Desicritics Category: Culture: Books - Fiction

Chick Lit

IdeaSmith — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 10:21:51 EST

My new literary obsession is Chick Lit. Helen Fielding, Sophie Kinsella and Marian Keyes keep me in chocolate-box mood while Meera Syal and Advaita Kala add the desi tadka. Why, even fellow-blogger/'I-know-this-girl-friend-acquaintance' Compulsive Confessor flashes her characteristic grin at me from my bedside bookstack.

I found this rather interesting piece on the internet, describing Chick Lit:

"Chick lit" is a term used to denote genre fiction written for and marketed to young women, especially single, working women in their twenties and thirties.

Now, I know I'm doing an about-face, especially after such rabid commmentary. I'm coming to this acceptance with much prior reluctance. I still have trouble accepting the term 'chick' to describe me or any woman I know. It's degrading. However, I'm willing to lay down my shackles and admit that I've been reading (and enjoying) the genre called Chick Lit.

Chick Lit is the new Romance Novel. And it isn't. As a genre it certainly is finding as much favour and spawning as many writers (and books) as the ubiquitous M&Bs. On the other hand, one may argue that romantic fiction was a genre built on common women's fantasies while Chick Lit inter-twines what we consider our ideal life along with the proverbial gang-cribbing that each of us indulges in with our galpals over men, weight loss problems, career concerns and PMS.

Chick Lit, as most of the definitions state, is usually about twenty-something women, career-minded or not, married or not, successful or not. One thing they all are, is discontent with their lot. The careerwoman struggles with loneliness and jerky boyfriends, the beauty queen is slapped around and paraded as a sex toy/trophy partner and the housewife is wistful about missed opportunities. The Chick Lit heroine is Superwoman who survives on a steady dose of gal/pal advice, gay friends, alcohol-and-career swings and roller-coaster relationships. Friends are family, chocolate is the manna for all evils and the root of all evils can be summed up into one word - MEN.

Bosses, colleagues, friends, lovers, ex-boyfriends, flings, husbands of friends, partner's buddies, friends' partners, gardeners, milkmen, grumpy old men, uncles, teachers, fathers, cheery grocers, lecherous neighbors....men in every possible shape, size and relationship are examined back and forth. It is the Chick Lit'ter's favorite hobby - Men.

If the Indian versions are different, it is only in that they're usually set in Mumbai/Delhi instead of London/New York. The protagonists gorge on chicken tikkas and grab their capuccinos from Barista instead of M&S or Starbucks. Their mothers want to see them 'well-settled' instead of 'settled down'. The men are just as committment-phobic, the careers just as unsatisfying, their bosses are just as demanding, their married neighbors consider them just as flighty and sluttish and their credit card bills are equally long.

Why do I like the genre so much? Simple. Because it is about me. That's my life, my friends, my mistakes and my victories that are getting written about. Every page brings a, "Don't I know it!", an "Aha! You got 'im there, girl!" and a "Bullshit, I heard the same thing from my second boyfriend when he was cheating on me." It's almost like having a new set of friends with every book.

You might even say it's the modern, literary woman's Soap Opera in a book format. If the women of yore wanted fantasy to keep them entertained, at least this I can say for my generation - we're thriving on reality...or some warped version of it. Who needs a perfect fairytale when our own messed-up, vodka-spiked, overstressed lives are so much more interesting?

Chick Lit is empowering in a very strange way. It tells me that other women are having a hell of it too. That having a zero social life at twenty, in favour of slogging away at work was not a mistake. That getting married at twenty-three would not have spelt 'happily ever after' either. That my smug married, whiz-in-the-kitchen housewife friend acts superior to me but also thinks I'm living the glamourous, carefree life she only reads about in magazines.

It tells me that it's okay to not feel diva-like at all times, to nurse worries over weight gain and cellulite. That it's even okay to worry more about these than a missed deadline. That bad temper, unreasonableness and pukey-head-feeling are permissible once a month.

Chick Lit tells me life isn't perfect (yes, I know someone said that long ago but catch me listening?). I mean look at the titles - The Undomestic Goddess, Life isn't all Hahaheehee, Shopaholic, Almost Single. It also tells me that each of us is figuring out a new way of perfect. And who knows? Maybe Perfect will be the way I do it - My perfect!

The Lord of The Rings is a Bollywood Movie

Fleiger — Thu, 4 Dec 2008 11:51:06 EST

Just a few days back, I was talking to a friend who was ranting about the hindi movies, and the completely over the top masala ingredients added in them to spice them up. After defending the Bollywood for a long time (hey, we Indians may make fun of those movies but we stand together when some outsider does it), I went back to my most recent re-reading of Lord of The Rings.

And I got an epiphany. Here are:

10 Reasons why LoTR is just another Bollywood Masala film:

10. If you are a good guy and a father, you get to die at the hands of The Villain or his Henchmen. Which of course will inspire your kid(s) and others to vanquish the villain for revenge.

9. Things are going very badly for the good guys, when BAM! Help arrives in the form of the Hero.

8. The hero has a bumbling but faithful sidekick (or a group of them), who provides the comic sidetrack, but will lay down his life for the hero.

7. There's a costumed villain, sitting in his snazzy layer, surrounded by costumed henchmen and weird looking followers.

6. The "supporting actress" loves the hero, who cannot return her affections because he is in love with the heroine. But don't worry, she will find her life partner in the "supporting actor" before the climax.

5. The hero and heroine belong to different social groups, and hence her father is not exactly happy about their union, but there is a loving aunt who will help the lovers.

4. The heroine, the one belonging to higher social group in this case, will "sacrifice" her advantages in order to marry the hero.

3. The hero has greedy, conniving, thieving relatives who have their eye on his estate.

2. You can stab him, fire arrows at him, slash at him with swords, poison him. The Hero just goes on and on and on...

1. At moment's notice, there's at least one person who has got to sing up. Sometimes that quickly grows into a group song.

Anybody got any idea which characters I am talking about here?

P.S. The comparison is based solely on the basis of the books, and those who know LoTR as only the movie trilogy may be a bit confused.

Book Review: A Soul of Steel by Carole Nelson Douglas

Fleiger — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 12:49:12 EST

If asked which one person we would have liked to see again, true Holmesians would vote for Irene Norton née Adler with a huge majority, if not by an unanimous vote. "A Soul of Steel" by Carole Nelson Douglas is a novel from her Irene Adler series which tries to fulfill that fantasy.

Irene and her husband Godfrey Norton are spending their “posthumous” lives with their friend cum housekeeper Miss Penelope Huxleigh in Paris, when a man from Nell Huxleigh’s past is thrust in their lives.

Capt. Emerson Quentin Stanhope, presumed dead in Afghanistan has found that, a decade later, somebody is trying to silence him because of the secrets he holds about battle of Maiwand. And by association, the life of the doctor who saved him in battlefield is also in danger. When he is found, sick and dying, by Irene and her friends, they decide to help him find and warn the Dr. Watson. But, helping Quentin makes them a target for an extremely dangerous hunter, and they have to knock on the doors at 221B, Baker Street to bring the mystery to a safe conclusion.

Chronologically, the story does take a few liberties with Holmes canon. Taking place some time after “Scandal in Bohemia”, during and after “Naval Treaty” (possibly placing it back by some time), it introduces a major character before it appears in canon (If we go by timeline according to this novel, there are some serious questions about Watson’s memory re: people trying to kill him). Although, that’s just the Holmesian in me cribbing.

Characters-wise, Godfrey Norton is your Standard English Gentleman, a good friend and a honourable man. He and Irene are completely in love with each other (though their married life sounds a bit more 20th century American than 19th century English) and are equal partners in their adventures. And of course, he is understandably jealous of The Man his wife remains fascinated by.

Miss “Nell” Huxleigh is the typical vicar’s daughter, governess in a respectable family kind of girl. She is Watson to Irene’s Holmes (although she will not approve of that comparison). Loyal to the fault and having lived a sheltered life before sharing in Irene’s adventures, Nell is the voice of common sense in the household. And that explains her feelings towards Holmes.

Irene on the other hand is portrayed as the equal and opposite of Holmes. They both share liking for adventure, the ennui coming out of commonplace existence, the flair for drama, as well as the immovable sense of justice. But where Holmes is an analytical machine, Irene the Prima Donna is impulsive and emotional (in short, dare I say, a woman); jumping into whatever catches her fancy without a thought for dangers involved.

This is before Watson’s stories start getting published, and hence Holmes to Irene’s friends is a just paid agent trying to swindle Irene out of her only means of danger. Since this is a story from “the other side”, that was the only reason I could read the portrayal of Holmes for most part. Given that tone of the novel, I was worried about the eventual meeting between Holmes and Irene, but a careful reading dispelled my doubts.

In short, if you can’t get enough of the world of Holmes, or (like somebody said,) you can’t get enough of The Woman who got better of Holmes, this is for you. For me, continuing the series would depend on how they talk about The Man.

Book Review: NEXT

K. M. — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 01:24:33 EST

NEXT is a novel by Michael Crichton. Or at least it claims to be. It has a disorganized plot, too many characters with too little characterization and gratuitous sex. Just about two weeks after reading it, I can hardly remember the characters or their roles in the plot.

The main plot describes the efforts of a biological research company engaged in creating genetic drugs to recover some cells that could be used to fight cancer. The cells have been obtained during a routine treatment and the patient is unaware that his cells are special. The doctor who treats him discovers that the cells are special and continues his research without informing the patient.

When he decides to commercialize the cells, the patient sues his company but loses the case. He then gets an offer from a competitor for his cells and goes into hiding. Meanwhile the cell samples are stolen and the company attempts to obtain cells from the patient’s daughter and grandson, providing enough material for all the action.

There are also some sub-plots. There is a researcher who discovers a “maturity” gene, accidentally gives it to his drug addicted brother who comes out of his addiction, then tries out the gene on some other people, only to discover that the gene actually causes premature ageing and death. There is another researcher who inseminates a female chimpanzee with his own sperm with some genetic process (I don’t recall the details) and lands up with a humanzee kid, resembling a chimpanzee in appearance but capable of human speech.

He takes the kid home and sends him to school disguised as a child with some rare medical condition. Overall, the plot is somewhat incoherant and one has to make an effort to remember the characters when they reappear after a few pages.

As a novel Airframe was much more engaging and Prey was a lot more exciting even though the plot in Prey was much worse. (Airframe and Prey are the only other novels by Crichton that I have read). If NEXT were just a novel, it would be a waste of time. But NEXT is more than a novel. It raises serious questions about patent laws in the domain of genetics, intellectual property rights, what it means to own ones body, commercialization of genetic research, role of universities and government in research etc. In fact, Crichton has a 7 page note at the end of the novel, explaining his views on these issues. Since one of the purposes of this novel (perhaps the primary purpose) is clearly to raise these issues, let me present a summary of some of the issues from the novel and Crichton’s views.

Crichton presents a world that is almost out of control, a world in which the state of the art in genetics has far surpassed the state of the relevant laws. Here are some examples:

The lawyer representing the doctor and his research company tells the patient’s daughter after winning the case, that it would be futile for the patient to appeal the ruling. “UCLA is a state university. The Board of Regents is prepared, on behalf of the state of California, to take your father’s cells by right of eminent domain.”

The CEO of the research company wants a divorce and custody over his children but his wife doesn’t. His wife’s grandfather died from a fatal genetic disease and there is a chance that she might have it too. The CEO’s lawyer demands that the wife be genetically tested and gets a court order. The wife is unwilling to be tested since a discovery that she carries the disease would ruin her life.

An insurance company cancels a person’s coverage based on some genetic information about his father who died in circumstances that caused a legal enquiry. Someone at the company that performed the genetic tests says “Anyway the son is saying he did not authorize the release of genetic information about himself, which is true. But if we release the father’s information, as we’re required by state law to do, we also release the son’s, which we’re required by state law not to do. Because his children share half the same genes as the father. One way or another, we break the law.”

“The COX-2 inhibitor patent fight was famous. In 2000 the university of Rochester was granted a patent for a gene called COX-2, which produced an anzyme that caused pain. The university propmptly sued the pharmaceutical giant Searle, which marketed a successful arthritis drug, Celebrex, that blocked the COX-2 enzyme. Rochester said Celebrex had infringed on its gene patent, even though their patent only claimed general uses of the gene to fight pain. The university had not claimed a patent on any specific drug.”

Op-Ed commentary: “Columbia University researchers now claim to have found a sociability gene. What’s next?… In truth researchers are taking advantage of the public’s lack of knowledge… Geneticists will not speak out. They all sit on the boards of private companies, and are in a race to identify genes they can patent for their own profit…”

At the end of the novel, Crichton presents his views in the form of a 5 point course of action

1. Stop patenting genes: Crichton writes that genes are a fact of nature and such cannot be owned or patented.

2. Establish clear guidelines for the use of human tissues: Crichton writes that there should be legislation to ensure that patients can control the purpose for which their tissues are used.

3. Pass laws to ensure that data about gene testing is made public: Crichton suggests (not very clearly or convincingly) that there should be some genuinely independent verification of findings and full disclosure of research data.

4. Avoid bans on research: Crichton essentially argues that “To the best of my knowledge there has never been a successful global ban on anything. Genetic research is unlikely to be the first.”

5. Rescind the Bayh-Dole act (an act permitting university researchers to sell their discoveries for their own profit, even when that research had been funded by taxpayer money): Crichton laments that thirty years ago, universities provided a scholarly haven, a place where disinterested scientists were available to discuss any subject affecting the public. Now universities are commercialized, the haven is gone and scientists have personal interests that influence their judgement. Also “Taxpayers finance research, but when it bears fruit, the researchers sell it for their own institutional and personal gain, after which the drug is sold back to the taxpayers.”

I agree with points 1, 2 and 4 and strongly disagree with points 3 and 5. In fact I believe he has got the issue backwards.

In his support for point 3, Crichton writes “Government should take action. In the long run there is no constituency for bad information. In the short run, all sorts of groups want to bend the facts their way. And they do not hesitate to call their senators, Democratic or Republican. This will continue until the public demands a change.” This is true but his conclusion doesn’t follow. An “independent agency” in charge of verifying findings has to be under the control of politicians who will be all too willing to oblige the groups who who want to bend facts in exchange for backing. This phenomenon is not new at all. It is called lobbying. Requirements for disclosure are even more ridiculous than bans. You can force a person from doing something with limited success. How do you force a person to disclose what no one else knows? And most importantly, government has no moral right to <i>require</i> someone to do anything. Men are not slaves.

About the Bayh-Dole act, again Crichton has the facts right and the conclusion wrong. Universities are certainly commercialized today. And researchers who are funded by public money and allowed to make private profits certainly act in unscrupulous ways. The incentives are definitely wrong. But the solution is not to de-commercialize research. That is neither possible nor desirable. It ignores the context of why the act was passed in the first place. It was passed because non-commercial research does not work.

Describing a character who is a director of NIH (National Institutes of Health), another character says: “Rob’s a major player at NIH, He’s got huge research facilities and he dispenses millions in grants. He holds breakfasts with congressmen. He’s a scientist who believes in God. They love him on the Hill. He’d never be charged with misconduct. Even if we caught him buggering a lab assistant, he wouldn’t be charged.” and again “It was classic Rob Bellarmino. Talking like a preacher, subtly invoking God, and somehow getting everyone to push the envelope, no matter who got hurt, no matter what happened. Rob can justify anything. He’s brilliant at it.” The solution to unscrupulous researchers (in as much as the problem can be “solved”) is not to have more such men like Rob. It is to make them impossible, or more precisely to make it impossible for them to enjoy political clout and arbitrary powers to grant millions in grants. It is to divorce research from government.

Fiction: Suicide Attack

Vinod Joseph — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 01:21:36 EST

The two fighters said their final goodbyes. Almost the entire tribe was there to see them off on their last journey. One of the attacker's brothers was in tears. However they were used to doing things without displaying a surplus of emotions and so most eyes were dry. The decision to launch the attack had been taken less than an hour ago.

Not surprisingly, there were no prayers being said. They didn't believe in God or in any higher being. Rationalists to an extreme degree, even the two fighters about to carry out the attack would have scoffed if someone had offered to pray for them. There were no explosives to be used. They would use their traditional weapons for the attack, weapons they had used almost from the time they were born. The massive retaliation that was expected would almost certainly kill the two fighters in a matter of seconds after the attack was launched.

They had the reputation of being the most disciplined soldiers on earth. No order was ever disobeyed, though the foot soldiers did at times think their commanders were being batty. This was one of those times. There was absolutely no strategic advantage to be gained by this attack. The enemy would be displaced for less than a few minutes before he returned to his original position. What was more relevant was that the enemy's presence so close to their camp was not doing them any damage. None of their supply routes had been blocked. They even had enough stocks to last them for a week. Nor did the enemy show any signs of planning to reinforce his position. If not attacked, the chances were that the enemy would leave on his own sooner than later. In all probability one of the commanders at the top was trying to score a few brownie points with the Chief by launching this attack.

The order was given and the two fighters moved off. They carried nothing with them, except their light weapons. They reached the enemy's base and started their ascent. The smooth polished black surface offered no finger holds and was not particularly easy to climb. The older of the two fighters, a grizzled veteran of many wars, found the going slightly tougher than his younger mate who actually skipped along, as though he were on a picnic. Once they crossed the black heath, the ascent became entirely vertical. They would have found the going impossible if they had not be so lightly armed. Their feet kept getting entangled in the black netting which succeeded the smooth black surface. The younger fighter was at times tempted to lend a hand to his older mate, but he knew it would not be appreciated and so he did not make such an offer.

It had taken them ten minutes to reach the top of the black netting from the time they started their ascent at the base. They were now ready to attack. At this stage, the older fighter moved slightly ahead. He was a lot more experienced and would pick out the best place to make the initial contact. It took him a few seconds to make up his mind. By this time, the enemy most probably felt their presence. The fighters could sense the enemy forces searching for them, moving towards them. Without further delay, the older fighter launched his attack, taking care not to get entangled in the outgrowth.

He bit into the fleshy leg and his victim howled in pain. The younger fighter immediately followed suit, but as he tasted human hair, he realized that he had made the mistake he had been warned against.

'Eeks Ants!'

The enemy moved his leg a bit and the ants standing around the feet cheered. Their immediate objective had been achieved. It remained to be seen if the enemy would move away from that area entirely.

A heavy hand slapped against the trouser leg and crushed both fighters, but they continued to hold their positions, their teeth firmly clamped into the enemy's leg. The younger fighter wanted to open his jaw and take another bite that didn't include human hair, but decided against it. His current bite was not too bad, there was a decent chunk of human flesh involved, though it would have been grand if he could have avoided the hairs altogether. It was not as if he hadn't been warned. Intelligence had reported that the enemy was particularly hairy.

They felt a warm current against their back and knew their end would be coming soon. They would be dying for the benefit of their brothers, who would cease to remember them in a few hours time. Sure enough, a plump hand hit them both at the same time, killing the older fighter immediately and breaking the younger fighter's back. The trouser leg was now fully rolled up and the enemy searched out the remaining source of his pain. An index finger was used to crush the younger fighter to death.

'Bloody ants,' the victim repeated. The two brave fighters did not die entirely in vain. May be the commander who had ordered the attack was not so stupid after all. Seeing so many of the dead fighters' comrades milling around, the enemy made a strategic decision to retreat. It remained to be seen how long the enemy would stay away.

An Undeserving Booker for The White Tiger

Kishore — Sat, 1 Nov 2008 00:46:38 EDT

I would have called The White Tiger a reasonable potboiler, probably given it a few points too in the name of literary justice. That is, if the author were just another curious software professional who, one serendipitous day, suddenly took to writing novels; if this novel wasn’t awarded the coveted Man Booker Prize which, as per the website, promotes "the finest in fiction by rewarding the very best book of the year"; if the judges had not called it "compelling" and "darkly humorous" with "enormous literary merit" which "shocked and entertained in equal measure."

It's not about showing the darker India or the politically incorrect narrative of social issues, but the book fails as a work of fiction. Despite Adiga’s confession "that narrator is not me... I don't agree with a lot or most of what he says", much is left desired through the entire narration.

For an epistolary, it makes a weak reading. What in the world would prompt an entrepreneur, albeit less educated, to write 280 pages long letters addressing a Chinese premier? The connection is never established, and it looks like the author just happened to confuse a first-person narrative by mixing elements of a diplomat’s visit and the letters which barely fit in the context of the story. The first line of the letter is a rather juvenile attempt at starting the novel with an oxymoronic humor.

Neither you nor I speak English, but there are some things that can be said only in English.

If no one would read a letter why should it be written? If Balram cannot speak English, how did he manage such grammatically correct letters spanning over 280 pages? Probably the idea of letters was just an excuse for Balram to vent out his anger in some form, but it’s still very weak as a literary fervor.

The characterization of Balram lacks depth and is inconsistent. While Balram claims that he knows "by heart the works of the four greatest poets of all time – Rumi, Iqbal, Mirza Ghalib, and a fourth fellow whose name I forget", it’s puzzling to understand how a person knows by heart the works of a poet but forgets his name. Or do we assume Balram was just trying to exaggerate himself in his introduction to the Chinese premier? And when he claims "I'm tomorrow", what kind of tomorrow does he represent – one where success is gauged by embracing corruption?

Writing about his village, Adiga has Balram saying that the villagers banter about politics "like eunuchs discussing the Kama Sutra". If this was an instance of what the Booker judges call as "darkly humorous", it means the world of fiction is struggling so badly for a dose of humor, that any sarcastic scoff of a genetic disability is mistaken to be "darkly humorous".

Balram writes that he would call his life’s story "The Autobiography of a Half-Baked Indian". It could be a coincidence that Adiga made it sound similar to Nirad C. Chauduri’s "The Autobiography of an Unknown Indian" where he courted controversy in the dedication of the book itself. Published just after independence he proclaimed in the book, "...Because all that was good and living within us was made, shaped and quickened by the same British rule" – a tone similar to Balram’s portrayal of the darker India. Well, so much for an accidental symbolism in a half-baked fiction.

Aravind Adiga is a good writer and has done a decent job at his debut novel. But presenting it an award which, in the past, has coveted books like The Sea The Sea, Midnight’s Children, The Blind Assassin (just to name a few), is an undeserving exaggeration. Adiga has Balram write early on:

Before we do that, sir, the phrase in English that I learned from my ex-employer the late Mr. Ashok's ex-wife Pinky Madam is:
What a fucking joke.

The Booker for The White Tiger sounds precisely like that.

Fiction: A Delightful Old Lady

Vinod Joseph — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 10:30:19 EDT

Mark saw the old woman wave at them and ignored her. She must be waving at someone else he told himself as he struggled with little Anna in his arms and the big rucksack on his back. When the old woman waved for the second time, John spotted her and said, 'Look Mummy, she's waving at us.'

Karen turned around to look in the direction John was pointing and was rewarded with a few more waves. There was no doubt about it. The old woman standing behind the wicket gate was indeed waving at them or rather beckoning them to her.

'Mark, she's waving at us,' Karen needlessly told Mark who was by then looking in the old lady's direction.

Mark hesitated and said, 'she looks harmless. Shall we go take a look?'

'Why not?' Karen said rather crossly because she knew that John would be upset if they didn't. She was quite tired after trekking through the tea covered hills that loomed all around them. If she had a choice, she would have rather they continued their trek back to their hotel at Peermade, which was at least 30 minutes away.

As Mark led the way, Karen said doubtfully, 'may be she wants to ask us for money!' There had been no scarcity of beggars ever since they had landed in India two weeks ago.

'Doesn't look like it,' Mark muttered, more to himself than to Karen, as he continued to lead the way to the small cottage, which had peeling cream paint and a red roof.

'Hi!' Mark told the old woman much before he was within her hearing range. But he nodded as well and so she smiled in reply and opened the wicket gate a little bit.

She had a squeaky high pitched voice. 'I saw you people walking with the big bags and the baby and I thought you must be very, very, tired. Why don't you come in and have some tea?'

Mark was perplexed. Where he came from, people didn't invite you for tea just like that. He gaped at the old woman who was wearing a faded red pullover that came up to her knees and a skirt with some funky pleats. Karen must have been really tired because from behind she said, 'That's so nice of you. I'd like some tea. Thank you so much.'

The old woman opened the gate fully wide and walked back to the cottage, halting after every few steps so that she could turn around to see if they were following her. Mark realised that what she wore underneath her red-pullover was a saree and not a skirt.

The cottage's veranda had an assortment of potted plants, some of which definitely needed trimming. The veranda led to a small drawing room furnished with a set of three plush settees covered in red. The walls were lined with cupboards crammed with books and toys. 'Do please sit down,' the woman said. Without losing the permanent wide grin plastered on her face, the woman rang a bell. Mark and Karen sat on the edges of the largest settee wondering what was coming next. John sat in between them. Karen had Anna on her lap. The bell was rung once more. A young woman in a dirty saree materialised with a smile and a pair of enquiring eyes. A five year old child had been clinging to her saree till a moment ago, but now the child was waiting for her mother just beyond eye shot of the guests.

'Kavitha, some tea for these fine people,' the old woman told the maid and was rewarded with a perplexed look. The order was repeated in Malayalam.

'Actually I would like a Four X,' Mark declared, only to get a sharp dig in his side from Karen.

'I beg your pardon. I don't understand,' the old woman told them. 'What would you like?'

'Oh never mind him,' Karen waved gaily at the old woman.

'I was just joking. Four X is the amber fluid we drink in Queensland,' Mark clarified.

'Never mind him,' Karen repeated yet again.

'Bring us three cups of tea,' the maid was ordered. She left the room for the kitchen, picking up her waiting daughter on the way.

'It's so good to see someone from England,' the old woman told them. 'My husband was the first Indian hired by the Beckley's Estate.'

'Actually we are Aussies, not Pommies,' Mark said. The old woman gave him a blank look.

'I have never been to England, but my husband went there once, just after the war.'

'My name is _______.' The old woman said a name which neither Mark, nor Karen caught.

'I'm sorry....I didn't get your name,' Karen said politely, her voice trailing off towards the end and waited for the old woman to repeat her name. She did not. Instead she waited for them to introduce themselves.

'I'm Mark. This is my partner Karen, my son John and my daughter Anna.'

'I'm so glad you decided to stop by for tea.'

They were all silent for a while. 'Things have changed so much, not necessarily for the better, you know..'

A sudden thought occurred to the old woman. 'Let me make sure Kavitha does not add milk and sugar to the tea,' she told them and disappeared through a door which led to the kitchen.

'Ma, can I have a lolly?' John asked as soon as the old woman left.

Instead of answering, Karen pointed at a cupboard filled with toys. 'John, oh look at that elephant! Isn't it beaut?'

'Ma, I want a lolly!' John insisted.

Mark got up and walked around, stretching himself.

'Ma, a lolly!'

'Mark, can you please take out that elephant for John?'

'I don't think we should. It looks dirty enough. The whole place is full of dust.' He walked over to a cupboard filled with books, peered inside and said, 'these books. They are so dusty and falling apart. I don't think anyone has read them in ages.'

'I want a lolly!' John said even louder. Mark quickly opened the toys cupboard and took out the elephant. For good measure, he took out a duck as well. The elephant was given to John and the duck to Anna.

John sat down on the carpeted floor and started to bounce the elephant up and down. Anna dropped the duck to the floor from where she sat on Karen's lap. Karen picked up the duck and gave it back to Anna who held on to it.

The old woman appeared with Kavitha behind her carrying a tea tray. Kavitha's daughter had tagged alongside her mother, but once again stopped just behind the curtains. 'I'm so glad I checked on Kavitha. I've told her so many times that English people like to be served tea without milk and sugar mixed in it, but she had forgotten!'

Kavitha put the tray on the table in front of Mark and Karen and went back to the kitchen.

The old woman poured out the tea.

'Milk?'

'Yes please.' 'Yes please.'

'Sugar?'

'Yes please.' 'Yes please.'

'What would your children like? Shall I get them some biscuits?'

Before Mark or Karen could reply, the old woman said, 'Kavitha can go to the shop and buy some biscuits, but it will take some time.'

'Oh! No drama. Please don't bother.'

'I was planning to buy some biscuits, but ...'

'How is you tea?'

'Ace,' Mark said.

'Pardon me?'

'It's very good.

'Do you have a lot of English visitors?'

'No, not really. Not many people come this way!'

'Don't you like the elephant?' the old woman asked John who had abandoned the elephant and was planning to renew his demand for a sweet.

John did not reply, but looked around wildly, his eyes darting from the toys cupboard to his mother.

'Would you like another toy little boy?'

The old woman walked over to the cupboard and picked out a soldier and handed it over to John.

'John, say thank you,' Karen reminded John who mumbled his thanks.

'He is such a sweet little boy. How long are you in India for?'

'Three weeks. We've done two already. Up north. Delhi, Jaipur, Agra and now we have a week in Kerala.'

'What do you do in England? Do you work for a bank or a company?'

'I manage a station. In Australia. We're Aussies you know.'

'A station? Is that a station for trains? A railway station?'

'No, for sheep. A large sheep farm.'

'You must be joking. You are not a shepherd. You must be a station manager at King's Cross or Charing Cross or Paddington.'

'It doesn't matter, does it? How long have you lived in this cottage?'

'For the last sixty years. After my husband retired, Beckley's gave him this cottage. When my husband was alive, we used to have a lot of visitors. We...

'We ought to be going,' Mark said as he put down his cup.

'John, let's put the toys back.' Mark tried to take the elephant and the soldier from John who held on to both of them.'

'Oh, let the little boy keep the toys.' The old woman turned to Anna and said, 'you can keep the duck.'

'But we can't do that,' Karen objected. 'I'm sure they are exy!'

'Please take them. There's nobody to play with them. I rarely get any visitors these days.'

'You could always give them to someone else.'

'There is no one else.'

The old woman rang the bell once again and Kavitha came in, picked up the tea tray and left, collecting her daughter from behind the curtains on the way back.

Mark and Karen continued to look hesitant.

'Would you like a plastic bag for the toys?'

'A bag would be good.'

The old woman shouted something at Kavitha's retreating back. Within a minute, Kavitha came back with a polythene bag and gave it to Mark.

'Can't do without plastic, though we call ourselves greenies.'

'I beg your pardon?' The old woman had the most politely puzzled look on her face.

'Never mind. Never mind. We got to be going. Thanks so much for the lovely tea.'

As they walked out, Karen said, 'she was such a delightful old lady, wasn't she?'

'Yup, but she was starting to yabber and she thought we were Pommies!'

'I didn't understand half of what she said.'

'Nether did I. And I doubt if she understood more than one-fourth of what we said.'

Karen giggled. 'Still, she was such a sweet, delightful old thing.'

'I guess John and Anna are the only children she has seen in a very long time!'

As they walked away, Kavitha and her daughter watched them for a while through a window. Then Kavitha went the sink and started to wash the tea cups and saucers. After she washed the cups and saucers, she kept them on the floor and told her daughter, 'here, you take this towel and wipe these cups and saucers dry.'

Book Review: The Time Paradox by Eoin Colfer

Fleiger — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 11:20:43 EDT

The greatest trials of the literary heroes come when they are faced with their intellectual equals. Like Sherlock had Dr. Moriarty, Feluda had his Maganlal Meghraj. In The Time Paradox by Eoin Colfer (book 6 of the Artemis Fowl series), Artemis Fowl II faces his most dangerous enemy yet, his ~~almost~~ equal.

After returning from limbo, Artemis is finally spending time with his family (teaching his two year old brothers restaurant etiquette), when disaster strikes: his mother is diagnosed with a deadly disease. The only cure is found in the brain fluid of silky sifika lemur. But there is a slight problem: when Artemis Sr. went missing in Arctic, Artemis sacrificed the life of last lemur to raise money for search and rescue mission.

So now, Artemis and his friend Capt. Holly Short must go back in time and save the little “not-monkey”. And while this puts them against new enemies like the Extinctionalists (mainly, their dangerous leader Damon Kronsky), the problem with the past is that the enemies they have already defeated, have yet to be defeated and still all powerful (here starteth the headache). Plus, Artemis has yet to face (and later befriend) the fairies, so he and Holly are on their own.

Not to mention, there in the past is the 10-year old Artemis Fowl II (and of course, Butler) who is hell-bent on selling the lemur to help his father. So it’s time for Genius Mastermind (the Elder) vs Evil Genius mastermind (the Younger).

The Time Paradox continues with the theme of change in Artemis. Artemis the elder is not yet the Champion of Downtrodden or Good Incarnate, but he is no longer the Criminal Mastermind he was. He will still cheat or manipulate his fairy friends to get his way, but his aims are more justifiable and “human”.

On the other hand, we also get to see how Artemis became the Artemis we know and love. Losing his father and with his mother starting to lose the touch with reality, 10-year old Artemis (the younger) has to take charge of his declining family fortunes and get his father back. And even if that means going against his mother's humanitarian efforts (and confirming to the family history), he will do what it takes. Butler is ~~still~~ now the father figure in his life, a person with some values.

There are a lot of similarities between the two. (Headache warning: ) Artemis the elder is working to save his mother from a deadly disease and get his family back together, while Artemis the younger is trying to get his father (and his mother’s mental health) back. Artemis the elder has a lot more experience and knows (or thinks he knows) his history, while Artemis the younger has the advantage of being a true Fowl (read, criminal), and has Butler at his side.

Holly Short is still an impetuous L.E.P. Recon officer, but now is one of the fairies who trust Artemis as a friend. She continues to be the Fairy main hero alongside Artemis. Although, the time tunnel turning her into her “teenage” self does not exactly help matters.

Though I would have liked to see a bit more of Minerva Paradizo, but then, the story does not really have a place for her. Otherwise, most of the older characters make an appearance (it is “past” after all). And apart from the trademark cynical wit of Artemis and other humour apparent in the series, the “paradoxes” are nicely wrapped up, leaving almost no loose threads while also giving some clues to the beginning of the Artemis’ story as we know it.

In short, a perfect continuation to a very good series. The only problem is, where will Artemis and Holly go from here?

A Jewel of a Controversy

Jawahara Saidullah — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 12:11:53 EDT

*sigh* *double sigh*

What is it? What is it that makes it okay to criticize people but god forbid if you happen to criticize a book or a faith? Good lord, much as I love writing, please criticize away, heave at it, but leave me the fuck alone. My writing is inanimate. It feels no pain but I do. I can re-write, savagely edit, but there's only one of me. No more drafts. Just one of me. I can be hurt.

Perhaps there is nothing, no one book, no god, that I feel strongly enough about to defend with my life. Nothing that I feel so strongly about that I would kill or threaten to kill someone because of it. Maybe that's why I find the whole fracas about The Jewel of Medina, to be tiresome and as thrilling as a bad case of hives. I mean, seriously, get over it.

For those who have better things to do with their time, here's the condensed version. Sherry Jones wrote a book, called The Jewel of Medina, based on prophet Mohammad's wife, Aisha. Aisha was betrothed to the prophet at six and married to him at nine (or eleven or thirteen, but young, really, really young regardless), and was known as his favorite wife. Random House signed Jones to a $100,000 two-book deal and all was well with the world. Then...surprise!....as sure as winter follows fall, came the death threats. Duhhh!

Random House, that bastion of free speech and errr...commercialism...dropped the jewel like a nuclear potato. Andrew Franklin, who was editor at Penguin when The Satanic Verses was published decried Random House as cowards. Rushdie, of course, supported Jones and wrote about the perils of censorship. *Yawn*

In September 2008, British publisher Gibson Square took on the challenge of publishing the book. So far they are standing firm on this despite the publisher, Martin Rynja's house being firebombed. Yes, the threats escalated and the guy's house went up in flames.

Not so condensed after all, but there you have it.

Let me say this: I am tired of firebombs and death threats and murders in the name of religion. Debate religion, indulge in some good old-fashioned name calling but leave people's bodies and homes alone. Simply put, if you don't want to read a book, don't read it. Tell others not to read it. Why is it not okay to criticize your religion or fictionalize aspects of it? We live in a multi-textured world and some of us don't want sacrosanctness around us. We choose not read your stuff. You don't have to read ours.

Though I am a die-hard Rushdie fan and liked The Satanic Verses, I find myself waffling at Jones' shall-we-say soft-porn and rather *ahem* loose interpretation of facts. I mean there's fictionalizing and then there's "I floated in his arms to my apartment. He kicked open the door and carried me inside, then placed me on my feet again." This just makes me want to curl up with a cup of tea and the latest offering from Harlequin.The Sheikh's Virgin Bride anyone?

What I don't get is the shock that people...writers, publishers, editors...express every time they write or produce something about Islam and some pious Muslim decides he'd like to kill them for it. Really, in this day and age, if you write anything about the prophet without a million PBUHs littering the page and if you bring up even a slightly risque subject matter (even if it is done well), prepare yourself for the onslaught. And don't be coyly shocked when it arrives. Still, you have the right to offend people, yes, even people who find phrases like "I spread a smile thick as hummus across my lips, deeply offensive. Offend me. Offend iconoclastic Muslims. Just don't be shocked when you do.

And that's the point isn't it?

Jones has the right to write any lurid details she wants and a publisher should be able to publish it without having to make that now so tedious decision: your book or your life? They have the right to write and publish. You have the right not to read it and convince others not to. Simple!

So now, let's address you, Mr. or Ms. your-writing-offends-me-so-I-will-kill-you-in-the-name-of-Allah-firebomber:

By all means, castigate the author, read the book and tear it to shreds in reviews, boycott it, use it as a means to educate people. Don't try to prove you're not a narrow-minded, predictable dick-head by being a narrow-minded, predictable, dick-head. Stop with the threats, the fire-bombs, the fiery rhetoric. We get it. The rest of us--sane Muslims and non-Muslims--should not write about anything that vaguely touches anything remotely controversial in Islam. Guess what? People think and they read and they write. And part of that process is touching upon taboo subjects and writing about them. So, that's not gonna change. No matter how many Molotov cocktails you shake up.

Perhaps, since you evidently read (if not the books themselves, but at least the synopses put together by some literate brethren) you should channel your fiery thoughts and impulses towards writing reviews of these evil, evil, shaitan books. Go on! Really! You can. It might even get published.

Shock us by NOT firebombing anyone. Shock us by using normal, non-violent channels of dissent. Shock us by not threatening to kill or actually killing someone to show your displeasure. Shock us with your intellect, the power of your pen, the thunder of your prose.

At least then the rest of us can break away from this predictable cycles of writing and threats every few years. And perhaps, the Ms. Jones of the world won't be laughing all the way to the bank. Get 'em where it really hurts. In the bank. Ignore these books so people like me won't buy it regardless of the author's less than stellar writing. Use your brain not your bomb.

Believe, truly believe, that Allah is all-powerful and is well able to look after His/Her image and doesn't need a pipsqueak human to defend Him/Her. I mean really, who do you think you are? Isn't that rather blasphemous...that you, a puny human can defend God?

I feel a fatwah coming on. Gotta run!

Kuzhali Manickaval Has Wings

mbjesq — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 08:01:41 EDT

We are sometimes tempted to say, when reading a wonderfully crafted story, that the line between prose and poetry has been blurred. We don't really mean it, of course. It is simply our hyperbolic way of acknowledging the writer's stylistic gifts. We cannot read Michael Ondaajte, for example, without marveling at the precision and emotional fullness of his writing; but our brains do not really struggle to ascertain whether we are in the midst of his fiction or his poems. The confidence we bring to the distinction belies its arbitrariness - at least since poetry was liberated from its formal constraints at the opening of the twentieth century - but we are usually confident nonetheless.

This sure ground frequently falls away under the magical pen of Kuzhali Manickavel, whose new work of nearly intertwined short... ummm... pieces, Insects Are Just Like You and Me Except Some of Them Have Wings, has just been published by Blaft Publications in Chennai.

Kuzhali's stories are like well-remembered dreams. They are frustratingly elliptical and playfully topsy-turvey in their abandonment of mundane reality, yet sufficiently vivid and subtle to provide that delicious moment of doubt about the dreaming/waking, imaginary/reportorial dichotomies which make us feel in control of our lives.

The book is so start-to-finish wonderful, it is hard to know from which story to give you a taste (or, really, just a nibble); so I'll take it right off the top, from the opening "stanza" of the book's first story, "The Godlet":

The minute Malathi takes charge, the universe begins to sing her name like it is something holy. She cracks her knuckles and creates a new day that consists of Sunday morning, Saturday afternoon, and Thursday night. There will be no more Mondays. The universe applauds her decision.

Kuzhali's is language in full play. It has the astonishing, unfettered, fantastical, pyrotechnic quality of a Stanly Elkin or a Tom Robbins. It succeeds so engrossingly because it is always deployed in the service of unerringly depicted and bitingly true vignettes and larger themes, not simply as a masturbatory exercise. Kuzhali's stories depict the myriad of ways people communicate and miscommunicate with each other -- one-on-one -- verbally and through intuitive happenstance.

One recurring trope is what one of her characters calls "unphrases", those magical bits of nonsense and almost-sense that so easily germinate in the mulch of our linguistic landscape. Though she writes from the South of India, Kuzhali does not rely exclusively, or even heavily, on the sometimes easy target of Indian English to harvest the ironically mangled expressions which crisscross the book like a convoy of purposeful ants (to use an insect metaphor). When she does explore the local idiom, she does so with the affection and warm humor of a Nizam Ezekiel. In both language and imagery, Kuzhali's writing seems to pay tribute to Jean Paul Satre's nearly-true aphorism that the more complicated the concept, the closer it is to its opposite. Only Kuzhali's version would have it: the more confused the concept, the closer its misses are to their mark. Like the nutty college student in one of her stories - who reads the cursive inscription "I am that bread of life" beneath a cheesy picture of Jesus as the admonition: "Jam that bread of life!" - Kuzhali is constitutionally unable to render the world in the less joyful or less poignant of whatever might be the available interpretive options, even if it means fudging a little.

The endorsement blurb on the rear cover, by the California-based filmmaker, performance artist, and writer Miranda July, nicely sums up the fun and intimacy of Insects Are Just Like You and Me Except Some of Them Have Wings:

Not merely lyrical and strange, but also deadpan funny. I can't shake the feeling that I know this woman, personally - like we hung out at a party of something. But I don't, and we didn't. She's just that good.

She is, indeed, just-that-good. But unlike Ms. July, I do, and I have. We first met in early 2005, at what I then-called a "Pondy poetry slam", convened by the also-gifted writer, Pavithra Krishnan. Just two weeks ago, I had the chance spend a little time with Kuzhali at her sister's wedding in Chidambaram. In between, she has written stories for Book Box, the wonderful literacy project of another mutual friend, Brij Kothari. She is one of those people who, after meeting, you tell yourself to keep a close eye on - even if from a distance - because the promise of greatness glows from them.

Insects Are Just Like You and Me Except Some of Them Have Wings is a magnificent literary party, and the rest of the world's chance to hang-out with Kuzhali. Don't miss it.

******

The book is available in India for Rs. 175 via Landmark and in the U.S. and elsewhere for $7.95 via Amazon.