Desicritics Category: Culture: The Writing Life

Alone, White, and Female in India

Deepa Krishnan — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 10:53:23 EDT

On a travel forum recently, a young Polish woman asked: "I am planning to go to India and would be grateful if you could tell me whether it is safe for me to go there alone. If someone has any experience in travelling on his/her own, please post your comments"

Lots of people offered her advice; most of which centered around dressing modestly (preferably in a salwar kameez!), not getting too familiar with strangers, avoiding isolated areas and dark alleys, and so on. Among the many people who offered advice, there was one gentleman who suggested she carry pepper-spray. This led to a protest by some others - What?? Pepper spray!!?? Why are you scaring tourists away from India??

Co-incidentally, I had just been reading a city magazine, a 'Women's Special', with a whole page devoted to staying safe in cities - and among the five things they listed was pepper spray!

So what's the right advice for this lady? Should she stick to big cities? Are they safer, or are they more dangerous than smaller towns? Are some states safer than others? As I heard various points of view, I felt obliged to conclude that there is no single truth when it comes to female safety in India.

But that doesn't mean there are no conclusions to be drawn! I travel alone, frequently, to different parts of the country, and from my own interactions with men, I find that some parts of the country are disconcertingly hostile to women and disparaging of their bodies, whereas other places are a delight.

I was in Orissa recently, and I have to say I did not encounter one single lecherous man; it was a fantastic experience. I have spent two years in Calcutta, again, without so much as a single nasty incident in spite of late nights and odd hours.

I would rank Uttar Pradesh, Haryana, Rajasthan and Delhi among my list of difficult places for solo women travellers. (I have not been to Bihar, but I confess I have no great expectations from the state that produced Laloo Prasad Yadav). Other than Orissa and Bengal, I would rank Kerala among my nicest travel experiences, followed by Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Maharashtra and Goa (in no particular order). I have no experience of the north-eastern states.

Of course, this is all based on personal and anecdotal stuff, and is therefore open to bias, but I suspect many Indian women would agree with me. If you don't agree, that's fine too. There is no necessity for consensus here. Irrespective of which state is better and which is worse, what I'm trying to say is that there seem to be some regional trends in the behaviour of men towards women.

I am puzzled by these differences. Surely we are all not that different from each other? Maybe it’s just that places which are more hidebound and stuck in the dark ages are more difficult for women? With a social structure that does not value women, it is that much more difficult to get the basic respect you deserve. But Tamil Nadu with its high female foeticide doesn't value women either...so it's hard to explain why I feel safer in Chennai than in Delhi. Again, this is also a sweeping generalisation. Some parts of Delhi (and I am writing this sitting in Delhi) are extremely safe and very nice to be, and some very nice guys I know are from Delhi. But I don't feel the same "body freedom" in the crowded lanes of Chandni Chowk as I do in the equally crowded Pondy Bazaar or Bhuleshwar or Gariahaat markets. Why? I wish I knew.

Sigh - so - going back to the young Polish woman - while there is no single truth about the Indian men she will encounter, the fact remains that she is likely to go through some not-so-pleasant experiences if she is travelling solo. Let's face it, this is a difficult country for single white women to travel. The average Indian man assumes that white women are alley cats and are potentially available - why else would they flaunt their bodies in public places, right? To add to this is the depressingly common lesson which most young men receive at the hands of their older friends - that's it's perfectly alright to ogle and whistle and grope and treat women badly. Indeed, it is very *masculine* to do so, as Hindi movies so brilliantly illustrate. It's not just white women who get the lecherous idiocy - the same disgusting treatment is accorded to very modestly dressed local women as well. It's a grim story, and one that always makes me want to decimate the entire male race :)

To the lady who asked the original question, I say, pack that pepper spray, girl! You may not need it, but you'll feel better with it in your purse.

Book Review: The Tunnel at the End of Time

Amitabh Mitra — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 18:14:00 EST

I met Adam at Oslo. A big bear of a person with the gentlest nature and a lovable personality, he remains one of my closest friends.

Yet time and again I have tried to understand him, understand the mind that seems to work overtime, the art of reproducing the images on canvas and words remains a perennial obsession. I have read his other poetry books and marvelled at this superlative mind.

To me, it always seems that he has been able to grasp the aura and time, a steady stream of images that is unstoppable, sometimes virulent yet simple in afterthoughts.

The Armageddon was inevitable...
We needed it, and so we created it.
But it is only illusion...

But what happens next -

The Tunnel at the End of Time is a collection of poems, prose poems and story like poems by Adam Donaldson Powell and Richard Davis. The Foreword is jointly written by Adam and Azsacra Zarathustra. Azsacra is a well known Russian Mystic Poet and has been widely published.

Where am I, Vrebatima?
I am lost in my own transformation …
in the winter of my own samadhi.
Wake me up from my dreams …
but let me hold onto my illusions
and my delusions.

The eventual clash of illusions and delusions are inevitable, it with and within us at all times and strange enough nobody gives the thought of liberating it. The book starts with such ultimate sense of fulfilment but then the poetry and the eventual flow of plasmic willingness happens in multiple streams, multiple layers and multiple living thoughts.

The book reminded me of the movie, Matrix directed by Larry and Andy Wachowski which mentioned for the first time, a simulated reality. The DVD sold three million copies in the US in 1999.

The reader is caught in an iron clasp grasp and taken in strange speeds that seem to stay along with the mind. There are simulations of words and images in a three dimensional effect, sometimes even in reverse moving strata at the same moment when we are going ahead.

So what really is Tunnel at the end of Time, where does it start and where should it end? I as a medical doctor and a poet have often encountered such simulations which aptly brief, seemed to jolt me out of consciousness and that is where the eternal mystery lies. What seems as poetry and the poet a conjurer of words may not be so, they are mere pathways to reach collusion levels in an unsettled time.

I beg to differ from other reviewers who have compared Adam’s poetry to British Romantic Age Poetry and others who have tried to unveil his poems using crutches from modern literature. Contemporary Poetry has broken the realm of sensibilities, a huge dam that has finally enveloped aesthetic congruency in a highly developed notion of sheer flexible imagery.

Adam’s poetry remains unclassified, as it is a class in its own. I would portray him and his friends in cult dimensions in Europe, their poetry would be read and reread in times to come.

Pastel Drawing by Amitabh Mitra

Shri RamChandra Kripalu Bhajman (Prayer by Tulsidas, With Translation And Notes)

Vivek Sharma — Mon, 8 Mar 2010 08:51:14 EST

Introduction (for the initiated, for foreigners, for skeptics and for believers)

Ramayana is the most important and influential epic ever written. The epic has defined the code of Indian customs and morality for at least twenty to twenty-five centuries, and by sheer numbers, been the book or saga that has affected, influenced, educated, enlightened over one-fifth of the humanity that has existed since it was written. While Illiad and Odessey claim a greater fame in the West, among ancient epics, only Mahabharata (which is longer, includes stories of the great battle between the cousins Pandavas and Kauravas, the whole history and genealogy of kings, people and beasts that existed in India or Bharatvarsha before its time, the life-story of Lord Krishna, with his romances, battles and finally also his conversation with Arjuna, in form of Bhagavad Gita: which rephrases the essence of classic Hindu-Vedic-Indic philosophy, and includes many more stories, discussions on nature of being, good and evil and so on), only Mahabharata comes close to Ramayana in grandeur and impact on the combined psyche and daily living of a large section of humanity.

While Valmiki wrote Ramayana originally in Sanskrit, almost every major poet of Indian subcontinent has rewritten, reinvented, translated, transcribed, memorized and rephrased the whole epic in the language closest to his age/time and his heart. Tulsidas brought out his version of Ramcharitmanas in sixteenth century in a language that can be thought of a bridge between Sanskrit and Hindi of present times, as well as between the khadi boli (spoken language) of his time and the divinity. The hymns from Tulsidas are imbibed into our culture to the extent that we cannot usually trace these back to his writing. The cultural identity, diversity and evolution of India, I believe, can be tracked by looking at the versions of Ramayana and by watching versions of Ramlila in different villages, towns, cities, streets spread not only in Indian subcontinent, but also in Eastern Asian countries like Cambodia.

Ramayana or the travels of Rama or the epic story of Ramchandra, the obedient son of King Dashratha, son-in-law of sage-king Janaka, the loving husband of Sita {incarnatation of Goddess Laxmi, who appeared out from earth (and not from womb)}, the glorious archer-warrior who destroyed all-powerful demon Ravana and his monstrous kith and kin, the protector of poor and downtrodden, who ate berries picked by untouchable Shabri, who brought Ahalya back into life, who killed Bali to make Sugreev the king of monkeys and then raised an army of monkeys to defeat powerful demons, the just king who did not even hesistate before exiling his own wife to uphold the law of the land, the eternal legend of the incarnation of Vishnu, MaryadaPurushottam: the one who respected and knew the bounds/limits of ethical/right conduct, and is the greatest or best among men... Even the description of Ramayana requires an epic to be written down. Some of the greatest Indian festivals are based on the story of Ramayana, and many names, pilgrimage centers, temples, fasts, rituals, and an endless source of karuna / piety and priti / love emerges from this one grand poem.

About the translation

In this post, I present a sincere and humble attempt at the translation of a prayer invoking Bhagwan Ram (and I will continue to work throughout my life to provide a better translation for my favorite poems, hymns and verses in Hindi and Sanskrit). Bhagwan is sometimes translated as lord, but the regard for a Lord is often due to fear or due to custom, and regard for Bhagwan Ram arises from the admiration of his deeds and virtues, as well as his spiritual, conceptual, physical and emotional beauty. Fear never features in admiration, dedication for Ram. While the person is submissive in prayer, the submission comes from the recognizition of something greater than one self, something grander than mere personality of the own self and of the diety. Hence old poets called themselves Das, or slave; but again slave is a tainted word, for slavery comes with forced subjugation and denial of basic rights to the slave... where 'das' is voluntarily curtailing his personal desires and demands to present himself or herself in the service of someone or something. Tulsidas, Surdas.. Kabirdas.. In Ramayana, Hanuman is presented as a perfect and appropriate example of being a seeker, a sage, a das, a disciple, a 'servant of greater man and cause', a believer, a doer, a warrior and his greatness lies in using his strength for the service of others. The Hanuman Chalisa again underlies this belief system, this thought process, this devotion. The essential lessons of Ramayana are piety scores over pride, sacrifice over selfishness, obedience over defiance, fidelity over lust, and the ways of just, even if besotted by setbacks and hardships, bring them joy, riches, victories and love in the end. As Tulsidas was one of the greatest or perhaps the greatest poet in Bhakti (unbridled devotion for 'beloved' God) tradition in medieval world, his verses approach divinity through unbounded affection, where every beautiful form is attributed to the Godhead, and the final goal of the worshipper is tocease being a separate entity.

In this translation, I have tried to use words that are closest in meaning to the original. But Indian Sansar is not Western World, as in the West, Man lives in the World as he is exiled from Eden, brought down by his following the advice of Eve and Snake. World in West is a region that man inhabits once, and his deeds here decide whether he will go to heaven or Dante's hell in the end, on a judgment day. Indian Sansar is a stage, where beings appear in different acts, each performance determines the role in next birth, and the woes of the world are left in the world: the being seeks to reach union with perfect being after which there is no need for further performances. Hindu Mann is not just mind, Indian/Hindu aatma is not just soul and Anand is not just bliss. Anand is state of perfect joy, the joy of child happy in its mothers arms is a partial manifestation of it, the joy of person who finds that his/her beloved loves him equally is a partial manifestation, joy of father whose son wins a medal or grand praise or prize, is a partial manifestation. In complete manifestation, anand is a joy without bounds, an end in itself, a manifestation of the unmanifest (God), unity with both nothingness and with everything... ultimate goal of man is Sat-Chit-Ananda (poorly translated as Truth-Beauty-Joy), another name for Bhagwan). The lack of proper words in English shows that Indian, Hindu, non-Western notions, beliefs, philosophy, lifestyle, religion, actions are best analyzed, understood, taught, transmitted, expressed and paraphrased in Indian, Hindi/ Sanskrit, language. Even there, the language can take us only so far...

Sanskrit (better to say Samskrit, for Sam is Good, Krit Made/Designed), as I have written in posts earlier, contains many words that carry contradictory connotations. The word kama means both love and lust, attachment of spirit as well as of flesh, and in poetry, the use of such words allows several levels of meaning. Since detached action, which can be identified as something done for its own sake, irrespective of what ultimate result is, is identified as a virtue, kama in both or any meaning can be undesirable. Yet according to Ved Vyas in Mahabharata, the Grihasta Ashram, or married state, is the best phase of life; grander thanthe Brahmacharya (abstinence before marriage) as well as Sanyasa (renouncing world, family at old age). The interplay between kama as a life-force as well as materialism and vairagya (abstinence) or tyaag (self-sacrifice) or selflessness as symbol of spirituality is a constant theme in novels like Banbhatta ki ataamkatha by Hazari Prasad Dwivedi, Gunahon ka Devta by Dharamveer Bharati, Chitralekha, etc. The similes in the verse below abound in references to lotus. It must be remembered that lotus plays a central role in Hindu mythology: Laxmi sits on Lotus, Humanity is derived from lotus in some versions of mythology, and lotus, because it manages to remain clean in spite of growing in mud, always invokes beauty, purity, divinity. The verse evokes a richly decorated, fully-limbed, handsome physical image of Ram; but the symbolism is, as always, only to create a focus on the deity, on Rama. The last couplet reminds us that the ultimate being, the Godhead, the joy of Mann (Mind or that element in us that desires and hesitates, thinks and meditates), the joy of Muni (wise), of Shankara (of devout, of godly beings), and so on, is within our own heart... or we ask of Rama to reside within, and save us from fears and vices. The aatma, the soul, the self (that goes beyond ego, body, knowledge gained through senses) is where the mighty deity is requested to reside. Perhaps the prayer will be realized only when the self is ready to receive the one desired, and hence it is useful to invoke him through song and symbol...

Shri Ram Chandra Kripalu Bhaj Mann

(Listen to Lata sing the Bhajan on Youtube)

O (Mann) mind! Invoke the benign Shree Ramachandra,

the rescuer from the fears of the harsh sansar (world).

Whose eyes are blooming lotuses, face and hands lotus-like,

and feet are like lotus -- with the hue of crimson dawn.

His image exceeds myriad Kaamdevs (Cupids),

like a fresh, blue-hued cloud -- magnificent.

His amber-robes appear like lightening, pure,

captivating. Revere this groom of Janaka's daughter .

Sing hymns of the brother of destitute, Lord of the daylight,

the destroyer of the clan of Danu-Diti demons

The progeny of Raghu, limitless 'anand' (joy),

the moon to Kosala, sing hymns of Dasharatha's son.

His head bears the crown, ear pendants, tilak (mark) on forehead,

his adorned, shapely limbs are resplendent,

Arms extend to the knees, studded with bows-arrows,

who won battles against Khar-Dooshanam

Thus says Tulsidas, O joy of Shankara,

Shesh (Nag), (Mann) Mind and (Muni) Sages,

Reside in the lotus of my heart, O slayer

of the vices-troops of Kaama and the like.

श्रीरामचन्द्र कृपालु भजु मन हरण भव भय दारुणं।
नवकंज-लोचन कंज-मुख कर-कंज पद-कंजारुणं॥१॥

कन्दर्प अगणित अमित छबि नवनील-नीरद सुन्दरं।
पट पीत मानहु तड़ित रुचि शुचि नौमि जनक सुतावरं॥२॥

भजु दीनबंधु दिनेश दानव-दैत्यवंश-निकंदनं।
रघुनंद आनँदकंद कोशलचंद दशरथ-नंदनं॥३॥

सिर मुकुट कुण्डल तिलक चारु उदारु अंग बिभूषणं।
आजानुभुज शर-चाप-धर संग्राम-जित-खरदूषणं॥४॥

इति वदति तुलसीदास शंकर-शेष-मुनि-मन-रंजनं।
मम हृदय-कंज निवास कुरु कामादि खलदल-गंजनं॥५॥

मनु जाहि राचेउ मिलिहि सो बरु सहज सुन्दर सांवरो
करुना निधान सुजान शील सनेहु जानत रावरो॥६॥

ऐहि भांति गौरि अशीश सुनि सिये सहित हिये हर्सि अली।
तुलसि भवानिहि पुजि पुनि पुनि मुदित मन मन्दिर चली।।७।।

जानि गौरि अनुकूल, सिय हिय हरसु न जाहि कहि।
मन्जुल मंगल मूल, बाम अंग फ़रकन लगे।।

Fiction: Bitter Coffee

IdeaSmith — Tue, 2 Mar 2010 06:22:51 EST

The Corner Coffeeshop was open for business but its traffic was at a lull. It was too early in the evening for the post-work crowd, too late for the students and AC-enjoying unemployed to be hanging around.

Outside, the sun had gone down but that curious combination of atmospheric density and light's acrobatic bending made it seem like daylight was still around.

Such were his thoughts, where another person would have called it twilight. He grimly thought to himself that she would have referred to Van Gogh's 'Starry Nights' while all along he'd be thinking of the diagrams in the physics textbooks about light refraction.

He was already seated on the bar-stool near the window, his bag on the seat next to his, to save it for her. In front of him was a cappuccino. With deliberate precision, he emptied two sachets of sugar into the cup and tossed the empty packets into the dustbin near the end of the table. She preferred espresso shots but he couldn't stand their acrid taste. But he didn't want another lecture on calorie count either.

Outside, the object of his ruminations had just neared the door and was standing but not entering. Then she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and walked in.

He saw her from the corner of his eye and put down his coffee mid-sip to receive her kiss. To his surprise, she turned, picked his bag off the seat and sat down with it in her lap. A second later, she seemed to have second thoughts and put it on the table.

Then she turned and said in a rush.

I need to tell you something and I need you to not interrupt. I’m going back to Delhi tomorrow.

But…

She held up her hand.

Don’t say anything. I’m going. The ticket is booked. And it’s one-way.

Her face was set in an immovable mask. She looked beautiful. But unrecognizable. Like a cold, marble statue that was displayed in someone else's house.

When you called me here for coffee, I thought you were trying to rekindle the romance in our relationship.

Her stiff expression didn’t change. She hadn’t even put her bag on the table. He tried again.

I know we’ve been arguing. But we’ve been through worse stuff. It’s…what are we doing?

She wavered and in a slightly watery voice said,

You’re having coffee. I’m leaving.

Come on, you don’t have to do this. Let’s talk about this.

Let's not.

she said. And those were her last words to him. He would think about that often. For such a talkative person, she was leaving him with so little. As if she didn't want to spend another precious minute or word on him.

Across the street, she plugged her earphones into her ears and switched on the iPod. It wasn't serendipitous, the song that came up.

Why she had to go, I don't know, she wouldn't say
I said something wrong, I long for yesterday
Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play.

She'd been listening to the Beatles all evening on her way to the coffeeshop. It helped her relax and focus.

He hadn't said anything wrong. How do you tell someone that they had never said anything right in the first place? How do you explain that after three years? And how do you erase the memory of your own wrong choices?

You don't. You just stop and turn away.

She turned the corner and stopped under the street lamp. She asked herself, shall I reconsider? and turned to look in the direction of the coffeeshop.

It was dark now and the bright lights of The Corner Coffeeshop were attracting their clientele in now. She couldn't see him anymore, there were too many people around. Night had fallen.

Should I?

And in the same breath, the thought crystallized into realisation.

Let me not.

She took a deep breath and walked away.

Coffee was never going to be anything but bitter after this.

poetry: whirling

temporal — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 10:04:28 EST

said the cab driver
as he swooshed and swirled
through the desi roads
with cars and carts
and men and machines
rushing, idling, squeezing
with a foot on the pedal
and a hand on the horn
'it is not my fault'

fault? blame? confession?

adam would have smiled

quakes, tsunamis,
holocaust, ethnic cleansing
greed that blinds
individuals and nations
precariously countered
by grit, will and concern
for adam's progeny
by eve's children
who descend to salvage
flustered dignity

conflict borne of heaven
fermented by earth
moving in circles
between the many dazed
and the unconfused few
who whirl

hirsute adam
unabashed and shaved
would have revealed
mona's first smile
(leonardo tells me)
metonymy for
'not-my-fault'

Satire: A Reasonable Dog

Subroto Pant — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 08:10:31 EST

'You ought to be ashamed of yourself", said Nawab, nibbling away at the bag of chips.

"ME? Now what have I done?" I asked, cursing the day this opinionated hound came into my care. That's right "hound" was what I had said and I am not going into it again, the whole story is somewhere out there on the net if you care to find it. In short, Nawab my talking dog given to me by my Pakistani friend now resident in Canada (the friend not the dog unfortunately).

"You shouldn't have got the cat. You know I am allergic to them".

"Ridiculous. You are only sulking since the cat started sleeping in your basket".

"Am not, I only want the cat to acknowledge that this is a dog's household. That cat has to learn that we live here by doggie rules. All it needs to do is respect my sentiments, why can't a cat be more like a dog?".

"Come on, you are being unreasonable. Its a nice cat, surely there is something about it that you like".

"Well some of that cat food is not bad and I do watch Garfield on TV. Why some of my best friends have been cats. Just let the cat know that I came to this house first, return my basket and all my toys. The cat can then stay if you like".

On that note, he promptly made for the fridge nudged open the door and started nosing around.

"So where is the cat going to sleep now?", I asked.

"Oh put it in the kennel outside, I said I am a reasonable dog", said he munching on the chicken as it started to pour outside.

Twitter Fiction: Twocial Etiquette

IdeaSmith — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 02:28:40 EST

“And this is Kunal.”

“Are you on Twitter?”

“Yes, I’m @c00nal.”

“I don’t think I FOLLOW you.”

“I don’t follow you either.”

Kunal frowns as he turns to the Hot Dog stand.

“I think I hurt his ego a bit.”

“You just met!”

“Social boo-boo, telling someone you don’t follow them on Twitter.”

“What rubbish, nobody cares about these things.”

“Some people do. Maybe he’s one of them. Shit, I blew it.”

“Shh, he’s back. Ice-creams? Isn’t that too…I don’t know…something?”

“Ice-cream is cool.”

“Or maybe it’s c00nal.”

“No, this is c00nal.”

He says, holding out a spoon with a bit of ice-cream stuck to it. It’s green, not an appealing shade for food, she thinks.

“Ooh, you got her an ice-cream, c00nal?”

“A bite-sized version.”

He grins.

“A twitterized ice-cream.”

She replies, smiling back as she takes the spoon.

From Ashes

IdeaSmith — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 09:11:32 EST

This is for Dee, the editor I'd like to have, who quite literally showed me the way.

~O~O~O~O~O~Where do stories come from? she wondered. Her editor had told her that her writing had a quality of finesse in it. But, he said, the spark was missing. She wanted to protest, it had been such an effort to get to here after all. But anticipating just that, he had moved his hand in a wiping gesture, as if trying to clear away a fog around her.

“It’s that madness, that raw energy that used to make one want to read. Bring that back. It’s you. Unleash it in your writing.”

She brooded over it for a long time, all through the book-browsing date and the high tea that followed. Then she decided to take a walk. Taking long walks and watching people and noting down what one saw seemed to be the right things for a writer to do. The sea had always held appeal. But somehow, the effort of crossing the road, dodging bratty rich kids in their oversized cars only to scrounge a garbage pile of people on the other side, for seating space…wasn’t an appealing thought at all.

The city is no place for an artist, she told herself. How was one supposed to be inspired by this relentless struggle? It didn’t even have the elements of drama like a war or a revolution or an uprising, a famine or a flood. It was just everyday, niggling grievances. Who would want to read about those? Who would want to write about those, she retorted inside her head. Then she shook herself. Arguing with oneself is the first step into insanity and she’d be damned if she was going to live up to that pathetic stereotype of a writer-gone-crazy before she was even published.

The girl hopped off the last bogey, the one that she had just managed to jump into as the train pulled out of the station. In one hand she clutched a little notepad and a magenta pen, her chosen colour for the day. She did have one thought that should be captured before it vanished into that abyss of forgotten inspiration. One hand holding down the page, she expertly popped off its lid with her mouth and twirled it around to cap its end with practiced efficiency. Rapidly she wove a messy magenta web over the ideas that had caused her to almost miss her train.

Mumbai Metaphors

I stood on the opposite side of the road that runs along the seaface. It was the wrong side, not the one that had the seating parapet along its entire length but the junction of the seaface road and the arterial conduit to the station terminus.

I stood under the tree that has survived attempts to build bigger and more buildings, broader roads and wider pedestrian walks. The same gnarled tree that stands on the side of the road like a senior citizen with memories of a slower, more human-paced city but no energy to brave the pace of today.

The sky was just turning that indefinable shade of evening like the colour of the last dregs of black tea in a chipped white saucer. Sepia, the colour of nostalgia, that one extra element that changes the picture of a dirty, overcrowded metropolis to the magical visage of home.

A rare wind was blowing all around me. February in the city picks you up as gently and playfully as the waves and takes you to the edge of the shore of winter. I felt like I was standing in the middle of a swimming pool, only it was filled with moving, insistent air around me instead of water.

When she looked up, she was standing at the threshold of light, surrounded by darkness. The very edge of a station, flowing slowly into light at the other end. A rusty carriage sat on incomplete tracks, a long discarded project of the metropolitan train network and peered at her through unpainted metal bars. On the other side, across the tracks and the other well-lit platform, high over their roofs rose the skeletal inner beams of discarded mills. Like a will being contested over the rotting body of a dead person, the future of the land they stood on was being dueled over, with no thought to the buildings that still were.

Places have memories, don’t they? Memories of lives that have passed, of habits that were housed under these roofs, hidden behind these walls. The paan-stains, the half-buried cigarette butts, sneaky but woeful reminders of escapes, of stolen glee. And then the finality of ashes that came from burning who knows what? Paper? Cloth? Oil? Human beings? There were stories that led to the ashes but there was no way to trace them back. This place had its endings but not all it was in ashes. Everything else was memories that could be traced by anyone who cared to listen, to pick up those strands and imagine where they led. They were stories to be told.

She looked down at her book again, an abrupt swooshing action. The white pages even with their magenta words glared back at her in defiance. Those words meant nothing and in her mind’s eye, she imagined the magenta whorls and lines slide off the pages. Blood, the only thing that would stick. Hold a pen to a nerve and write, he had said. So she turned a page and begun,

Something was burning.

Book Review: A Nameless Place

PNH — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 10:20:05 EST

India is an extreme place, an intense place. I feel the spiritual energy in India accelerates the pace of our personal journeys. There is so much going on here.

I was born in India, and I have been writing all my life. I lived and studied in the UK for most of my life, where I have had two poems published. In 2007, I came to work and travel in India. This is when I started writing my first novel, A Nameless Place, which has just been published.

The novel deals with culture, spirituality and identity, as understood by Laxmi, a confused and frustrated British Indian girl. The experience of falling in love (with a man, with India, with life) takes Laxmi on a revelatory journey. The story is very simple, but for me, its themes are very deep.

Laxmi's experiences in India reveal to her that there are certain laws governing her life, that what we think and feel has a direct impact on the reality we experience. But understanding this on a theoretical level does not make any difference; a person has to apply and live by their understandings in order to notice a shift. Gandhi said, 'Be the change you wish to see in the world', and this has a spiritual relevance for Laxmi, who begins to change herself through expanding her awareness. Falling in love and learning to let go of the 'object' of one's desire is one of the ways Laxmi gains her freedom - from possessive notions of love and into a realisation of universal love. Laxmi's struggle involves redefining her values and overcoming cynicism, a habit she realises does not serve anyone.

I can't say much more about the plot, but if any fellow Desi Critics are interested in reading the novel, it is available at most major bookstores in India and can be ordered online from anywhere in the world from Pustak Mahal.

Editor's Note: This is a preview of the author's own book, if anyone would like to review the book itself, please contact us/the author

Nawwab and I: Turning to a Lamb

temporal — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 10:42:30 EST

N: Regrets? I've had a few...
t: What? Not again on Lucy's lawn?
N: But then again, too few to mention...
t: Thanks for confessions.
N: I did what I had to do....
t: Where is my poop-n-scoop bag?
N: This will take 4.40.
t: What are you talking about?
N: At 11am EST, Teddy Lamb would speak for 5 minutes.
t: Teddy Lamb? You mean a remorseful Tiger?
N: In five minutes, without questions he hopes to wipe it all clean.
t: Ah, the pseudo "press conference"... he certainly chewed more than he could digest.
N: Woof woof...you're a tad slow...as always.
t: Let's not go there or I will turn you over to the Humane Society.
N: You will never do it. You need me.
t: Just like the hydrant?
N: OK, stop being sarcotouchy.
t: I know what he would say.
N: "I regret letting down my family
t: ...and my friends...
N: .. and my fans...
t: ...I have sought help...
N: ...and am actively seeking rehabilitation...
t: ...(to repair my image, my handlers and enablers advise)
N: (He would never utter those words)
t: Just like he would never really own up.
N: ..."I would like to return to the game that is my life...
t: ...this time without all the women save one...
N:...and I seek your understanding and support
t: (Ladies please do not thrust yourself on me)
N: He will flash a sad smile and leave
t: ...as the select media scramble to report the non-event.
N: And Von-Siffers would form a fan club and cheer on when he shows up in India?
t: He will play in India?
N: Woof! Woof!
t: But this lamb is no Blue Eyes.