stop reading so much. On the other hand Botswana and Hogwarts are infinitely more appealing than stressful workplaces, muddy roads, ex-boyfriends and matrimony-obsessed family members.