Tenth Bulletin -- Final Days in Berkeley

Yesterday (meaning November 22nd) ended on a giggly note: I spent the evening with four young staffers of the Centre for South Asian Studies, celebrating my brief stay in Berkeley, during which they hosted a show of my prints. I am not going to identify them in order to spare them undue exposure, but let's just say that three gourmet pizzas, one salad, one Scotch, four cocktails and two bottles of wine flowed. Oh and there were some rather smart snacks to go with the drinks, but I have almost forgotten what they were, because by the time they arrived, we had reached the Competitive Nose-Twitching stage of intimacy.

What IS Competitive Nose-Twitching some of you may ask? Well it's when two or more members of a group are able to control the movements of their nostrils to the extent that they can twitch them in one or more directions SEPARATELY. There are certain inevitable results of such competitions -- one is that other specialty movements of facial features are discovered -- Eye-Brow Raising for instance, and Ear-Lobe Flexing -- and the other is that I begin to giggle uncontrollably. A motor starts up inside me and it becomes progressively difficult for me to turn it off.

Actually, by earlier standards, last night's session was quite sedate. We didn't really go very far beyond the Nostril Competition -- in fact the only other real display was a rather splendid Trefoil Tongue-Fold during which I (a leading exponent) encountered another similarly skilled person for the first time in my life. I was hugely impressed. However I refrained from displaying my piece de resistance (sorry, no French accents -- don't know how to generate them in this window) -- the Tongue To Nose-Tip Flexion. Over the years I have come to realize that it really is rather gross in persons over the age of 10 years -- and I am 52(I realize, I should by now have got over the need to flaunt such talents. Alas, as must be clear, I have not).


I must admit, my interactions with CSAS have far exceeded normal expectations. The Art Show, which was inaugurated just over a week ago, has been a wholly pleasurable experience. From the effort of getting the prints matted in preparation for the show to getting them positioned on the walls of the CSAS office, it has been a smooth, happy and stress-free interaction -- no, I would go further: anyone seeking a break from the dreary routines of their lives, might consider approaching the CSAS to have a show of their artwork. Of course it probably helps if one has some art to show, and if the Powers That Be at the department are adequately happy with the work ... I am very glad that I was able to meet both these criteria. My prints look right at home on the walls of the cheery little office. Anyone wishing to see them or to find out more about the exhibition should stop by at: YES ("YES" being the name of the show). It will remain up through January 2006.

Meanwhile, back at the theatre department, sorrow reigns.

It didn't have to be that way. After all: six shows were sold out; three hundred-odd visitors per show were treated to a two-and-a-half-hour extravaganza of music, dance and comedy; many appear to have been well-satisfied with their exposure to what they believed was Authentic South-Asian Culture.

Normally, this would be enough to satisfy the average drama crew. But apparently it rankles that I, who happen to have written the play, was not properly grateful about the ways in which my work had been altered. The main source of displeasure seems to be that I blogged my opinions in a thoughtless and forthright fashion and that too, on the second night of the six-night run. But blogs are custom-built to be sites for venting steams of every sort! I would have to be a very peculiar person indeed if I said nothing at all about the distortion wrought upon my play -- and what would be the point of saying it AFTER it had ceased to be current? It is even possible that my unfeelingly blunt remarks were a source of publicity for the show. *sigh*

As to the distortions: it seems to me there's a rather odd misunderstanding about what a playwright can expect from a production. It's not true that once a play has been written and published it is automatically "out there" for the world to do with it what it likes -- which seems to be what some of the visitors to this blog believe. So long as the playwright is still alive, it is considered quite normal for him/her to exercise some control over how the work is performed.

If a production doesn't match the playwright's expectations and if his/her script is significantly altered, then he/she has a right to object and to insist that it be done differently. I didn't do that. It's not because I don't know what I want but because I have learnt to recognize the signs of a production that has set off down the wrong path. Once that has happened, short of shutting the production down altogether, one has just got to grit one's teeth and let the thing run. It isn't possible to enjoy the results -- but so far, I have believed that it's kinder to permit the show to go on, because so many people have already invested so much time and effort in it.

It comes down to this: some directors believe in allowing a play to breathe on its own, while others try to force their own breath into it. The first variety is wonderful to work with -- and I have no difficulty accepting the minor cuts and/or additions such directors might request. I've had four pleasant experiences -- the Greek stage production of HARVEST, the UK and Australian readings and the BBC World Service version (on radio). In each of these cases, I did almost nothing to affect the form of the finished version. The directors interpreted my script in a straightforward manner and didn't add any unexpected flourishes to the existing text. The result was cool, austere and true to my intention; a happy place for all concerned to be in.

[a pause here to mention the Swarthmore production: it had a lot going for it, but bad things had happened in the early days of its rehearsal process. The end result was that everyone left the show feeling wrung out and there were noticeable glitches during the performance -- Jeetu's head, for instance, didn't register on the video in the last scene. Of course, the cast and crew for that show were all professionals, so it isn't surprising that their performance was polished]

It is hard therefore, for me to understand the need for me to specify what I want from a production. I already know, from past experience, that some directors succeed in interpreting the script appropriately. It isn't unnatural for me to assume that all directors can succeed to the same extent. So ... why don't they?

I don't know. I believe it's because they don't allow the text to breathe. When they're performing familiar, classic plays, it doesn't matter because the audience already knows what the original is like. The problem arises when they approach new work. In such situations, what they produce can appear to be what the playwright intended. Only the handful of people who have read the script will know that what's happening onstage is not the way it was written and they may not remember the original accurately in any case. The result is deeply embarrassing/unpalatable to anyone who cares about his/her work. It doesn't matter who adores it and how many people appreciate it -- being praised for something you haven't done is the same as not being praised at all.

I feel very sad that the cast bore the brunt of my critique. I genuinely thought the actors were very gifted; it isn't their fault that they were encouraged to over-act recklessly. I realized from the time of the first rehearsal I attended that this interaction was going to end sadly because I knew that sometime or another I was going to have to be honest about my response to the production. I realize the cast cannot at this moment distance itself from its version of the play. I can only hope that sometime in the future, perhaps as soon as early next year, some glimmer will appear of what the performance COULD have been.

Ninth Bulletin -- Berkeley, Post-Show

It really is a shame that I don't manage to keep this blog up-dated more frequently. For instance: between this post and the last one, I've been to Irvine and back, having spent a wonderful weekend with a buddy from Bombay days -- but already the current of events has carried me far enough beyond that visit and into the next excitment, i.e., the Berkeley production of HARVEST.

Irvine was fun. I and my friend K have been planning to catch up with one another for ... ohhh ... maybe 10 years? 15 years? She's a molecular biologist and has been living in southern California for a longish while, but things took a dramatic turn in her life two years ago, when she had twins. I had never met any other members of her family before -- so this visit was a sudden immersion, a warm and very happy one, into all kinds of new dimensions: husband, mother-in-law, children, wow! And all extremely and unusually interesting, charming, great to be with. It turned out that the weekend that suited K best was the one on which the twins' second birthday was being celebrated. So the day after I got there we -- K and her mother-in-law A, visiting from India and me bringing up the rear -- got into gear for the party. It is SO astonishing to be in the presence of very small children -- the sense of so much potential packed into a small, mobile unit which can talk a certain amount and is recording everything and yet ... is not quite of this world, is still faintly mystical with newly-arrived otherness.

Before leaving me at the airport K, A and I went for a stroll along the sea-front, enjoyed a balmy sun-lit view of the great blue vastness of the Pacific. Then it was time for me to leave. John Wayne Airport with the great hero striding towards an impossible horizon, twice-life-size, in bronze. Peanut snacks and apple cider on board the flight. Arrival in Berkeley, where E collected me in the car we have rented for the remainder of our stay in California, during a sudden drizzling down-wash of rain.

Back in Berkeley -- just four days later, but so much change! The night before I flew out, we -- meaning E, our hosts Laura and Kiran and myself -- shifted out of one charming residence and into the next, also supremely attractive, but just a bit further north and up a hillside, in Kensington. The new home is constructed such that guests (we are the first!) get a little cottage all to themselves, complete with kitchenette and a great view. At the time I left, only survival furniture had been moved from one residence to the next. When I got back, civilization was well-entrenched: chairs, bedside lamp, floor rugs, the works ... I was amused to notice what kinds of items, normally unnoticed, were the ones we missed most at the time of the first move: teaspoons, kitchen towels, garbage bins and mugs! The basics for drinking a hot cup of tea, so vital for keeping morale high during times of stress.

And so ... to the play. Well, last night (Friday, 11th November) was the opening night and I finally saw it with all the tech in place. For those of you who attended the unfortunate performance in Delhi and have been interested ever since in the play's history, let me say this: it was better than Delhi. HOWEVER ... but I need to backtrack here in order to be coherent.

I saw two rehearsals before last night's performance (that was about three weeks ago, when I first arrived in Berkeley). Both times, I will frankly confess, I was deeply disturbed. The play was -- alas! Yet again! -- NOT what I'd like it to be. However, one great relief for me was that I was able to express my views to Sudipto; and he took it very well -- because I had also, at the same moment that I told him what I thought, also decided that I would NOT interfere with his interpretation. I told him that too.

He has added at least an hour of performance time to the play, including lines, movements and moods that are in no way part of the original. For instance, he has permitted his actors to use a number of Hindi-isms such as "arre", "beta" etc -- which I find very hard to accept because (a) I am not a Hindi-speaker and specifically resisted falling back on ethnic touches of that sort while writing the play (b) the use of Hindi is a reminder that the family would never normally be speaking English and besides the actual words and terms are cliches, utterly colourless in themselves. I far prefer the play to inhabit a language-neutral space by remaining in ONE language, rather than attempting to balance uneasily between two.

Yet, for all that I disliked -- and it was/is a real dislike -- I recognized that this production, being fuelled by students and their youthful energy, had a kind of vulgar logic. The four principal characters were played by South Asians [-- I've deleted a portion here at the request of a visitor --] and it seemed very important to them to explore the specific ethnic identities of their characters. It's hard for me to express what I want clearly, but it's something like this: since I don't feel the need to underline the fact that I'm Indian/SouthAsian, it is utterly unimportant -- no, more than unimportant, actually UNATTRACTIVE -- for me to make a big deal about that identity. I want to go the other way -- I want to universalize the experience of being whatever -- Asian/Indian/whatever -- and to explore the notion of sameness-in-otherness. Whereas for this production, what seems to have overwhelmed the tone is the heavy spice of Indianness.

I believe it doesn't help the play at all, because the language and ideas don't support it but ... and here's why I didn't interfere ... I wanted to see whether or not I would be alone in my belief, and whether Sudipto's conviction that the play has a context (meaning, an INDIANNESS) that I, its creator, want to deny, would prevail.

OKAY! So back to yesterday's performance. Seeing the play with all its technical effects in place was definitely a plus. There was an interesting take on the GINNI scenes: instead of being shown any views of Her Blondeness, we only heard her voice -- and four different girls read GINNI's part, adding a curious layered effect, so that it was unclear how many people were speaking -- while the Prakash family members looked up at the bright light which represented her presence. Because this permitted them to face the audience, we had a stronger sense of their reaction than is usually the case with the GINNI scenes in other productions of the play AND -- a great bonus -- the audio was delivered live, from backstage, so the annoying tension of pre-taped video was avoided. The final scene, between JAYA and VIRGIL was unusually powerful -- better than most that I've seen -- and VIRGIL's voice was also live, a gravelly male voice, strangely wistful, I thought and quite effective.

It still irks me, of course, that the play is (a) soooo long (b) soooo ethnic. That's not what I wrote and it certainly isn't what I like to see. It becomes an ordeal at this length, like one of those interminable dance-dramas I used to hate so much as a child. Whereas HARVEST's ideal run-time is about one and a half hours, this is almost THREE! By mid-play, I found myself wanting to drown the whole, whining, screaming, wailing, whimpering family of four grotesques -- that's what they had all become, human gargoyles -- it seemed to me no-one could possibly care about what fate lay in store for such creatures. But ...

At this moment, I don't know if I am alone in my dislike or not. I have realized, from listening to a couple of others talking about the play, that the desire to see a production drenched in ethnic context is apparently very great. Enough to overturn other aesthetic considerations ... maybe? I don't know.

At this moment, the second night's performance is still going on ... and I am sitting in the director's office, tapping out these notes, feeling slightly naughty as I do this, feeling pleased to finally be able to get these views off my conscience and out onto the net. I've been suppressing my opinions until opening night, because of course I didn't want to presume upon the performance until I'd SEEN it, complete. And once the performance is over -- there's another hour and a half to go -- I and Sudipto will engage in a talk-back on-stage with those of the audience members who choose to remain. E is in the audience again, and this time Laura, Maya and Becky are all present too ...

Much to look forward to -- and much left to report upon! In just another few hours.

Eighth Bulletin -- An Old Queen in a New Museum

On Thursday I went with a friend to check out San Francisco's newly re-opened de Young Museum -- I could quote miles of statistics about how many pounds of copper (950,000) were used to create the bizarrely wonderful perforated and embossed "skin" of the building, etc etc -- but on the other hand, I could just as well suggest visiting the de Young website for that information.

It was an outstanding experience. I am not a great museum goer (though most people imagine I must be -- "Oh you're an artist!" they say, "-- you probably ADORE going to museums!!" No, I don't. I detest going out in GENERAL. I would much rather stay home and sleep, eat, play computer games and pet cats) but this one was worth every moment spent there -- the building was as much an exhibit as any of the huge number of items inside it. The special exhibition currently on view is about Egypt's only female Pharaoh, HATSHEPSUT.

Now I imagine that all of you are just as clued in on the lady as I ... was NOT: for instance, I had no idea that she was styled as a KING, despite rather obviously being a woman. I can just imagine the grammatical nightmare posed by the information cards accompanying the exhibits! There were many uncomfortable compromises involving such constructions as: "The King sits on HER throne ... " etc (that's not an actual quote, just an example of the type of thing available). Nevertheless, it caused a powerful ripple of sympathy and what Doris Lessing calls "with-feeling" to imagine the weight of responisbility resting on the distant lady's narrow shoulders, being the one and only recorded female Pharaoh. She ruled 10 centuries after the pyramids were built (again, I'm only quoting something I read there three days ago, not verbatim) so she represents an odd hiccup in the system. After her death, her nephew Thutmose III did what he could to erase her cartouche (i.e. the hieroglyphic symbol representing her) from the inscriptions on statues, but he did not succeed, it seems, from erasing her from our knowledge.

How strange it is, then, to gaze upon that serene and smooth-skinned face, with its delicate eyebrows and false-beard and try to imagine the thoughts that animated its living owner. Ha -- and not in English of course! Nothing so simple. I can see speech bubbles in hieroglyphs ... incomprehensible thoughts ... the gulf of time almost too vast to contemplate and yet, and yet: she looks so contemporary, so much like you or I (give or take the decorative cobras and "simple three-wig hair-do")! There was, perhaps, an edge of politics in the choice of such an exhibit to open the de Young's new building to the public -- was I the only one who noticed a curious resemblance between the faint, cat-like smirk on Hatshepsut's carved representations and the almost identical one that typically adorns Hillary Clinton's face? Oh the first and only phemale Pharaoh! Yes.

There was much, much more to engross and distract our attention, but I will mention here only the wonderful vista, staring up from the entrance coutryard to the museum's main building. It is enclosed in such a way that, looking up, we see an elongated pentagonal shape which perfectly frames the sky -- the sky itself becomes an art-work, framed and ever-moving for our delectation! Breathtaking.

And -- a moment of only-in-Berkeley Zen: returning from the museum, I got off at BART's downtown Berkeley station and stopped at Andronico's to pick up a few groceries on my way home. At the checkout counter, the checkout clerk noticed the TINY sticker -- barely an inch square -- which announced that I had been a visitor at the de Young Hatshepsut exhibition -- and he stopped what he was doing to chat with me about it -- the CHECKOUT CLERK!! -- and said how much he was looking forward to visiting the museum himself, soon.

Ah, California.

SEVENTH BULLETIN -- IN BERKELEY

It's been over a week since we got to Berkeley and I've not posted a word coz ... I'm wholly preoccupied in pleasurable pursuits such as: cat-petting; eating; going for walks; eating; decorating porcelain bowls; eating; meeting with the director and cast of the Berkeley production of HARVEST; cat-petting; chatting over wine and great food with our friends and hosts, Laura & Kiran; inevitably, eating; cat-petting; meeting the team at the Centre for South Asian Studies over at the U, in preparation for the small art-exhibition they have kindly agreed to host in mid-November; cat-petting; going to San Francisco for a day trip to meet a cyber-buddy of EIGHT YEARS' ACQUAINTANCE for the FIRST TIME; walking around a little more; getting bitten by cat fleas; eating; sleeping.

Right -- and now that you're up-to-date with my affairs, I can get on with the serious business of posting a list of Premium Blonde Jokes:

Seven Degrees of Blondes
1st DEGREE
A married couple were asleep when the phone rang at 2 in the
morning. The wife (undoubtedly blonde), picked up the phone, listened a
moment and said, "How should I know, that's 200 miles from here!" and
hung up.

The husband said, "Who was that?"

The wife said, "I don't know, some woman wanting to know if the
coast is clear."
*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,-:*´`´*:-,_,.-:*´`´
      -:*´`´*:-.,_,-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*
2nd DEGREE
Two blondes are walking down the street. One notices a compact on
the sidewalk and leans down to pick it up. She opens it, looks in the
mirror and says, "Hmm, this person looks familiar."

The second blonde says, "Here, let me see!"

So the first blonde hands her the compact.

The second one looks in the mirror and says, "You dummy, it's
me!"
*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-,_,-:*´`´*:-,_,.-:*´`´*
      -:*´`´*:-,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*

3rd DEGREE
A blonde suspects her boyfriend of cheating on her, so she goes
out and  buys a gun. She goes to his apartment unexpectedly and when she
opens the door she finds him in the arms of a redhead.

Well, the blonde is really angry. She opens her purse to take out the gun, and as she
does so, she is overcome with grief. She takes the gun an puts it to her head.

The boyfriend yells, "No, honey, don't do it!!!"

The blonde replies, "Shut up, you're next!"
*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´
      -:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-,_,-:*
4th DEGREE
A blonde was bragging about her knowledge of state capitals. She
proudly says, "Go ahead, ask me, I know all of them."

A friend says, "OK, what's the capital of Wisconsin?"

The blonde replies, "Oh, that's easy: W."
*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`
      -:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,-:*
5th DEGREE
What did the blonde ask her doctor when he told her she was
pregnant?

"Is it mine?"
*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´
      -:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-,_,.-:*
6th DEGREE
Bambi, a blonde in her fourth year as a UCLA freshman, sat in her
US government class. The professor asked Bambi if she knew what Roe
vs. Wade was about.

Bambi pondered the question then finally said, "That was the
decision George Washington had to make before he crossed the Delaware."
*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`
      -:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*
7th DEGREE
Returning home from work, a blonde was shocked to find her house
ransacked and burglarized. She telephoned the police at once and
reported the crime.

The police dispatcher broadcast the call on the radio, and a K-9
unit, patrolling nearby was the first to respond. As the K-9 officer
approached the house with his dog on a leash, the blonde ran out
on the porch, shuddered at the sight of the cop and his dog, then sat
down on the steps.

Putting her face in her hands, she moaned, "I come home to find
all my possessions stolen. I call the police for help, and what do they
do? They send me a BLIND policeman!"
*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`
      -:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*´`´*:-.,_,.-:*
Ok. Now forward this to someone else who needs a laugh today!!!

Sixth Bulletin (still in New Yawk)

Two days left before I hit the road again, time to publish another post. So here I am. Yes, I know -- my last post ended on a highly energetic note, but that's because I was at an outstanding computer-station at the home of friends in Long Island (translation: they have broadband and are upgraded as of the most recent twitch in the MicroSoft spectrum) and everything was working perfectly. By contrast, the computer I'm currently at doesn't like Blogger and doesn't so much as allow me to read "Comments" -- I only get to know who's said what when I go to Yahoo and read the incoming mail.(an aside to Amro: this is why I haven't answered!). So I've not been able to load pix from Vermont and was too discouraged thereby to write up my further adventures.

My stay in NYC has been excellent, meanwhile. Amongst various thrills: on Friday (7th Oct) my friends K & N came over to do a first reading of my current work-in-progress, a short play that is currently titled EVOLUTION. N is an artist -- a sculptor and potter -- and the same afternoon, I visited her studio at Hunter College and saw the piece she was exhibiting downstairs: it was composed of a large (forty?) collection of buckets and pitchers and containers arranged on the floor of a large room; inside the receptacles are objects wrapped in wire and drowned in water. It's like walking in on the scene of a renovation of some sort, where the work-men have left their equipment in water and then wandered away, perhaps for too long. Intriguing! And rather cool. I liked it.

Back at the flat, N had brought all the necessary items for making Sangria -- so we did -- and when K arrived, he had excellent snack material in the form of pita bread and spicy hummus -- so we nourished our bodies before diving into the reading. I thought it went VERY well -- I will not describe the play just yet because it's still in development -- but when I say it went well, what I mean is that we were able to get all the way through it without much pain or pausing.

I hadn't printed it out -- I've been working on it ever since I got to New York (well, it was a quarter-written before that -- I began it about six months ago and stopped after 10 pages) and only tapped out the final bits in the afternoon just before I left for Hunter College! So we read it straight out of the computer -- I was on my laptop, while K & N sat at this computer, the house computer, which is a desk-top -- and it wasn't too uncomfortable, I thought.

It's a great privilege to hear something out loud,in other voices. It immediately, for instance, establishes those bits of dialogue that sound quite normal on paper but are unintelligible in audio. My real concern was whether the concept was too slight to be worth writing about -- and it was good to be able to get someone else's opinion. K is a very good critic because he doesn't flinch from saying negative things (without being nasty) -- which is what I desperately needed at this stage. For N, this was the first time she was assisting with a reading. She offered interesting counterpoints. All in all: I believe it MAY be a worthwhile project, but it still has a distance to go(I would say it's about three-quarters done, now). I have an idea of how I can improve what's already here and as to whether it's worth further work well ... I'll do the work first and then decide!

On Sunday evening, I attended a performance of an excellent double-monologue called IN THE CONTINUUM. Written and performed by two women, Danai Gariri and Nikkole Salter, it was an exploration through multiple characters of the stories of two victims of HIV, at the moment that they realize they've been infected. As stories there was nothing we haven't already heard/read in the newspapers but as performances, they were OUTSTANDING.

Gariri played a respectable Zimbabwean woman, married and the mother of a seven-year-old boy and Nikkole plays a New York teenager still trying to claw her way out of the slums she grew up in. Each woman played several roles, as the main characters interacted with the other people in their lives. Each actress was so skilful in making the various transitions that one barely noticed that they were alone on-stage, with no visible interlocuters. At one point, Nikkole, playing the part of the mother of the infected girl, bouncing a newborn baby on her shoulder -- and the "baby" was only a bit of cloth that she patted and petted tenderly -- was able to intersperse the sound of the baby's whimpering cries with her own speech so expertly that the tiny form of the child bloomed to life in front of our wondering eyes. Like I said, outstanding.

And last night, I went out into the thin mist and rain to see WALLACE & GROMIT: THE CURSE OF THE WERE-RABBIT -- stop-action animation, in clay, by the incomparable Nick Parks. Recommendable to the max! Including the short-feature that precedes the main movie, starring the penguins from Pixar's MADAGASCAR ... I'm still snickering!

Fifth Bulletin ...

It'd probably be more honest if I referred to these posts as "bi-monthly statements" rather than bulletins, huh? I can't seem to scrape together the energy to write an account of recent events until long after they're over. For instance, my stay in Vermont was so full of activity that it seemed to me it would be INDECENT to post accounts immediately afterwards. A bit like the first time I encountered home video -- it was at the home of a friend's relatives, at a family gathering to celebrate Thanksgiving in Chicago, about 15 years ago -- and they kept filming the dinner in progress then watching the results on their monitor. It was surreal -- like being a flower watching its own time-lapse photography -- a recipe for terminal self-conscious.

Anyway.

So I'm now back in New York, currently at the home of friends in Long Island (alert readers of this blog will recognize that I was here some weeks ago too, attending the birthday party of the local grandchild ...) and looking back over the past few weeks. I have pictures to post too, but I'll do that later. I arrived in the city last week, on Friday from Boston, where I spent a night after arriving from Vermont.

The first two days/nights in NYC were taken up with helping (? not that I am ever of any practical assistance -- OBSERVING is probably the operative term) my friends K and A get ready for their departure to India. Believe me, I have received a massive education in how to be cool: they went about their packing, their preparation and departure as if they were merely sauntering out to do their laundry -- they were SO CALM AND COLLECTED. Whoa. K is Indian, A is Madagascaran (-ese? Don't know!) and they own a tasty little curio shop on 77th st between Amsterdam and Broadway -- it's a small shop with BIG atmosphere -- a bit like stepping through a portal straight into the sixties. The incense is REAL, if you see what I mean.

Now that they've left, I am knocking about in their apartment all on my own, and thrilled to have that luxury -- I've been maintaining a small column for Kai Friese's CITY LIMITS magazine, about being a hermit -- and the funny thing is, it's all true, what I write in the column: I REALLY ADORE being alone. Maybe it's because I so rarely am? Maybe it's because New York is a great city in which to be alone, because in an apartment -- unlike in space -- EVERYONE can hear you scream?* (*ref to the sub-title for the first ALIEN movie) Whatever. It's a great little apartment, on the upper west side, totally IMMERSED in eateries and little shops and a walking museum of PEOPLE -- whooooaaaaa -- what types, what amazements! Every person who walks past is a character of some sort -- even their DOGS are characters of some sort -- and the super-rich are in short supply: it's relatively ordinary people in the upper west-side -- with a strong accent on RELATIVELY.

Vermont, however was a whole other trip. I'm only going to offer high-lights here -- one of which, DEFINITELY, was the afternoon that E and I were on our own at home and the cow got loose. Now I have to pause the movie here to explain (a) that there is a big paddock -- by which I mean, about two acres of lush green, sloping land, bordered by conifers on the eastern boundary, and the driveway of the house along the western boundary. (b) The cow is a young brown creature, of the sort I would call a Jersey, but probably isn't (I did ask Suzanna, but have now forgotten what she said. I'm pretty sure it WASN'T a Jersey, but for some reason that's the name my brain supplies when it sees a short brown bovine), and has not yet been bred (hence -- for you city slickers who are inclined to say, "Oh? You mean cows are just like women?" And in case some of you are sneering, let me assure you, this remark is a QUOTE -- I have actually heard someone say this -- it has not yet started producing milk) but is currently on heat (c) she has a companion in the form of a young (and still quite small) steer -- he is rather interestingly vari-coloured and Steve has told me that he belongs to a rare local breed, with a dark stripe along his back.

There is a final point I need to add: I am afraid of bovines. This is a rather painful admission to make, since I normally reside in a country RENOWNED for the herds of holy bovines roaming the streets -- of course, this may well explain why I don't especially LIKE residing in that country ...

Right. Got that? E and I were alone on the farm, with a feisty young cow running around loose on the driveway, no doubt searching desperately for a hot date. The steer, as I hope all you slickers, city-bred or otherwise, will realize was useless in the hot-date department. In fact, I was the one who noticed that she had got loose because I heard the steer bellowing -- and when I went out to see what the matter was (at a discreet distance, of course, not wanting any intimate encounters) I saw that he was upset because the cow was out of the paddock, while he was still stuck behind the thin orange wire which delivers a mild electric shock to keep them both in.

To begin with E tried to run after the cow, while she scampered this way and that, with the goats in their pen watching GOGGLE-EYED, like annoying bystanders watching a road-side brawl. Chickens scattered underfoot. The dogs would have loved to get involved but fortunately, I had locked them up inside. At one point, E did manage to actually grab the cow's neck chain but she raced off with him hanging on, so he let her go -- there wasn't really all that much choice -- it was either that or to become like one of those cartoon figures, flying sideways in the air, alongside a bolting brown blur.

I am sure some of you have realized what was soon to happen: E informed me that the only way to get the cow back in the paddock was for ME -- white-knuckled-with-fear-of-bovines-ME -- to hold the steer in the barn, while he shooed the cow back behind the electric wire. We'd worry about how she got loose later -- for now the important thing was to get her back before the steer got loose and we had TWO large herbivores on the loose.

Well, I can tell you I was bellowing almost as loudly as the steer. E said I was making a ridiculous fuss and that there was NOTHING TO IT -- and of course he was right. First he shooed the steer (his name, btw, is SITTING BULL) into the hay barn and then he gave me a stick and said, "Just poke him on the nose and tell him to STAY IN THE BARN -- and don't be a goose!!!" YOW! YOW! YOW! This was my worst nightmare come to life*(*no it wasn't actually -- the worst nightmare involved huge BLACK BULLS chasing me around the universe -- but close enough)!!!

But ... it really was that simple. I poked the young creature in his flank a couple of times and said, in a loud, quavery voice, "NO! STOP THAT! SITTING BULL GO BACK!!" And he DID. And E shooed the cow back behind the fence. And I flung down the stick and scrambled through the gate. And we checked the fence wire and realized it had mysteriously (we have no idea why) been turned off. And we turned it back on. And that was the end of that.

Totally fun, huh? And now I've got to stop, but I WILL RETURN, like the Terminator, to finish this tale of Vermont later today and add pictures too.

FOURTH BULLETIN!!

Yes, yes -- I KNOW I've been remiss. But I've had a tempestuous two weeks. It would have been very entertaining (I suppose) if I'd chosen to write reports on all the events taking place in the course of the week I spent in Swarthmore but ... there was too much going on and now, almost a week after the show went onstage in Swarthmore, I reckon it'll be indiscreet to actually tell all. So much has happened, and so much now REMAINS to happen. People have been hurt. People have survived. Some people will come through this intact. And some ... may not.

Okay! I won't go on being mysterious. I left my sister's home for Swarthmore on Tuesday morning. My niece and her partner gave me a very friendly send-off at the Greyhound bus-station in Binghamton, a place that has become extremely familiar to me over the years, as I have so often used it as a transit point to and from my sister's home in Sayre, which is about an hour away, driving. The bus took about five hours to get to Philadelphia. Erin, the director of the play in Swarthmore, had given me directions for getting to Swarthmore -- cross the street from the bus terminal, get to the train station, buy a ticket, board the R3 to Swarthmore Station. She had warned me that she'd probably be at a lecture at the time I arrived, around 5.15, but not to panic, she would meet me between 5.30 and 6.00, at the closest little restaurant to the train station. And that I had her cell number so we'd always be in touch.

I guess those of you who have cell phones know what happened: I got to the little corner restaurant across the road from the station, waited till 5.30 to call Erin, and ... of course her phone was off. No panic. I ordered a sandwich and a coffee, sat down in the cafe, looked around, saw a nice old man who seemed to be circulating about in the shop, showing a couple of small paintings to some interested-looking customers. He smiled at me, I smiled at him, we got to talking, I bought him a coffee -- and when he found out I was waiting to be collected by someone who had not yet arrived, he offered to wait with me. He told me his life story -- he was an Israeli, been living in the US for 20 years, he drove a bus for a school for disabled children, he was a landscape painter in his spare time.

Meanwhile I called Erin another couple of times. No response. I left messages and also called the stage manager, Zhen. No response and also Zhen's phone mailbox was filled up and wouldn't accept messages. The nice Israeli artist, whose name is Joseph, offered to drive me to wherever I needed to go. It was now 6.30. The restaurant had closed for the day. We were sitting on the chairs outside. I finally acccepted his offer to help me find the place where I'd been told I was staying, a student guest house called Ashton House. WELL ... he didn't know where that was, so finally we got directions from the Public Library, we arrived at Ashton House -- but when I got to the door of the place, I discovered it was one of those self-service jobs, with no human being on hand to open doors or respond to doorbells -- so of course I could not get in, even though I was sure it was the right place! Hmmm. Night was falling. Our heroine was trying not to worry about needing the loo, the charming Israeli knight was offering a place to stay if all failed and in general the portents were uncool.

Oh -- of COURSE -- nothing went wrong! But it was a bit of a bummer, and by the time Erin called at 7.30, I was feeling rather sorry for myself. She told me to leave my stuff in the little space between the outer and inner doors of the guest house and to come to where she was, at the college theatre.

Here I have to pause to say that Swarthmore has the most beautiful campus -- grassy knolls, tall gracious nodding trees, a gracefull bell tower ... all the works.

The first two days of rehearsal that I attended were so highly embattled that there seemed no hope at all that the play would ever go onstage on Friday night. But on Thursday, a miracle occurred: the actors went under the lights and delivered two near-flawless performances, one after the other. They would tell me later that they had never yet had one complete run through. On Friday, the night of their first performance, after yet another good performance during the day, they came through with a strong, lively, characterful show and I was so relieved, I was practically beside myself. Present at the show was the charismatic director of the production company that was responsible for the show, East Coast Artist's Richard Schechner. It was wonderful for me to meet him, because I had already known of him and his work from an UNFORGETTABLE performance of Brecht's Mother Courage in Bombay some thirty years ago.

I met a number of extremely nice and friendly people: Allen Kuhovsky, who heads the Dept of Theatre at Swarthmore; Jean Tierno, who helped me with my paperwork; Mimi, Oana and Arnulfo, the design team for the play; Christine and Zhen, of ECA, the New York production company, who were responsible for seeing that the play went on the boards as scheduled.

I don't want to go into all the reasons that the rehearsal process was so riven with unhappiness, but let's just say that on the Monday of that week, i.e., on the 5th of September, the cast staged a walk-out. Later that day, they were cajoled into completing their performance, but only on the condition that their director could not address them directly, but instead must only communicate through Zhen or Christine. It was only by this means that the play, which seemed doomed to disaster, actually made it onstage four days later, on the evening of the 9th!

Ah-mazing. On the 10th, once more, after a pleasant day of lolling about -- I and the cast wandered around the sleepy streets of the nearby town of Media, eating icecream and getting food-poisoned on an unhealthy portion of lobster bisque (one of the actors! Not me) they delivered a good, strong and memorable performance. My friend Paul Knox came up from New York to see it and afterwards we all -- meaning, Paul, his friend Rana, members of the cast and two friendly cast-cousins -- went out for dinner, laughed, relaxed and enjoyed ourselves in the pleasant aftermath of what had been a bizarrely harrowing three final pre-show weeks.

On Sunday five of us, plus the stage manager Zhen motored up to NYC in the company van, I got dropped off at Penn Station and caught a train to Boston. There my niece and consort collected me from the South Station terminal and a pleasant evening was had by all. That was Sunday night. Two very pleasant nights in Boston later -- including a highly invigorating visit to the Mt Auburn Cemetery in the company of Paul Knox's extremely erudite and charming friend John Matthew -- this morning, Wednesday the 14th, my friend Maude -- artist and superlative human-being-at-large -- drove up from Providence, collected me from my niece's apartment and brought me to her wonderful home in a made-over textile mill building. We have spent the day talking nonstop, going to the mall to have a meal, walking around a wonderful, lyrical lake and ending the day with cheese, crackers, wine and avocados.

Major bliss!

Third Bulletin

This morning I caught up with a very friendly review of SUKI that appeared in this week's Sunday Magazine section of The Hindu (I imagine it appeared only in Madras, but I could be wrong). Naturally, I can't help thinking very warmly of the reviewer, whom I don't know -- if she's reading this, THANKS! Reviews like that makes it all worthwhile -- "it" being defined as all the sleepless nights and cut-and-paste days that went into putting the book together and all the years of wondering why I ever bothered to produce a strip that hardly anyone read.

Meanwhile, here in Sayre, we received several showers and even a bit of thunder, courtesty Katrina yesterday and the day before. But the sun's out now and the trees are murmuring and the birds busy at their feeding pavilion in the backgarden. My sister's home is one of the prettiest ones at which I regularly stay and I LOVE being here. Aside from being immersed in the STAR WARS saga (I have not yet finished ploughing through the mass of background detail -- I have learnt, to my surprise, that the first movie, that brilliant, unforgettable first introduction to a new way of looking at the galaxy, was embattled all the way to the theatres. It gives one hope -- however wan it may be -- that even the most astounding successes have had to struggle massively before they get the recognition they deserve. Amazing also to see the young George Lucas! A terminal-case nerd! Despite which ...) the three of us in this household spend our final waking hours watching the first season of "24" on DVD. I've only ever caught odd episodes of the second season, so it's very cool to watch the whole thing in excruciating realtime, with NO COMMERCIALS. We watch three episodes at a time (so ... yes ... three hours) and get to bed feeling drained. Totally cool.

First Bulletin from NYC

The sun is slanting in through the salmon pink venetian blinds and a tree (of unspecified race and gender) nodding outside the window of my New York buddies Kiran & Andre's upper-West-side apartment. It is a canonically beautiful mid-summer day here and even though the sun is, for me, NOT a friendly entity (I have an on-again off-again sun-allergy), I can appreciate it here much more than I can in Dilli the Grilli.

I am recovering sloooowly from my cold, have had my first re-acquaintance with the NYC subway system and yesterday saw my first rehearsal of HARVEST at NYU's TISH (sp? Not sure) Centre. Erin B Mee, the director is like a high tension wire in human form -- she crackles with positive energy. Her team is warming up to their task: it is a strange thing for me, watching the play YET AGAIN -- seeing all the familiar moments, recognizing them in yet another interpretation, trying to disengage my last impressions from the newest ones ... all that stuff. Three of the principle characters are Indian, the mother is Philipino and the primary guard is Greek.

The set has been designed to be extremely cramped, to provide a visual reference to the constraints under which the family lives. I like that.
One of the earliest ideas I had for a set design was a cage constructed out of iron struts, with the family boxed in and visible from all sides.

And Amro, as for walking off the fuel-intake -- basically, forget it, okay? Obviously you have the metabolism of a five year old child. I, on the other hand, have the metabolism of a camel. I was apparently built to survive in desert conditions for months without food or water, without feeling much distress because I DO walk around and I do sweat/feel tired etc but I DO NOT lose weight!! So the only alternative, other than becoming a blimp, is to avoid eating anything I don't absolutely HAVE to. It is SO annoying. *ANGRY SIGH*

Penguins on Ice

The first leg of the trip -- i.e., arrival in Boston -- is successfully completed, *phew*. Though I DID pick up a cold germ along the way and am only just surfacing from the suicidal depression that overtakes me from the moment I feel the first sniffles coming on. Guh. Whoever invented old rhinovirus was NOT a compassionate and all-knowing deity! But I have plugged myself up with drugs and two days later am feeling vaguely human again (which means, in my terms, not really normal at all).

I and E got in to Bos on Friday evening, where my niece & her consort were waiting for us at the airport. We've been enjoying the home comforts of my niece's very pretty little apartment since then. Last night the four of us went to see a documentary film called The March of The Penguins which could easily double as a promotional film for Heroic Fatherhood. As most of you probably know, the male Emperor Penguin stands out on the antarctic ice for at least two whole months, in the dead of winter, balancing an egg on his toes and starving, waiting for the tiny, black-and-white fluffy-toy chick to hatch. Not for the faint-of-heart, penguin parenthood! Through fearsome blizzards and the cheerless dark of the sunless polar winter, lit only by the fitful magic of the Aurora Australis, the birds stand and guard their single eggs. In time the females, who have gone off to feed, return plump and sleek, ready to take over from their mates. The whole routine is so doomed to failure, that it is wholly miraculous that the creature survives at all. Beautiful photography. We can only image what tortures the camera crew had to endure to remain at their post, filming away through storm and -80 temperatures. Rather like penguin fathers, come to think of it ...

And so to close. Today, (Sunday) my trip is about to shift its next gear: I and E both leave my niece's home, going first to Providence(Rhode Island) with our friend MAUDE, an artist and also Bhopal-friendly activist. Later today I'll peel off to NYC, while E stays on in Providence and then goes to the West Coast.

Amro, I am sorry to disappoint you, but the best I can do in the way of food-reportage is to speak of the number of items I have successfully RESISTED eating. Currently, for instance, as I write this, there is a container (unopened) of small, toothsome-looking oatmeal cookies on top of the fridge. I can hear their plaintive voices calling to me: Eat us! Eat us! But I have turned a deaf ear to them, thinking only of 2% milk and low-carb cereal. *sigh*

Yow! The Virgin Flight Approacheth!

Two days left to go -- no, no, wait ... make that ONE DAY!! Eeek. As may be obvious, I am not a calm and placid traveller. I fret and sweat and lose sleep then fret some more. I think the reason I do it is that I believe it calms the spirits of misadventure which have been my close companions through most of my life. It puts them to sleep, confident that one of their charges is having a seriously awful time chewing off her own toe-nails.

I think I had best stop writing about (them) in case (they) learn to read blogs and get onto my case.

Okay -- aside from dwindling resources of placidity -- not much has happened. Or to put it differently, the things that have happened are just the usual ones: I have FINALLY finished the Tulika book -- well, upto the artwork level. The text still needs to be inserted, but that's not going to happen till I return, in late November -- and scanned in all the artwork and sent 17 pages away. And there is now a completed poster artwork for the Philadelphia/NYC production of HARVEST -- I hope to post it here tomorrow. And there may even be a cover artwork for ... uh-oh. Better not mention it till it's made it past the proof-stage. In my experience, anything that gets discussed in advance of being printed never gets printed. So there. Yes, I am superstitious. Not in silly ways of course, only in deadly serious ways, such as this, in reference to printed work.

In other news, I met Arnab Chakladar (CEO, Grand Chancellor, Supreme Webblorium etc., etc. of Another Subcontinent, the excellent web-site whose link is featured in the column to the right) and his Korean lady, at my restaurant-du-moment, PLOOF. It was a fun lunch, even though the food was ... somehow unmemorable. Ah well. Can't have good company AND good food, I s'pose. One or the other is bound to suffer for lack of attention.

And in blog-news, let it be known that I have FINALLY up-dated the game-board of my long-neglected SudoCritters Game, featured a little further down on this page. I do not, alas, have the energy to count up points. I suspect that Minal has won. And perhaps Pramod too. The only certainty is that I have NOT. This reminds me of those birthday parties where the birthday-child's family is boringly fair-minded and does NOT insist that only the birthday-child can win at the games at his/her own party. *sigh* You can guess which species of family I belong to. Well go on then, Minal and/or Pramod! I have a move or two to make but you can start your victory parades. Thanks for being patient ... for playing along ... for ... ummm ... winnning? Okay! For winning too. That was super fun.

Katzen!

Yes, I will fry in one of the nastier regions of Hell for using up precious last moments before departure NEXT WEEK *YOW* to post links to sites about kitties but ... I guess my place in Hell has been reserved for so long I might as well use up all my badness privileges to the hilt. Okay, so here are four funny sites in reference to Our Favourite Animal -- taken from an article published in the New York Times entitled How the Oh-So-Domestic Feline Became the Internet's Best Friend, by Sarah Boxer (rather an ironic name, don't you s'pose, for someone reporting on cats?). A good piece, but the best bits are the linx (or do I mean LYNX?)(sorry)(ghastly pun). There's RatherGood which shows cats catterwauling;MyCatHatesYou that features a gallery of fearsome beasties; InfiniteCat wherein you can see what happens when cats get to watch cats watching cats watching cats ... and finally, best of all (in my opinion) is LitterBoxCam in which ... oh, just go there yourself! Why should I be the only one wasting my time staring at a static picture of two kitty-litter boxes??

Back in Nude Elly

Returned on Monday (1st Aug) night, but hit the ground running -- my trip to the US is less than three weeks away and there are towering stacks of work to be finished before take-off. Some part of the work involves getting ready for the trip -- such as doing a poster for the production of HARVEST that will be staged in Philadelphia in mid-September. I'll post an image of it here once it's complete ... I consider it a mixed blessing to be asked to do graphics for my own written work -- on the one hand, it means I can't blame anyone else if the results are terrible, but on the other hand, it means there's only my own vision framing my stuff. I am always looking out for that cover/poster/whatever by someone ELSE which might give me an insight into how my work is viewed by other people (-- not merely critics and reviewers, but PEOPLE, if you get my point) and/or might augment my work by presenting a different perspective. But it's usually much easier to just leap up and do it myself anyway.

I haven't been posting impressions of my trip in Madras because ... it was SO PLEASANT. There are two reasons it was pleasant. One was that my niece's new baby has caused the family to experience a general cease-fire in all hostilities -- everyone seems to have mellowed in the presence of extreme youth! What a relief. The other factor was that my mother's domestic help team has changed finally and for the better this time. The result is a profound reduction in psychic stress in the house -- that atmosphere of distrust and crisis-pre-emption that has scarred the past four years had entirely dissipated. I believe I could write a thesis on the effects of demonic domestic help upon a household, but alas it would take more time than I have. It was just a very peaceful, comfortable 8 days in the company of my Mum and other family members.

Of the several interesting/silly things seen and discussed, I'd like to refer only to one -- Dan Brown's ANGELS AND DEMONS -- under the category of "things too ridiculous to be mentioned in polite company". I never did get around to reading The Da Wiggly Code but entered A & D on account of a recommendation from Someone (who shall remained unidentified) who said, "The writing's terrible, of course, but there are some fascinating ideas in there --" Well, I guess my fascination-threshold is too low for the book to do anything for me. I am now reading it to give myself horror-disgust thrills -- yes, I know that best-sellers are almost guaranteed to be trash, but this is ridiculous! I can only suppose that the author has recognized that his average reader is barely out of Moron Kindergarten, as a result of which he/she will never have heard of, eg., CERN or perhaps even the whole of Switzerland ... My guess is that this approach allows his readers to think they are really smart, UNLIKE the protagonists, who appear to be so ignorant and under-intuitive that every event is for them a megaton shock and/or an impossibly rare, unexpected fragment of knowledge. Guh. I am so glad not to be human.

The Deluge, Bombay Style

The first I heard of it was from my niece -- I am currently in Madras, and she lives down the road from where my Mother and sister live -- around 10 pm, by SMS. About her brother (my neph) being stranded at the Bombay Gym because of the rain. It's not entirely unusual for the rains to flood the streets in B/bay during the monsoon but this sounded like some sort of catastrophe. I immediately SMSed Govind Nihalani (a long-time bud and also well-known film-maker) -- and he radioed back that he'd been stuck in his car at the top of a flyover seven minutes from home -- for SIX HOURS!!! Not long after, an SMS came in from Zig (of ZIGZACKLY -- see blog-list on the right) to say that the living-room of his home was ankle-deep with water. And I heard from another friend who trekked 10 Km home, in mostly waist-high water, but in one place CHIN-HIGH!! But he got home and SMSed when he was dry and safe.

No power, no transport. Hundreds of thousands of commuters stranded miles from home.

That was Tuesday night. Today, a day and a half later, reports have been trickling in of how people coped. Zig will probably post his account at his blog. Amar sent me a long account of his 10 Km trek and if he allows me, I'll upload it here. Govind got home at one a.m., after wading in waist high water. No power or food at home. Reports have come in of good Samaritans who have been active all day, feeding and assisting hungry, tired and thirsty commuters -- the lack of food and potable water in the city have been part of the crisis. Another report from a friend of my niece is an indication of the range and level of horrors: because of the power outage, a death in the friend's family could not be accommodated at the electric crematorium and the morgue had no storage facilities -- so they had to cart the body home with them in their car!

To all the brave, hard-working and indomitable people of Bombay -- a big, heartfelt hug.

And here, with the inimitable Amrobilia's permission, is his account of his ordeal (very lightly edited Amro, for your asides to P!)

I was shooting in Powai that day (day b'fore) when the deluge started at 2pm. The studio started flooding at 3pm and the shoot was packed up (cancelled). I tore towards home in the Tavera, encountering rivers of water over the road, and four kms. later, came to a grinding halt. Over the next four hours, the car moved about half a KM. I was surrounded by sheets of rain, a deluge of humanity under umbrellas and otherwise and bumber-to-bumper traffic. I was preparing myself for a night in the car, when the intensity and "immensity" of the rainfall (more like a continuous cloudburst) convinced me to abandon the car and head home. I reasoned I could be stuck in the car for more than just 24 hours (that turned out to be correct)...no food, little water, sleeplessness...

Unwilling to abandon my loved new car 'just like that' I somehow managed a U-turn, found a parking space on the side of the road on a slight rise, waterproofed my iPod, cellfone, audiodeck and wallet stuffed them in my beltpouch and headed home on foot with a bottle of water and a coke I'd purchased a little earlier at the roadside.Home, I knew, was exactly 10 kms away. I use this route regularly and knew the 10km mark 'by heart' - I was right there. It was 8pm so I thought I'd be home by 10, doing 5km/hour. I was told there was waist-high water up ahead for a stretch, but after that I thought it'd be pretty flood-less.

After dismissing a young fellow at the start of the flooded area who told me "yeh aapke bus ka nahin hai - aap ki umar bahut jyaada hai*"(*roughly translated: you won't make it, you're too old), and handing him one of the half-dozen bananas I'd just picked up to fortify myself - off I went. It was a cinch, really...walked and walked and walked till I got to Juhu gulli - 4+km from home, when I saw a sea ahead of me...I'd have to walk waist deep in water till the Juhu circle, I was told - about 1+ km ahead - and then it's 'fine'. As it turned out, it was waist deep all the way to 4 bungalows crossing, and then calf deep all the way home from there. A particular stretch in the four bung area, that everyone else was avoiding (there were tens of people wading away) but thriough which I decided to wade, becuz it was a short cut, had water coming up to my collar-bones! It was an effort to keep the pouch above my head and the bottle of water which still had a bit left, in the other hand. There was also my umbrella!!!...the coke I'd consumed.

Well, got home at midnight and awarded myself the Gold Medal!!! Drove the car home today - it was all on its own all of yesterday and 2 nights. Started first up...now we're stocked up with food...no milk, bread, sugar, veg available since ystrday afternoon...cars still littered on the roads...abandoned for now, being pushed, mechanics n owners peering into their hoods... That's it!

Except for a little back trouble, I'm fit as a fiddle!

[Thanks Amro, for letting me post this]

Happy Potterday!

Received, Read and Reviewed -- by 7.15 p.m. today! Phew. I feel like I've been riding bareback on a centaur -- wheeehoooo! The review should appear in tomorrow (Sunday 17th July)'s Times of India Weekend.

Here's what I wrote:

We enter the seething cauldron of sixteen-year-old Harry Potter's spell-bound life with a crackle of green fire, in the office of a nameless British Prime Minister. Yes! Magic has begun to seep out of Hogwarts, the school for young wizards and into the world of unsuspecting Muggles. That's you and me, in case you haven't already been seduced by the first five books of the internationally best-selling series by British author J.K.Rowling.

The scene soon shifts to Hogwarts and remains there for most of the six-hundred pages of the book. Gone are the burlesque scenes of Harry's adoptive Muggle family the dismal Dursleys. No more do we tryst with giants in distant forests or learn the correct technique for subduing Hippogriffs. Even the various budding romances remain, thankfully, minor tendrils compared to the heavy breathing of the previous book. In this, the penultimate volume of the series, the shape that the final confrontation will take is clearly stated: Harry will need to find and destroy the separate fragments into which his nemesis, Lord You-Know-Who Voldemort, has splintered his soul. How Harry comes by this knowledge and what he needs to find out about himself before he can embark upon this difficult and dangerous task is what occupies the current book.

It is an altogether quieter story, despite the usual quota of soul-rotting curses, unforgiveable villainy, despicable betrayals, corpses, deaths … none of the books is anything less than a bullet-train of plot! This time around, the headmaster of the school, white-bearded Dumbledore works closely with Harry to uncover the secrets of the boy's destiny. He is one year older and less volatile than when we last saw him, less spontaneous, more distant. Slowly but surely, like a train drawing away from a platform, he is leaving the station of his youth behind. There are apparently going to be no stops now: when the next book ends, he will be a man.

There are several moments of hilarity, of course, such as Harry's first use of the Levicorpus spell that throws all the sleeping boys in the dorm around him soaring up into the air at daybreak; there is Hagrid and his rough humour; there are the snog-wars of teenage couples. But the overwhelming agenda of the book is grim rather than amusing. We are never very far from the brink of extreme doom and even when small victories are won, they are always against the backdrop of dastardly murders and hell-brewed schemes.

If we clear away all the distraction of spells and potions, characters and caricatures, though, we find one all-engrossing theme: identity. Who is or was the Half-Blood Prince? Was he Voldemort? Was he a she? Or was he some as-yet unknown, but unusually gifted wizard who left behind handy crib-notes for Harry to use in his borrowed copy of Advanced Potion-Making? Come to think of it, the search for identity is what animates all the Potter books. Each one is about discovering the true nature of the characters who appear in various guises, whose back stories fill the shop-windows of their lives. Is this, perhaps, a clue to the global popularity of the book? Because it is certainly true that in this alphabet soup of cultures that we live in world-wide, understanding who we are has become the overwhelming goal. Once we know that, we can decide what we eat and where we'll shop; who we'll marry and where we'll live; when to wear our head-scarves and whether or not to strap on a belt of explosives that will blow up a train-load of passengers.

Identity is the raw material of the human cultural machine. The Greek myths used the gods to pepper their stories with half-divine heroes while we use the word "magic" in the place of "divine", but the stories remain much the same: seek the source of power, ponder its meaning and struggle to use its burden wisely. No surprise, in today's desk-bound reality, that our hero is a geeky-looking boy with glasses, dark-hair and a spindly frame - and no! I'm not going to tell you who dies. I didn't read six-hundred pages in six hours just to give the plot away!

SUDOCRITTERS -- The Game

Well, as you can see, I couldn't resist attempting to design a SUDOKU-based game. Here are the rules and stuff --

SUDOCRITTERS -- The Game

For three players

The AIM: For each player, the aim is to fill rows, columns or 3x3 boxes with complete sets of critters. The player who places the final critter in a row/column/box claims it as his/her own.

The RULES: (revised since yesterday)Players take turns to place ONE critter at a time. Placements must conform to the standard rules of SUDOKU -- i.e., there can be only one of each critter per row/column/box. Once a critter is placed, it cannot be moved or removed. There is no restriction on placements that may block FUTURE valid placements -- i.e., players are not required to play in such a way that the whole board can be correctly filled up. However at the time of each placement, it MUST be valid. Players do not have the option of skipping a turn, even if it means making a disadvantageous move.

WINNING: The player with the most rows/columns/boxes is the winner. Given that the game will very likely be blocked by invalid moves, I am guessing that the typical game will end in deadlock, with no winner. Therefore it's to the advantage of all players NOT to block the board with placements that will lead to deadlock -- but not necessarily to the advantage of the individual player.

THE METHOD (for this blog-version) I moved first*, followed by PRAMOD and MINAL, who have very kindly agreed to play along. In theory, anyone can join in the game, by leaving moves in COMMENTS (NOT as e-mail, pls!) which I will incorporate on the board and post here from time to time -- I'm planning to do this a couple of times a day -- but in practice, it's very likely that Pramod and Minal will be the only players. I will only incorporate those moves which follow the 1-2-3 pattern -- i.e., if someone posts a move out of turn, I will not incorporate it.

At this moment, it makes sense to me if the three of us continue our moves in rotation, through COMMENTS without waiting for me to upload the changed board each time. This way, the game will go quicker (after all, we have 81 potential squares to fill up!!) We can keep track of the game on our own stored versions -- then I can upload the day's moves all together at, say, midnight IST (New Delhi).

So is this clear? I will include moves based on those which get posted to COMMENTS here. I will place my own moves every third time. I will only change the board at the end of the day.

And ... please, anyone, correct me if I make incorrect placements on the board!

The moves so far:

MARGINALIEN: FLAMINGO (9) to 3C; CAMEL (6) to 4G; CAT (3) to 7D

PRAMOD: PENGUIN (1) to E5.

MINAL: LOBSTER/SCORPIO (7) to H8

MARGINALIEN: RACCOON (8) to 9C

PRAMOD: LOBSTER/SCORPIO (7) 1I

July 12th

MINAL: SWAN (5) to 6A

MARGINALIEN: GOAT (2) to 2E

PRAMOD: RACCOON (8) to 2B

July 13th

MINAL: GAZELLE (4) to 4F

MARGINALIEN: GAZELLE (4) to 5H

July 14th

PRAMOD: FLAMINGO (9) to 6G; LOBSTER/SCORPIO(7) to 4A; CAMEL(6) to 9F

MINAL: LOBSTER/SCORPIO(7) to 5G; PENGUIN (1) to A9; GOAT (2) to B5

MARGINALIEN: CAT(3): 1E; CAT(3): 5I; CAT(3): 9G

PRAMOD: RACCOON(8) to 5A; FLAMINGO (1) to 1F

July 15th

MINAL: FLAMINGO (9) to 4B; PENGUIN (1) to 8D; CAT (3) to 6F
MARGINALIEN: CAMEL(6) to 5C; FLAMINGO(9) to 5D; SWAN (5) to 5F
PRAMOD: GAZELLE (4) - 6B; PENGUIN (1) - 6C; CAT (3) - 4C

July 18th

MINAL: PENGUIN (1) to 3B; SWAN (5) to 2H; LOBSTER/SCORPIO (7)to 7E
MARGINALIEN: LOBSTER/SCORPIO(7) to 3D; CAMEL(6) to 3E; GOAT(2) to 9I

PRAMOD: GAZELLE(4) to 7A; FLAMINGO (9) to 9H; PENGUIN (1): 7G

July 19th

MINAL: LOBSTER/SCORPIO (7) to 2C; LOBSTER/SCORPIO(7) to 9B; GAZELLE (4) to 9E

MARGINALIEN: SWAN(5) to 9D; FLAMINGO(9) to 2I; RACCOON (8) to 8I

PRAMOD: FLAMINGO (9) to 8E; GOAT(2) to 8F; RACCOON (8) to 7F

July 20th

MINAL: CAMEL(6) to 1B; SWAN (5) to 7B; CAT(3) to 8B

MARGINALIEN:GOAT(2) to 7C; RACCOON(8) to 6F; GOAT to 4H

PRAMOD: RACCOON(8) to 6E; SWAN (5)to 4I; CAMEL(6) to 8A

JULY 22nd

MINAL: GOAT(2) to 3G; CAMEL(6) to 7H; GAZELLE(4) to 8G
JULY 23rd

MARGINALIEN: CAMEL (6) to 8A; RACCOON (8) to 1G

... at long last, I have updated the board with the next few moves! Sorry, sorry, sorry.

AUG 8th: Pramod:

GOAT(2) to 6D

GOAT(2) to 1A

GAZELLE (4) to 1C -- Pramod gets 8 pts for column C

Aug 10th: Minal:

CAT (3) to 2A -- Minal gets 8 pts for box

CAT (3) to 3H

GAZELLE (4) to 3I -- Minal gets 7 pts for box.

*I made three opening moves, just to start the game off.

Also, for the sake of completeness, the names of the critters are:

1= PENGUIN; 2=GOAT; 3=CAT; 4=GAZELLE; 5=SWAN; 6=CAMEL; 7=LOBSTER/SCORPIO; 8=RACCOON; 9=FLAMINGO.

For Folks Who Don't Like Number Puzzles

Here's a version of the previous puzzle rendered in pix ...

The other day I got to thinking about SUDOKU and why certain people (yes, I'm looking at you, Zig! And you too, Chandigarh J, in a reduced sense, because I suspect you're not put off by numbers, but would just prefer pictures anyway) who might otherwise be expected to enjoy something clever and new, might not be attracted to it. And I wondered whether it might be because the numbers make it look like the kind of challenge which involves calculations. But it ISN'T (or else why whould I like it? I like maths but am numerically challenged in various ways -- dysnumeric, if the word exists) -- the numbers are merely nine different symbols and their use in the puzzle is purely incidental. So ... I thought I'd try substituing them with pictures. I didn't want to draw 'em myself so I checked MS Words fonts -- and sure enough! There's a face called Mini Pics Li'l Critters -- and you know what? For a change, they really ARE rather cute. So I used nine of them in place of the numbers. This puzzle is the same as the previous one, except for two penguins (i.e., "1"s in the previous version of the puzzle) which have been placed in their correct spaces in the grid.

As with the numbers, the challenge is to place one of each type of critter in every row and every column and in every 3x3 box. There's only one correct solution. It's possible that this grid here is too small to work off -- I don't know whether it'll download at a bigger size than what you can see on your screens. In case anyone wants to get a full-size copy of it ... well, I might be in a good enough mood to e-mail it out. Or (if anyone complains) I could just try posting a larger version of it here. The way to use it is of course to select, COPY and then paste each of the coloured critters on the side, into the grid. It's best to save the template and then work on a copy of that version.

Chandigarh J, you asked for a starter's hint? Well one method is to look across each row and up and down each column, locating (say) the penguins -- since every row MUST have one and every 3x3 box must ALSO have one --and ONLY one -- you can sometimes see a situation where there's only one possible space in which the missing penguin CAN go. The penguin in the top row is a case in point. The two rows beneath that one both contain their penguins. The only space in which the top row CAN accommodate a penguin is therefore at the end, in the right-hand box. Similarly with the penguin in the lowermost box on the left: there's no other space in which it could stand but there, since the columns on either side already contain one penguin each.

And if that made sense to you ... you're well on your way to being a Sudokan!

BTW, you know what I bet? This would make a GREAT board game. Can't you just see the cute tokens and the cool board? I can. Too bad I lack the skills and entrepreneurial temperament to go the distance: developing the prototype, filing a patent, selling it for millions to Parker Bros. Yup. I can just see it happening ... to someone else. Take it from me, in about one year or less, there'll be a SUDOKU board/card game and it'll be the smash hit of the decade.

Five years from now maybe you'll find me lurking in the parking lot of the SUDOKU theme park, looking up at the bright lights and *sighing*.

I've been SUDOKED!

Yes ... it's happened ... after a couple of weeks' resistance, I finally succumbed to the SUDOKania reportedly sweeping the world. To mark the change in all our lives, I have compiled a short list of indispensible SUDOKISMS for the days to come (I am never the first to do anything, so I'm assuming there are already whole SUDOKUtionaries in existence. This list, however, represents my own modest little offering, compiled without reference to or knowledge of any other).

And also, just to be generous, I am going to post the template for a puzzle I found especially taxing ... (it should appear above or on the left of this text) I created a copy of it in clunky old MS.PAINT. If you copy the image to your computer (by right-clicking on the pic, then SAVING AS), you can fill in the blanks by dragging the blue numbers provided on the right-hand side into their (potential) locations in the grid. I am assuming you already know what to do? In case you don't, the idea is to fill in the grid so that every horizontal and vertical line has one and only one representative each of the first nine integers (excluding the zero). Additionally, there are no repetitions in each of the nine small 9x9 squares.

This particular puzzle appeared in the ASIAN AGE, on June 15th 2005. I hope I'm not violating any copyright laws by publishing it here ...

And here's my list:

SUVOCAB*
TO BE SUDOKED: seduction by numbers
SUDOKUDOS: the praise that comes from a completing a puzzle successfully
SUDOKIAN: one who solves/struggles to solve SU DO KU (variant: SUDOKUAN; SUDOKAN)
PSEUDOKAN: one who fakes success at SU DO KU
SUDOVOCE: the soft voice in which a SUDOKIAN speaks whilst in the midst.
SUDOCANCAN: in which pretty girls fling their legs up while solving SU DO KU (see also: SUDOCOULOTTE)
SUJUDOKU: in which serious-minded types practice martial arts while solving SU DO KU
SUDOJOJO: a very young kangaroo who solves SU DO KU in a martial arts club
PSEUDOJOJO: a toy version of the above
SUDOCOO: a SUDOKIAN's romantic wittering
SUDOKOOKY: a SUDOKIAN who has lost her/his wits to the puzzle
SUDOCAB: in which one sits while solving SU DO KU, while also, incidentally getting from point A to point B
SUDOKUDU: African antelope with a bent for numbers
PSEUDOKUDU: a goat pretending to be an African antelope
SUDOCTOR: one who specializes in ailments of the puzzling variety
SUDOKIDDING: silly puns involving SU DO KU
SUDOKAY: response to the question: HOW'S YOUR SU DO KU?
SUDOCOOK: one who finds it difficult to cook
SUDOCUCKOLD: one whose spouse prefers puzzles to spouses

*I prefer it this way to the way it was. I've been wanting to amend it ever since posting the list. It's like wanting to scratch an itch in the middle of one's back ... ahhh. All better now.

Musings on a Special Day

A friend who is also a June baby sent me this charming item -- it perfectly expresses my thoughts on mortality as I slide over into my 52nd year(no, not today). I saw The Sound of Mucus when I was an extremely cynical and unsentimental 12-year-old, and HATED it. But I saw it another 6 times with all the friends and family who adored it, it was the subject of a mega-musical at the American School in Kodaikanal (I went to Presentation Convent, on the neighbouring hill) and eventually, after much time had passed, I had to concede that Julie Andrews is a wonderful star even if I DID continue to think that particular film was diabetic-coma-sweet.

So here's a toast to Julie! And here's her current version of MY FAVOURITE THINGS:

To commemorate her 69th birthday on October 1, actress/vocalist Julie Andrews made a special appearance at Manhattan's Radio City Music Hall for the benefit of the AARP. One of the musical numbers she performed was "My Favorite Things" from the legendary movie "Sound Of Music." However, the lyrics of the song were deliberately changed for the entertainment of her "blue hair" audience. Here are the lyrics she recited:

Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting,
Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,
Bundles of magazines tied up in string,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Cadillacs and cataracts and hearing aids and glasses,
Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,
Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the pipes leak,
When the bones creak,
When the knees go bad,
I simply remember my favorite things,

And then I don't feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets, and corn pads for bunions,
No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,
Bathrobes and heat pads and hot meals they bring,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Back pains, confused brains, and no fear of sinnin',
Thin bones and fractures and hair that is thinnin',
And we won't mention our short shrunken frames,
When we remember our favorite things.

When the joints ache,
when the hips break,
When the eyes grow dim,
Then I remember the great life I've had,

And then I don't feel so bad.

Ms. Andrews received a standing ovation from the crowd that lasted over four minutes and repeated encores.

SUKI meets JABBERWOCK!

Guess who's been flirting outrageously with JAI ARJUN SINGH of Business Standard? None other than my unpredictable friend (umm ... okay, we have a slightly more intimate relationship, but I won't embarrass her) SUKI. She agreed to be interviewed for Saturday's (June 18th) weekend supplement of BizStan -- it was all done in perfect virtuality -- Jai sent along his questions and a photograph, Suki obliged him rather more familiarly than I would have expected. *sigh* She always was a difficult character ...

Carpel Diem

I've been planning to compose a post about two events-to-be later in my year, but I realize most visitors are only peripherally interested in news-bulletin-type posts. Okay, so I'll just blurt it out, very quickly and then you can get to the funnies: my play HARVEST (do I hear a groan from those folks who saw the Delhi production?) is going to be performed in the US in two entirely separate productions. The first will be in Philadelphia (dir. Erin B. Mee) in September, and the second in Berkeley (dir. Sudipto Chatterjee), in November. The Philadelphia show will move to New York's LaMama, in January 2006. This is all very cool news. I have been containing my gladness rather well all these weeks, but am finally starting to freak (oh very slightly) around the edges, as I'm forced to think of practical issues such as tickets and travel.

Okay, and now we can get on with the jokes.

I found this list in my private joke archive -- yes, folks, there are some nerds so atrociously far gone that we will save our jokes for a rainy ... um ... well, okay for a day when the modem's not working.

These are from a NEW YORK magazine contest.
Contestants had to change ONE letter in a familiar non-English phrase and redefine it...

HARLEZ-VOUS FRANCAIS? - Can you drive a French motorcycle?
IDIOS AMIGOS - We're wild and crazy guys!
VENI, VIPI, VICI - I came, I'm a very important person, I conquered
J'Y SUIS, J'Y PESTES - I can stay for the weekend
COGITO EGGO SUM - I think, therefore I am a waffle
RIGOR MORRIS - The cat is dead
RESPONDEZ S'IL VOUS PLAID - Honk if you're Scots
QUE SERA SERF - Life is feudal
LE ROI EST MORT. JIVE LE ROI - The King is dead. No kidding.
POSH MORTEM - Death styles of the rich and famous
PRO BOZO PUBLICO - Support your local clown
MONAGE A TROIS - I am three years old
FELIX NAVIDAD - Our cat has a boat
HASTE CUISINE - Fast French Food
VENI, VIDI, VICE - I came, I saw, I partied
QUIP PRO QUO - A fast retort
ALOHA OY - Farewell; from such a pain you should never know
MAZEL TON - Lots of luck
APRES MOE LE DELUGE - Larry and Curly get wet
PORTE-KOCHERE - Sacramental wine
ICH LIEBE RICH - I'm really crazy about having dough
FUI GENERIS - What's mine is mine
VISA LA FRANCE - Don't leave chateau without it
AMICUS PURIAE - Platonic friend
L'ETAT, C'EST MOE - All the world's a stooge

(my offering for the evening)
CARPEL DIEM - Enjoying the pain in my wrist

Michael Jackson's Acquittal

I'm delighted that MJ got off without even a slap on the wrist -- unlike the OJ trial, in this case I really don't think there was any manipulation: his accuser didn't have a strong case and Mesereau was able to prove it. Not that I think MJ's innocent -- I'm sure he's got an altered definition of what's "normal" in this world -- but surely it was the accuser's family which was totally twisted for leaving their boy alone with MJ, knowing that the guy had a ... shall we say ... history?

I was surprised to hear (from my niece, in Boston) that there are lots of people out there who believe that the BAD boy should've been locked away forever.

Why? There are millions of people who are much more dangerous on account of being less obviously twisted, in whose care children are entrusted: lecherous priests (of all religions); untrained nannies; untrained teachers; irresponsible parents. I'm not even getting into the issue of children used as slave-labour in all kinds of unmonitored industries, from glass bangles to fireworks, from carpets to rag-picking.

MJ was being used as a scapegoat for all the guilt people feel about the dreadful ways in which children are used and abused by adults. Even the atmosphere of fear in which children are being raised today is, in my opinion, a problem. Sometime or another, surely we have to face the truth about the dangerous and rapacious world in which we live -- rather than save ourselves the effort of looking in that direction, by focusing upon one or two scapegoats and crucifying them.

If Michael had gone behind bars, it would have been tantamount to shooting him -- or sentencing him to rigorous torture -- I doubt he'd have survived it. For all those who think he did something wrong, perhaps it's worth asking the question: how come such a twisted individual (which is apparently what many people think he is) became a mega-celebrity, anyway? Why do we reward freaks for being what they are -- then burn them at the stake when their freakishness ceases to amuse us?

Dance on, Michael! Thank you for the music.

Eight Words with THREE Meanings

Okay, time to lighten up ...

1. THINGY (thing-ee) n.
Female...... Any part under a car's hood.
Male..... The strap fastener on a woman's bra.
Me..... Being senile means never having to remember the names of anything. Or thingy.

2. VULNERABLE (vul-ne-ra-bel) adj.
Female.... Fully opening up one's self emotionally to another.
Male.... Playing cricket without a box.
Me..... Like the dhoti-clad man I once saw, many years ago, asleep on the grass of Bombay's oval maidan, curled up on his side, with his masculine equipment neatly displayed on the white cloth of his dhoti.

3. COMMUNICATION (ko-myoo-ni-kay-shon) n.
Female.... The open sharing of thoughts and feelings with one's partner.
Male... Leaving a note before taking off on a fishing trip with theboys.
Me..... Updating my blog.

4. COMMITMENT (ko-mit-ment) n.
Female.... A desire to get married and raise a family.
Male...... Trying not to hit on other women while out with this one.
Me..... Updating my blog regularly.

5. ENTERTAINMENT (en-ter-tayn-ment) n.
Female.... A good movie, concert, play or book.
Male...... Anything that can be done while drinking beer.
Me..... Visiting other blogs.

6. FLATULENCE (flach-u-lens) n.
Female.... An embarrassing byproduct of indigestion.
Male...... A source of entertainment, self-expression, male bonding.
Me..... A thingy that rhymes with "art"..

7 MAKING LOVE (may-king luv) n.
Female...... The greatest expression of intimacy a couple canachieve.
Male.. Call it whatever you want, just as long as we do it.
Me..... Sharing icecream.

8. REMOTE CONTROL (ri-moht kon-trohl) n.
Female.... A device for changing from one TV channel to another.
Male... A device for scanning through all 375 channels every 5 minutes.
Me..... Getting people to buy my books by doing nothing more than update my blog regularly.

Someone ELSE's Nasty Violent Thought

-- or maybe I should call it an "invention"? Coz it's not just a thought. A link was posted by a.a. in a comment to a post that has moved off the front page of this blog, and I figured that most visitors here would miss it if I didn't high-light it (my link takes you to the comment, where there's a link to the article) -- thanks a.a.

In case you're feeling lazy about following the link, the gist of the news item is that someone has invented a device that women can wear inside their dings which would cause grievous damage to the dongs of would-be rapists. Actually, just "rapists" not "would-be", since the rape would have to be well underway for the gadget to work. Basically a sort of hollow metal tampon, which clamps the offender's organ and requires medical intervention to remove. The news item isn't only about the gadget however: apparently the invention was the subject of intense debate and even fury at a South African convention on the subject of AIDS and rape in SA.

I am surprised at the anger reported in the article. I can see that such a gadget would not be useful to (say) young virigins (many of whose parents would consider even a tampon a violation) -- but what about women in combat situations, or professional sex workers who might want potential attackers to get their share of anguish, or just any women who feel they might be at risk? The opponents of the device claim that it would only cause an extreme escalation of violence against women -- presumably by wounded men seeking revenge. Perhaps. But I can see such a gadget providing a woman with a sense of having some line of defence when all else has failed -- I believe lack of confidence is partially responsible for making women vulnerable to rape. Maybe something like this would help provide the determination to fight off an attacker. And -- crucially -- it could also provide an absolute defence against the painful charge so frequently levelled at women, that they "didn't say no". A man with a metal sheath attached to his dong would find it difficult to prove anything aside from his guilt.

Sticky Fingers

My current project is something fun -- a picture book for TULIKA, a Madras-based publishing house exclusive to children's publishing. They've been in the business for around ten years, I think, and have done more for children's books than all the moaners and complainers who curse the lack of children's books, but rarely make the effort to buy local titles.

Radhika Menon and Sandhya Rao of Tulika have been inviting me to do a book for them for years but it's only in the last few months that we finally got around to discussing specifics. It really got underway after Radhika came to see my show in Madras last December and suggested that I could do a book in the style of my multi-media collage paintings. So that's what I'm doing -- hence the sticky fingers. I've just got past the page-layout stage (i.e., setting up the pages of the right size and sticking in the coloured backgrounds in readiness for the images and text that'll go over them) and am now fiddling with little bits and pieces of coloured paper, cutting them out of different sizes shapes. There is something tremendously satisfying about collage! I think it's probably because the results far outstrip the effort required to achieve them -- it really doesn't take a whole lot of time to cut up paper and stick it down on yet more paper -- but at the end of that hour or two, ta-daaaa! Cool stuff happens.

I'm deliberately not discussing the title of the book and it's principle idea, because I'm always paranoid that someone quicker and smarter than me will immediately produce an identical book based on my concept, before I can get around to finishing mine. Then I'd have to start out all over again, which would be a bore. I promise to be more forthcoming when the book's ready to pop ... Which should be in a couple of months from now.

One More New Book

Yup. This one really is a whole new book (rather than a compilation of old work). Three rather weird stories about three rather weird little girls -- but actually the thing I'm pleased about it is that I finally got a chance to do something that I really like to do -- as blogged several weeks ago -- which is fill a whole book with pictures, rather than be confined to just one miserable postage-stamp-sized chapter-opener. I don't like the cover-art too much (mainly because I wasn't happy with the title a/w -- I didn't do it, and by the time I saw it, it was too late to change)(also I didn't want the artist who produced it to feel discouraged. This is a very unprofessional reason for deciding to go along with a title design. But then ...)

The name of the book is UNPRINCESS!, published by Penguin. If I can manage to scrape together the energy, I'll post the link in the column on the right too (groan, moan, complain). All this wurk ...

The Curse of the Babu

Let it be known that I HATE chain letters -- mainly because I am a total patsy and often find myself obeying commands in an utterly robotic fashion. This post owes everything to being "tagged" by Hurree Babu of Kitabkhana (if no link appears here, look in the column to the right of the main column). I've got to comply with commands that go entirely against my DNA, but there you are: the trials of being a social animal.

Here's what I've got to reveal:
Total Number of books I own: About 1500 I think. All but 50 are in cartons and effectively lost to the world, except that I have them entered into a Carton List made 6 years ago, at the time that I/we moved from Sunder Nagar to Friends Colony (where I currently live) and never unpacked. The fifty that are uncartoned have remained that way because we've run out of cartons and can't be bothered to buy new ones. If you're starting to think I/we live an unusually slovenly life, you have completely normal powers of perception, and are correct.

Last book I bought: Was actually ten copies of my most recent publication DOUBLE TALK, five copies of the one that appeared before it, last year, KLEPTOMANIA and three copies of Mishi Saran's CHASING THE MONK'S SHADOW -- bought as a favour for a friend, who gave me one of the copies as a gift, but being a lousy, ill-mannered friend myself, I have not read it yet. The multiple copies I bought of my books is what I find myself doing routinely: I give copies away because I have so many friends and relatives who believe they are owed a signed copy. *sigh* This is a terrible admission to make, because it means that at least a couple of friends who read this may feel they can rightly claim free books being card-carrying members of my friendship-ring ... but that's JUST TOO BAD, okay?? I have two sisters, a mother, two nieces and a nephew -- and they ALL WANT THEIR OWN SIGNED COPIES!! Is this not unfair? Not that they get 'em ... I have pared the list down to one-per-household, not including my nephew, who lives (inconveniently enough) in Bombay. On the other hand, I find that giving away one of my books is an excellent way of saying "thank you" for pretty much anything, as a result of which I have pretty much stopped buying any other kinds of gifts.

Last book I read: Make that "am currently reading": Ira Pande's DIDDI, a warm and well-observed biography of and compendium of stories by the author's mother, who was better known to the world of Hindi letters as "Shivani". If I say anything more about this book, I won't have the energy to review it (which is the reason I have a copy: I think it's only fair to say here that I hardly ever buy books any more except when I go to Madras, because I know I'm going to buy books there, from Giggles Bookshop, in the Connemara Hotel and since I always spend far too much money when I go there, I try to save on that extravagance by not buying books anywhere else)(besides which, I never go to bookshops any more, if I can help it. Instead I call up, ask about the book/s I want and send my Person Friday across to collect it, with a cheque. Add "terminally lazy" to slovenly).

Five books that mean a lot to me: Errrm ... unlike the Babu, I will attempt to stay within calling distance of that number "five" and say ... errrrm ... well ... there's a little pocket dictionary called A DICTIONARY OF DIFFICULT WORDS that I've kept by my side for about 20 years now. That's got to mean something. There's John Fowles' THE MAGUS that's pretty much the only book (other than children's books) I've read more than once (i.e., twice) -- oddly enough, I've never owned a copy. There's GÖDEL, ESCHER, BACH: An Eternal Golden Braid by Douglas Hoffstadter that's described on its back cover as "The best mental gym in town" -- and I'd agree -- except that I don't think I'd be able to read it now, having opted for Early Senility. *sigh* And then there's so many contenders that I'll just reach out and grab wildly -- THE SEA OF FERTILITY by Mishima and GORMENGHAST (the first two books; never got around to reading the third) by Mervyn Peake.

Tag five people: Okay, I'm not going to do this. Sorry, Babs -- I'm just badly behaved, incompetent and dull besides lazy, slovenly and senile.

*sigh*

Star Worries

Well I saw it yesterday, the last of the Star Wars series, REVENGE OF THE SITH. I was practically catatonic by the end of it, what with the rollercoaster ride -- the dialogue was wooden, the acting was barely above B grade, the FX were distracting -- but the story, like gravity on an actual rollercoaster ride, kept me pinned to my seat.

I believe that's the appeal of Star Wars -- it's set in a galaxy "far, far away" and "long ago" but its emotional politics are as local as daytime soaps. Now that we've been given the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle, we are left with at least one important gap -- who was Darth Vader's father? I would place money on the possibility of it being Chancellor Palpatine. He even refers to Anakin as "my son" during this movie.

I was also interested to notice the insertion of a favourite Judeo-Christian theme, i.e., the negative role played by women in the affairs of men. Look at it this way: if Anakin hadn't fallen so desperately in love with Padme, he would not have had the fatal weakness that made it possible for Palpatine to turn him towards the "dark side". Palpatine plays the role of the serpent to the hilt -- he even is the one to suggest to Anakin in "War of the Clones" that he should be Padme's Jedi escort to a safe haven -- I believed even then that he was the evil one.

Though there are women warriors, of a fashion, represented in the series, and even though Princess Leia (Darth Vader's daughter) is one of the leaders of the rebellion, as a whole the series refers only to male warriors and the female presence is (in visible terms, anyway) pretty much limited to prettiness. Poor Padme's role is just that of love interest and/or sex-object -- and how can it be otherwise for someone who dresses like a Carnivale float whenever she's required in her official capacity as the representative for Naboo?

Of course, it could also be argued that it is Anakin's WEAKNESS that causes his downfall, that the mysterious "midi-clorians" (whose spelling I'm uncertain of) are to be blamed for everything and of course the Jedi provide a charmingly Zen-like flavour to the entire galaxy -- they're hardly manly men, despite their beards and swashbuckling skills, more like warrior monks.

But atleast that's one more series over with, one less thing to worry about that I won't see the end of, when I pass on to another dimension, far, far away.