ATTENTION, BIRD-FEEDER-PEOPLE!

This may be a minor revolution in squirrel-proofing technology -- today, I smeared cooking oil on the long hanging bird-feeder that our local squirrel (see previous photograph) or one of his/her relatives has been using as a stepping stone for reaching the top storey of the feeder.

And ... the squirrel slipped off!! Not right away, I'll admit: he/she initially managed to cling to the feeder, but a moment later appeared to be struggling and then leaped down. She (I think it's a she) tried again -- but now her paws were greasy and she couldn't get up the central pole on which the feeder is fitted.

Then a stalking two-tone predator (ibid.) interrupted her attempts and she (the squirrel, i.e.) scampered off to safety.

Of course, in a couple of days the oil will have evaporated, leaving a sticky residue to which the squirrels will adhere. And soon, there will be a bird-feeder with some very angry squirrels stuck to it ...

Window Shopping!

I don't suppose these images need much elaboration ... Your basic squirrel enjoying a shade-break while being ogled by a peeping-kittie.

This is a very rare example of a picture I managed to take before the main actors got bored of posing and moved away.

In the second picture, the squirrel has a, "Hmmm. Something not quite right here ... dunno what exactly but ..." expression on his/her face.

A heartbeat later, he/she picked him/herself up and shimmered away.

Okay, so I've been playing hookie AGAIN

These two pictures were what I took THIS AFTERNOON, in my sister's beautiful home in Sayre, PA. The photograph looks like some kind of optical illusion but it's just two separate photographs taken from the same angle, of the mirror across the room from where I'm standing. The second picture is a zoomed version of the same situation, but taken in such a way that it looks as if the frame of mirror is the frame of the photograph (but isn't. You can see the lower edge of the mirror in the bigger pic, and match it to the lower edge of the mirror in the previous image)

The thing behind me is a large oil-painting I did seven years ago, which my sister bought last year and installed in my niece's home-bedroom (which doubles as the guest bedroom) and I can't get over HOW NICE it looks in this warm, gorgeously pink and tangerine room. It's like the painting has come to life in this setting -- and for all five years of its existence before this period, it lived in my mother's house in Madras, completely unnoticed (despite its size) in the small spare room at the back of the house.

I took these photos so that I could send them to a long-time cyber-buddy (Pauline) but then I was so pleased with the way the painting looked that I decided to share it here, with my extended network of bods and buds on the net ...

In other news, I find that Sharanya Mannivanan has tagged this blog for a THINKING BLOGGER award -- you'll need to go to her blog (link above) to see what this means, since I don't see myself doing whatever it is I need to do in order to acknowledge the tag correctly -- but it was very kind of her, esp considering how lazy I've been for the past several weeks (months). I don't know why that link isn't showing up the right way, but it isn't and I'm too full of pizza just now to fix it. Mebbe tomorrow. *

Much to talk about -- but (see excuse above for reason why I won't just now) not tonight, Josephine.

*umpteen days later, I have finally fixed it. Maybe. But the link-thingie STILL isn't working properly. I hate having to type in the "href=" stuff manually. I always leave out something or the other and get strings of error messages before the thing falls into place. I suppose I'm not getting a job as a programmer anytime soon.

Last Week's Sideways Icicles

New Blogger At Last!

Well ... at last! New Blogger has gathered me in to its fold! What a relief! Oh OF COURSE it won't work when I shift computers and discover that there's a cookie-problem on the other one and some other terminal rot on the third and a whateverwhatever on the fourth ... WHO CARES! I'm glad for today's minor triumph.

I was hoping to post a picture of my current position in reality, but AOL isn't offering me that option on account of its glacially slow local server. I'm about to try again, but I don't have much faith in the system coz it's been bumping me off on a regular basis all fortnight -- I could whine about this and complain that THIS is the reason I haven't been posting regularly ... but I won't. Coz I hate whiners and complainers.

Anyway, WHATEVER. It's been a wonderful two weeks so far (it'll be two weeks on Tuesday), and I am about to take a break from it (meaning, from VT) to visit my sister in the teeming metropolis of SAYRE, PA, where she lives (three traffic lights! And one movie house). That'll happen at the end of the week, and though I'm still working out the exact details, it's likely to mean a brief transit through NYC -- too brief, alas, to meet up with most of my friends, but it WILL give me a chance to catch up with my Long Island buddies V&C, whose warm and welcoming home used to be my portal into the US for all the years when NYC was my arrival point.

And now I am going to end this maiden post on New Blogger coz I'm nervous about losing the connection altogether. Thanks AOL! Always great to log in with ya! (snort)

Yes ...

... I'm alive and well (and drinking Kabmbucha tea no less!!) in Vermont. More news soon!

DESSERT ALERT!

This is a snack idea I had the other day -- and tried out in Madras (I've just been there and back for a quickie visit). The snack is a quick-fix for sugar junkies, requiring very little effort and providing much amusement! I call it ...

PURI MAGNOLIANA

YOU NEED:

Chilled and sweetened whipped cream OR ice-cream

Chunks of fruit – we used tinned peaches and dried cranberries. But any mouth-sized chunks of strong-flavoured fruit would be equally good: mango/sweetened strawberries/bananas – even dates, maybe

Crumbled praline – we didn't use any but I think it would be great

Nuts – we used chopped walnuts

Dessert toppings – we used butterscotch syrup, but there's always chocolate, Cointreau, Kahlua, whatever … you could even flame a bit of brandy and pour it on!

AND FINALLY ….

Pani-puri puris – about six per head.



METHOD:



Set the chilled whipped cream (or softened ice cream) in a bowl and place that bowl inside a larger bowl filled with ice. All the other ingredients might be served in little bowls, the puris in a basket – and everything within easy reach of the diners. It's your basic mix 'n' match pani-puri experience EXCEPT … it's sweet! Lots of teaspoons, quarter plates, paper napkins and perhaps finger bowls too might be good.



What we did: punctured the puri, stuffed it with chopped nuts, a chunk of peach, a big dollop of ice cream, a goosh of butterscotch syrup – then POP! In the mouth and down the hatch.



YUM!

Finally, a book I actually liked!

Here's a link to my review in OUTLOOK of Amitava Kumar's HOME PRODUCTS -- I was feeling quite pleased with my review (it being such a rare event, after all, to find that I have something positive to say) but my sister G tells me that she didn't find the review enticing -- in the sense of, she didn't feel moved by it to run out and buy the book. That's a real shame! So I'm trying to make up for that boo-boo (in case other readers had a similar response) here, by saying it out loud and obvious: I REALLY LIKED THIS BOOK!! Maybe one of the things I liked best was that it was cool -- it didn't sound like it thought it was the best thing since -- oh, come on, let's just trot out the cliche -- sliced bread. It just got on with telling its story without fuss, tantra or fanfare of trumpets.

I think I also liked it coz I liked the author photograph. This is a terrible confession to make. But it's a cool photograph, just like the book. I have no idea whether the original item (i.e., the author) looks anything like his picture or whether he consciously set out to look a little bit like Paul Theroux or whether anything about the picture is authentic. Author photographs are supposed to enhance the saleability of a book, but most often, I find, I react so badly to the highly posed and perhaps PhotoShop-enhanced likenesses leering out at the reader, screaming READ ME! READ ME! that nowadays I automatically assign a bad-mark to such books. If the book happens to be worth reading then, okay, the black mark gets erased. But if it begins to stink, then every little dot and comma that annoys me gets added to the black mark like a rolling snowball of disappointment.

It will probably not come as much of a surprise to hear that I haven't published pix of myself alongside the author-info in my books -- caricatures, yes, but not photographs (at least I don't think so -- I've forgotten whether or not the MOUSE books have pix of me on the inside back-flap). I wouldn't buy a book that had a picture of me on the back cover! I look like a podgy middle-aged nerdette, someone completely incapable of producing anything readable.

So I don't know: do author-pix help or hinder the sale of a book? Dunno.

MEANWHILE, here's another link*, this time to a short piece I wrote in CITY LIMITS after visiting
Anjolie Menon's recent exhibition.
*(and it happens to feature an ancient photograph of me, at least 10 years out-of-date. I no longer look anything like it! I think it was Kurt Vonnegut (or someone pretending to be him) who made the point that we might as well enjoy the way we look now because we'll only get worse, not better. This is all very well, but I can STILL never get used to the way I look now, whatever it happens to be. It's as if I've never gotten over my adolescent antipathy towards myself)

MAXIMUM THRILL-A-DILLIUM!

GARTH

So all right, I've been playing hookie for ... umm ... okay, practically all month. But I've been BIZZY! Flexing the culinary muscle. Yes, you read that right: I, hitherto a stranger to kitchens (except as an Olympic-class dish-washer) have been secretly learning to cook a thing or two! It all began with a biryani recipe that my niece Meenakshi taught me in Madras and then, when I'd managed to wrestle it to the ground two weekends in a row, (i.e., I made it twice, on Sundays, the day on which the reigning lord of the kitchen has his weekly half-holiday) steamed ahead and made Channa Bhatura.

Okay! But! These amazements are as nothing compared to the one that has been revealed to me JUST TODAY. Okay, to explain, I have to step back several paces. If the picture at the top of this page is visible, then you already have the context -- i.e., the superlative adventure strip known as Peter O'Donnell's (better known as the creator of that OTHER superlative adventure strip, Modesty Blaise)
GARTH is involved. But here's what you don't know: I used to be a huge fan of that strip.

Undoubtedly, a major catalyst of my fanhood was my elder sister Surya's passion for the strip. She used to cut it out of the newspapers and carefully stick the strips together to make up complete albums -- this, despite our travelling childhood, when keeping track of newspapers and story-lines was quite a challenge -- which could be read like graphic novels. Tragedy struck, however when my sister's entire carefully collated masterpiece was lost by a friend of hers -- and since then, i.e., since the early seventies, we have been severely Garth-deprived.

I have made several attempts to locate a source of the series -- it used to appear in the Hindustan Times (which is the newspaper from which Surya clipped her collection) -- but to no avail, because it was discontinued just around the time I was living an existence settled-enough to be able to consider subscribing to a second daily paper, STRICTLY for the strip.

Enter Penguin(India). While engaged in idle chat with Someone Important there, about one year ago, I happened to bring up the subject of "GARTH: Unavailability To Sorrowing Fans". One thing led to another ... and ... believe it or not, this evening I was told that Penguin(India) is going to bring out a COLLECTED EDITION!!! I am so astonished that such things are even possible (i.e., that one can keep up a silent, long-term, desperate desire for something and actually GET it, at the end of a really long time) -- that it doesn't bother me that actual satisfaction is still several months away in the future. I am willing to be shattered into many joyous fragments just in the contemplation of this knowledge.

And ... okay. That's enuff for tonight!

Where The Wild Things Are

TigerHavenSunset

We travelled by train and taxi to reach Tiger Haven, the home of Billy Arjun Singh, tiger conservateur extraordinaire or "Honorary Tiger" as he is sometimes known, near the Nepal border. We left on Friday 16th night and returned just this morning, Tuesday the 20th. I'll post a longer account soon, but for the moment, here's this beautiful sunset to warm your toes upon!

MEANWHILE! Please note, there is a NEW LINK on the left -- and it's right at the top coz it represents a turning point in my life (darn! What a confession to have to make right out in the open) -- the superlative Infocom DOS text game called The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy (yes, of COURSE it's based on the Douglas Adam trilogy of five books). This version is an update, with graphics. I've never played it -- never even seen it before -- but the text game was so life-altering that I feel I just HAVE to post this link here, if only as homage. Most of you who visit this blog are not, I suspect, gamers in any sense. So I'm assuming that only a tiny handful of you will understand what it means to me to have that link in place there. Wow. Or, to use a technical term which will be recognized only by those who played the game all the way through: YOW.

Chai Noon (Hi Res)

Two Indian mothers battle it out over who has the better daughter and only one is left standing....

This has to be the funniest short video EVER! Send it to the Oscars, I say! For those who cannot follow the accent ... well ... tough!

Happy Short Fiction Day*

More amusements from my smart friend Anvar -- and *no, there's no official day by this name! Just made it up for the purpose of avoiding mention of the "V" word.

The World's Shortest Short Stories
There is the short story. And then there is the short short story.

Like this one written by Ernest Hemingway, which he once claimed was the best thing he had ever written:" For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

Or this, more recent example:"The last man on earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock at the door. "

The short short story can be written in two words, one word … or, indeed, even less:


Death of a Duck Hunter

"Duck!"

"Where?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Counter-Revolutionary

"Unite!"

"Why?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Short Trip in the Woods

"What bear?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Virgin

"No."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Last of the Cheyenne

Zzzwip!

Bang!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Day in the Life of a Man Who Dressed Like a Bear

"Don't shoot!"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
With Stanley in Africa, Part I

"Dr Livingstone?"

"Nope"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Day the World Ended

KA-BOOOOOOOOM!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Unhappiest Man Who Ever Lived

"Forgive? Never!"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An Answer to Prayer

"Um... no."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joshua's Childhood

"P-Papa?"

Whack!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Perfect Moment in Time

-


(The world's shortest short story: 0 words)


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Minor Amusments

Sean Young in "BLADE RUNNER"
I know, I know -- everyone disapproves of smokers, smoking and all things tobacconary but ... who can resist that wonderful scene in BLADE RUNNER (featured on this page) of Sean Young wreathed in sinuous coils of fume? I was reminded of that vision when I read this piece, by Nandini Mehta in the current issue of OUTLOOK. Holding her elegant hand up against the tide of today's Anti-Smoking fanatics, she makes a coolly reasoned and unapologetic case for being pro-choice(i.e., she's not championing cigarettes or smokers but the notion of being liberal in all dimensions, including this). I'm not a smoker coz I wheeze and snuffle but ... I used to smoke, a long time ago, and I enjoyed it for what it was. I never had a major habit (never bought my own ciggies!) but I still regret that it's a bad habit, bad all around -- for general health, for the environment, for social relations (viz. the food v/s tobacco debate in low-income families) -- because ASIDE from being bad ... it's soooo coooool. *sigh*

Onward, onward. Here's a tiny amusement for all those of you who play BOUNCE on your NOKIA phones -- a nifty little cheat: once you've launched the game, key-in the numbers: 787898. Your bouncer will be rendered immortal until you exit that session.

Neat, huh?

OH! -- while on the subject of SF(BLADE RUNNER, i.e.), here's an absolutely superlative list of what might be dubbed nanofiction, SF branch courtesy my friend Anvar, from WIRED mag.

6-word Sci-fi

Wired magazine asked dozens of its favorite auteurs to put their words to paper. Sure, Arthur C Clarke refused to trim his: God said, 'Cancel Program GENESIS.' The universe ceased to exist., but some of the rest were concise masterpieces. Random specimens:

Failed SAT. Lost scholarship. Invented rocket.
- William Shatner

Computer, did we bring batteries? Computer?
- Eileen Gunn

Longed for him. Got him. Shit.
- Margaret Atwood

From torched skyscrapers, men grew wings.
- Gregory Maguire

Epitaph: Foolish humans, never escaped Earth.
- Vernor Vinge

It cost too much, staying human.
- Bruce Sterling

Kirby had never eaten toes before.
- Kevin Smith

To save humankind he died again.
- Ben Bova

Tick tock tick tock tick tick.
- Neal Stephenson

Wasted day. Wasted life. Dessert, please.
- Steven Meretzky

Epitaph: He shouldn't have fed it.
- Brian Herbert

Nevertheless, he tried a third time.
- James P. Blaylock

Lost, then found. Too bad.
- Graeme Gibson

Cyborg seeks egg donor, object ___.
- David Brin

Death postponed. Metastasized cells got organized.
- David Brin

Osama’s time machine: President Gore concerned.
- Charles Stross

Will this do (lazy writer asked)?
- Ken MacLeod

Salinger story: three koans in fountain.
- Howard Waldrop

The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly.
- Orson Scott Card

Finally, he had no more words.
- Gregory Maguire

Broken heart, 45, WLTM disabled man.
- Mark Millar

He read his obituary with confusion.
- Steven Meretzky

Time traveler's thought: "What's the password?"
- Steven Meretzk

Leia: "Baby's yours." Luke: "Bad news…"
- Steven Meretzky

Parallel universe. Bush, destitute, joins army.
- Steven Meretzky

There were only six words left.
- Gregory Maguire

Dorothy: "Fuck it, I'll stay here."
- Steven Meretzky

More!

www.christophegilbert.com
This astonishing image is one of a series sent to me by Amro -- I was so fascinated by it (and the others that were part of the PP presentation) that I dug online till I arrived at CHRISTOPHE GILBERT's web-site, where there are lots more images of a similar genre/quality. Enjoi ...

Found On The Web ...

I Am Different!

The picture shows the cover of my
most recently published book -- I haven't actually seen it and don't know if it's on the market anywhere yet -- I found this image while browsing the web (that's right, I routinely Google my name, just like everyone else in the Universe). It's the German publication of a book I created last year for TULIKA in Madras. The German publication is a co-production. Its name in English is "I AM DIFFERENT!" and it's a collection of picture-puzzles, where you've got to locate the one item that's different on each page. The reason I say "created" rather than "drew" is that the images are collages, with 3D paint decorations surrounding them. So the effect is sort of interesting -- too bad it wasn't possible to print the book as a touchie-feelie item. The Indian edition will be out some time later this year.

Meanwhile: last night I watched Peter Sellers in THE PINK PANTHER -- the first movie of the series, starring David Niven, Claudia Cardinale and Capucine -- and ... ouch! I was very saddened and puzzled to find that it just didn't work for me. I can remember laughing myself sick during the final scene with the ridiculous zebra-costumed men galloping across a street in Rome. But last night I sat mostly stony-faced through the movie last night. *depression* I SO wanted to enjoy it!

Instead I found myself wondering how a turtle-faced old man like David Niven (very dashing in his youth) could have possibly hoped to romance a slinky-eyed kitten like Claudia C -- and of course I thought it was utterly bizarre that she was apparently INDIAN. Wheehoo. Capucine was gorgeous but once again, I found myself feeling tremendously sorry for poor old cuckolded Clouseau -- so blinded by love, so idiotic. All in all, I just felt sorry for everyone and not even the famous gags involving the two (actually THREE) gorilla suits and the idiotic zebra and the crossed identities worked at all. I had entirely forgotten that the plot was so involved and that Niven was supposed to have been the star and that his professional identity in the film was "The Phantom", not the Pink Panther, which was of course the name of the jewel he was trying to steal ... oy, oy, oy.

On a lighter note, however, let it be said that the feature BEFORE the Pink Panther was Steve Martin's MIXED NUTS. And, implausible and ridiculous as it is, there were many hysterical moments to be had. Maybe I should just avoid seeing it 20 years from now? Hmmm. Assuming I'm still on this plane of existence, that is ...

Balloons & Birthdays

from www.balloonhat.com
The photograph is from a gallery of charming images, all about hats made out of balloons. Here's a descriptive paragraph from the site:

In 1996, Addi Somekh and Charlie Eckert began traveling to different places in the world to make balloon hats for people and take photos of them. The goal was to show people all over the world laughing and having fun, and to emphasize the fact that all human beings are born with the ability to experience joy. In total, they visited 34 countries and have over 10,000 pictures. Inside this web site you will find all sorts of photos and stories, as well as a way to purchase their book, The Inflatable Crown, and see scenes from the feature documentary film, Balloonhat.

The link was sent to me by a world-travelling friend called Maude, currently in Bhopal. I hope it's okay to display pix from that site here on my blog. I keep forgetting what the correct protocol is -- Zig? Any thoughts? -- whether or not it IS okay to display a correctly attributed pic from another site. In case anyone feels it's inappropriate, pls alert me and I'll remove the pic. It's a great site though and well worth the visit.

Speaking of travelling, I'm currently in Madras, spending a week with my mother, sister, brother-in-law, two nieces, nephew, nephew-in-law and niecelet. It is on account of the niecelet's second birthday that we have all gathered -- the day and its celebration took place on the 25th -- and we are all alive to tell the tale! Well, no -- that's not really fair at all, as it was a remarkably stress-free day, mainly due to the excellent pre-planning of both my nieces. The birthday girl held herself together with admirable elan (can't get the accent to show, sorry) and neither freaked out to see the house filling up with many strangers (about 20 people, all told, and only three other children!) nor showed any reluctance to share her toys with the guests.

Otherwise ... the same old, the same old. Hogging chocolates and feeling morose about hogging chocolates, leading to (inevitably) MORE hogging of aforementioned confectionaries. *sigh*

Am currently listening to a collection of short stories by Kurt Vonnegut on CD (published by HarperCollins). Anyone in need of a cerebral massage should consider mainlining WELCOME TO THE MONKEY HOUSE. It's the title-story of the collection. It also happens to be a great favourite of mine -- I read it for the first and last time perhaps twenty years ago and I realized, as I listened to it a couple of days ago, that it's remained fresh in my memory ever since. I just love the witty originality of Vonnegut's imagination and the seeming effortlessness of his style. Many authors say that what looks effortless on the page takes about as much doggedness and determination as a Challenger lift-off, but something tells me that in KV's case, it really IS rather less than more. Effort, I mean.

And so it goes ...

More Linx

WhyPaintCatsBookCover

My first link is to a phenom I was introduced to through friends who gave me a book called WHY PAINT CATS by author Burton Silver and photographer Heather Busch. The picture you see is just one of very many astonishing images in the book -- and then, when you read the text, you begin to be astonished at a secondary level: you begin to doubt the book's pix. If you visit the link, you'll see that the visitors there are fairly evenly split between those who love the book and believe the pictures are genuine (i.e., that there really are people who decorate their cats with dyes, sometimes paying huge sums of money for the privilege); those who love the book and believe the decorations have been faked; those who hate the book and cannot bear the thought of decorating felines with paint/dye/whatever, whether faked or real.

I will admit I didn't for a moment doubt that the cats really had been painted, until I showed it to S in Vermont, who took one look and said, "... PhotoShop?" It was only when I read the text that I too began to have doubts. And even before I became suspcious, I was rather surprised to see a picture of an Indian woman holding a "traditionally" painted cat -- the caption would have us believe that it's a common practice in North Indian temples for cats to be thus decorated. Well! Hmmm! So far as I know, many Indians consider cats to be inauspicious and either dislike them or are a little scared of them. Temple rats we've heard of, temple snakes, temple elephants; but CATS?? Uh-uh. Nope.

Uncontrollable immodesty leads me to post this second link -- it's to my review in OUTLOOK magazine of Raj Kamal Jha's recently published novel, FIREPROOF. After I'd read the book, I called the Books Page editor to ask if I could wriggle out of having to write a review but she was TOUGH and said "DO IT, WIMP!" (well, of course, not in those words!) and so -- being a wimp -- I did it. For once, I believe, I got away with quite an amusing result. I even think some people will feel inspired to buy the book just coz of the review ... but that may be self-flattery beyond acceptable limits. What I will say is, I actually enjoyed writing the review and THAT's a rare event!

Back to the Beginning...

DANDELION, VT by MP
Two offerings for the beginning of the year: this dandelion puffball and a few links. The puffball is for you to wish on and the links are to ... punish you for believing that dandelions can grant wishes!! Okay -- okay -- my little joke. About three days ago, while clicking around, I wandered over to WIRED magazine and read their top story for that day. It was about enhancing one's performance with particular reference to mental abilities. It turns out we were all wrong to think that after the age of thirty we lose brain cells at the rate of knots -- well, yes, we DO but ... there's evidence that the brain can be kept limber and maybe even be coaxed into bulking up a little by doing "mental exercises". Well, whatever: I have always loved puzzles and am ALWAYS looking for sites where the games are reasonably interesting. From WIRED, I got this link to get a statistic for brainabilities and from there I arrived at GAMES FOR THE BRAIN which is where I've been exercising hard ever since! I particularly recommend the MAHJONGG SOLITAIRE... HAPPY GNU EAR everyone!

Happy Chanumas, Everyone!

VT 2006, by Manjula Padmanabhan
A clever friend wished me "Happy Chanumas" this year and I decided he'd got it right -- blending Christmas and Chanukkah to make an interestingly non-secular greeting-word appropriate to the season.

The photograph is of the sunset that filled the sky on Thanksgiving evening, in Vermont. As always the photograph barely does justice to the real thing but I thought I'd share it anyway.

New for me!

Last night on Animal Planet, David Attenborough blew me away (though he didn't know it, did he?) by featuring an animal of which I had not the slightest awareness -- it's called an Amazonian BUSH DOG -- an unusual creature in several ways. It's the only aquatic canid, has webbed feet and is female-dominant. Quite a trip! The film shows the short, stubby Alphettes running through the woods and marking their territory in the time-honoured way (i.e., by peeing) -- except that in order for a female to do it, the little critturs arch their backs, balanced on their front paws! MOST BIZARRE!! Makes you wonder what sort of mood Mother Nature was in the day she created them ...

A Joke

This came to me in a spam-post -- it was supposedly a comment left at one of my posts of last year, so hardly likely to be a genuine post -- yet the spammer had the good sense to include a fairly amusing joke. Since I moderate comments, I can choose to reject the comment -- and of course I have -- but here's the joke:

During a visit to the mental asylum, a visitor asked the Director what the
criterion was which defined whether or not a patient should be
institutionalised.

"Well," said the Director, "we fill up a bathtub, then we offer a
teaspoon, a teacup and a bucket to the patient and ask him or her to
empty the bathtub."

"Oh, I understand," said the visitor. "A normal person would use the
bucket because it's bigger than the spoon or the teacup.

"No," said the Director, "A normal person would pull the plug. Do you want a
bed near the window?"

Back From My Longest Blog-holiday Yet

Yes I AM alive! It's hard to explain how blog-holidays occur ... It starts with a gradual lapse of interest in the Internet because of using someone else's dial-up connection, followed by an increasing need to clear e-mail back-logs, which results in less overall time surfing or engaging in any non-e-mailorious activities ... and soon ... no blogging at all. *sigh*

Well, I'm back in harness now and also back in Delhiberate. Returned on Tuesday afternoon, on possibly the only flight to scrape through the fog that day, thank goodness. I'd had a surreal journey on account of a 14-hour stopover at Heathrow -- a scheduled stopover, but surreal nevertheless. Everyone told me I should take the opportunity to run into town and spend time with my uncles and cousins BUT ... I had realized well in advance that I wasn't going to be compos mentis. Look at this way: my Virgin Atlantic flight left Boston at 19.45, arriving in London around 8.00 a.m. after a 7 hour flight. Do the math: it means that as far as my body-clock was concerned, it was 2.45 a.m. While it's true I'm a night owl, and am often awake at that hour, I'm not really capable of social interactions at the time! So I figured I might as well save my relatives the annoyance of talking to a walking corpse (i.e., me) and just hang about the airport.

For company I had a newly acquired electronic Sudoku game and also a tiny MP3 device (lest anyone grow envious, NO, this was NOT an i-Pod or any of its fancier avatars, but a tiny little thing called a Zen Nano, 1 Gb and fairly user-UNfriendly) onto which I had downloaded an entire audio-book of shortstories. There were the shops in the arcade and a very lively Starbucks outlet and a selection of other eateries as distractions, but of course, like every tired traveller since the dawn of time, the only thing I REALLY wanted was a place to lie down and sleep. Heathrow isn't entirely hideous in this respect because it's got vast seating areas and some banks of seats are created in such a way that it's possible to recline full-length (i.e., four seats in a row with no armrests separating them). But only a few are like that and of course they are ALWAYS occupied, so I had to make do with being curled up like a prawn, using my backpack as a cushion, over the seat adjoining mine. There were lots of other transit-prawns strewn about the place, so I didn't feel even slightly self-conscious.

Between playing Sudoku, listening to stories and guzzling various Starbucks products, I managed to stay afloat. The flight boarded at 20.45 -- and it was packed to the rafters -- and my seat mate happened to be a rather portly Sardar. The seats were right at the back of plane -- the very last two -- and for that reason, slightly narrower than the rest. This meant that the two of us were squished together like incestuous Siamese twins and I am ashamed to say I actually considered asking the nearest hostess for a change of seat -- not because my fellow passenger was unpleasant in any sense, he REALLY wasn't -- but just that his physical size and the miniature seats guaranteed that I would be a basket-case by the time we landed. Very fortunately, he must have had the exact same idea -- and he acted upon it more speedily than me by finding a friendly Punjabi lady who was willing to exchange places with him. Once he and his mates were sitting in a row, they proceeded to spend the entire flight (a) getting drunk (b) trying to get further drunk but being frustrated in this attempt because the steward announced that they had run out of drinks (c) staggering about in the vicinity of the toilet.

Considering the 14-hour ordeal, you'd think I might have just fallen asleep, but ooo nooo, I am far too much of a movie hog. I'll watch the inflight movies on a plane if I have to pin my eyelids back, rather than sleep through! Especially on the London-Delhi flight (yes, this is an unabashed plug for VA, an airline I absolutely ADORE) is that you get FIFTY FILMS to choose from and you can watch 'em at your own pace, fast-forward, fast back and over and over again, just as you wish. I had already decided I was going to watch a movie called LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE -- I'd read about it on the Boston-London flight, on which it was NOT on the menu -- and I was thoroughly satisfied. It's about a totally dysfunctional family on their way to California from (? Albuquerque, I think) in their even more dysfunctional van, just so that their youngest member, Olive, can compete in a beauty pageant for the under-teen set. Olive wears big-frame glasses, is tubby around the waist and may even have a mild case of buck-teeth. But she's got a container-load of personality and ... well, I'm not about to give the plot away! Alan Arkin plays the role of the grandfather from hell -- but a sweet-pickle hell -- just like the rest of the family, mad but in a curiously adorable way.

The flight circled above Delhi for at least an hour, waiting for the fog to clear -- it looked like a blanket of fleece beneath us -- but once we were down, the queue at immigration moved so fast I was through it and out the other side before I'd had time to wake up. E was at the airport to collect me, and soon enough I was home and having lunch. After which I dove into bed and slept for about two days ...

There's really SOOOOO much to tell, especially about my time in Vermont, that I just know I'll never get around to it. So I'm going to end* this post with a photograph from the Fellini-esque Thanksgiving dinner we had at Stone's Throw Farm, at which the item featured in the picture at the top of this page was an ingredient. Believe it or not, that is a MUSHROOM ... an oyster mushroom, grown by the person holding it, Glen. I was completely mesmerized by the sheer size of the thing -- and it tasted great too. Glen also talked at great length about the fascinating life and times of a mushroom-farmer -- but it'll take much too long to go into all of that, so I won't. I'll just have to return with pictures of the turkey and the sunset and the pig and -- oh! I've just GOT to end this post RIGHT NOW! I promise I'll be back quite a bit sooner than I was the last time.
[*-- though I placed it at the BEGINNING. I didn't want visitors to miss seeing it merely because they found the rest of the post boring!]

Glad to be at Groton!

It's been a week already -- no, a week and TWO DAYS -- since I arrived in the US on Wednesday 1st November, and was whisked away to Groton School, west of Boston, to watch yet another production of HARVEST. I am so pleased and relieved to be able to report that I really enjoyed the show, directed by Susan Clark (or should I say, DR Susan Clark, Director, Campbell Performing Arts Center at the school) and performed by the youngest cast ever to take on the play. I will eventually get a link which will lead to photographs of the production, but for the moment I'd just like to record my appreciation of the entire experience.

I arrived in Groton on Thursday and stayed for two nights as Susan's house-guest, very warmly welcomed to her home by Amy, her partner and Samantha, their extremely charming (and thank goodness, FRIENDLY -- she's a BIG girl!) Old English Sheepdog. We've been in correspondence since early this year so we had agreed that my time in Groton would be spent fruitfully visiting classrooms, aside from watching the play. So I addressed a literature class on the morning of my arrival and later the same day, in the evening, read one of my stories at a post-dinner session. A number of students had been given two stories from the KLEPTOMANIA collection to read and at the morning's class we talked about BEADS; in the evening, I read the second story, SHARING AIR. I generally like talking about my stories because it's something I can do easily (without having to prepare, read up facts or fret about appearing to be brain-dead) and both these occasions were good examples of how pleasant it can be, when the audience is engaged and congenial.

The school was something of a revelation -- idyllic campus and curiously, given that this is the US, very ENGLISH. I had to keep reminding myself that I was across the pond from the Mother Culture -- the study hall with its rows of ink-stained (OLD ink stains!) desks, the wooden tables in the dining hall, the tall ceilings -- was that traces of Hogwarts that I kept seeing around me!? It was President Roosevelt's (FDR, i.e.) alma mater and has a gallery of letters received from every president since the school's inception. The study hall includes, on its walls, wooden panels inscribed with the names of every outgoing student, many of the famous or familiar. Since I spent three years in an Irish-convent boarding school I felt a strong (an unexpected) resonance -- a sense of being in a familiar place -- but a NICE one: this is the kind of school I would have LIKED to have attended.

Anyway. The next morning began early for moi -- I am not famed for early wakefulness! -- obviously the surroundings were a great help, because I was wholly conscious for the three art classes I attended, during which I showed a PowerPoint presentation I had made of my illustrations and prints (alert visitors to this blog will recall that I put together the presentation when I visited Madurai in August this year). Once again, it is so stress-free for me to show my own stuff that it was wholly pleasurable to just click my way through the presentation, talking about some of the hows and whys of the drawings/prints on display. The students were friendly and bright -- and the art rooms were soooooo cool! The two teachers whose classes I was addressing, Beth and Anne were so warmly welcoming it felt good just to be there.

Then in the evening, I attended the opening night of the show, after a sit-down dinner with many of the Trustees of the school. The show was followed by a reception at the Headmaster's house. It seemed to me that everyone was able to relax with and enjoy the play -- given the very weird world that it presents to its audience, with its unlikely story and its bitter-sweet ending ... I think it was a real accomplishment that the young cast pulled it off so well. Josephine Ho was JAYA -- it is such a demanding role, onstage for the entire length of the production -- and she performed with tremendous dignity and poise. Everyone did well -- Hannah Wellman as MA, William Castelli as OM and Alex Klein as JEETU, to mention only the four lead characters -- oh! And Haley Willis as GINNI! -- and if I'm not mentioning the entire cast it's only coz I will eventually post a link to their website where pix and other references will be amply available.

I particularly enjoyed the costumes of the Agents in the final act, designed by Catherine Coursaget -- perhaps the funkiest costumes eveer created for the play, matched only by the Greek production, I'd say! -- and the two major gadgets in the play, the Contact Module and Video Couch were also way up there, topped only by the outstanding Athens production.

Considering this was a HIGH SCHOOL production that's really commendable.

I went back to Arlington (Boston) on Saturday and on Sunday returned with my niece Divya and partner Liam to see the show again, with them. Once more, I think we all enjoyed our time in Groton. Then on Monday, I returned to the school one last time to have a session specifically with the cast, followed by dinner back in Boston with Susan and Catherine.

I could go on and on but at this moment, I am in Sayre with my sister Surya and family -- it's a beautiful Saturday morning, and I can hear that Su is in the final stages of her stupendous Saturday brunch of spicy sausage and Egg Glorium (some people might think of it as an omelette, but those of us who have eaten it know better) so ... I must flee! I've not read through this account, so it is undoubtedly full of proofing errors. Will return and correct at leisure.

Veils and Questions

My friend Viji Ghose forwarded this article to me some days ago and I've been meaning to post it here but have been too pre-occupied with all my travels to get around to it (I'll get back to the news of my travels later). I read the article with much interest -- on the one hand, I was glad to read, finally, a piece from a Muslim woman criticising the experience of being veiled -- on the other hand, it made me think about the many issues to do with being veiled that we all need to examine and to process through our different filters.

For instance, I have often found myself thinking that women who wear make-up are in a sense, veiling themselves. In fact, the whole industry of women's fashion and self-adornment has become an extraordinary type of inverted veil -- fashionable, glamourous women spend what amounts to huge quantities time and effort obscuring their true appearance behind masks composed of cosmetics and clothing. How would it be if the mass of women living in cultures that require women to be perfectly groomed and coiffed at all times were to be forced to "remove the veil" of their glamour and appear unadorned to the gaze of the world? Would that be the same as asking Islamic women to remove the veils behind which they have grown up?

Another thought, and of a similar bent, is: supposing we turn the mirror of culture around, so that we are no longer looking at Islamic women and their veils as an aberration but instead at some cultural feature which is considered "normal" in the west -- for instance, breast enhancements: supposing western women were told they could NOT enhance their breasts? What would they think about it? After all, there is something analogous here -- breast enhancements are potentially uncomfortable surgical procedures that women employ in order to make themeselves more attractive to men.

Though it is not a cultural REQUIREMENT for women to enhance their breasts (in the way that wearing the veil is a cultural requirement), nevertheless it is something that so many women find worth doing that it amounts to a type of pressure -- after all, millions of women (or so we are told) have found better jobs/salaries/husbands on account of their breast implants. And, unlike the veil, which is by and large benign(there are no major health disorders caused by wearing the veil -- yes, vitamin D deficiency has been reported for some veiled women, but as far as I know, it has rarely been life-threatening) breast enhancements have been associated with health risks.

So ... would it be acceptable for western women to be forbidden (by whom, I wonder?) to enhance their breasts -- and would such a ban be analogous to Islamic women being denied the right to veil their faces or to wear head-scarves? And here's yet another question, sort of in the same vein -- if Islamic women can be asked to remove their veils, should Jewish/Islamic communities be told to cease to circumcize their boy children? Just as female circumcision is condemned because it is performed on young girls without their consent and at a time when they are helpless, the same should be true of little boys who have no say in the shearing away of intimate body-parts.

Many questions! Here, now, is the article posted to me:




"Even other Muslims turn and look at me"

Muslim journalist Zaiba Malik had never worn the
Niqab. But with everyone from Jack Straw to Tessa
Jowell weighing in with their views on the veil, she decided
To put one on for the day.
She was shocked by how it made her Feel --
and how strongly strangers reacted to it.

By Zaiba Malik, The Guardian, London, October 17, 2006

"I don't wear the niqab because I don't think it's
Necessary," says the woman behind the counter in the
Islamic dress shop in east London. "We do sell quite a
Few of them, though." She shows me how to wear the
Full veil. I would have thought that one size fits all
But it turns out I'm a size 54. I pay my £39 and leave
With three pieces of black cloth folded inside a bag.

The next morning I put these three pieces on as I've
Been shown. First the black robe, or jilbab, which
Zips up at the front. Then the long rectangular hijab
That wraps around my head and is secured with safety
Pins. Finally the niqab, which is a square of
Synthetic material with adjustable straps, a slit of
About five inches for my eyes and a tiny heart-shaped
Bit of netting, which I assume is to let some air in.

I look at myself in my full-length mirror. I'm
Horrified. I have disappeared and somebody I don't
Recognise is looking back at me. I cannot tell how old
She is, how much she weighs, whether she has a kind or
A sad face, whether she has long or short hair,
Whether she has any distinctive facial features at
All. I've seen this person in black on the television
And in newspapers, in the mountains of Afghanistan and
The cities of Saudi Arabia, but she doesn't look right
Here, in my bedroom in a terraced house in west
London. I do what little I can to personalise my
Appearance. I put on my oversized man's watch and make
Sure the bottoms of my jeans are visible. I'm so taken
Aback by how dissociated I feel from my own reflection
That it takes me over an hour to pluck up the courage
To leave the house.

I've never worn the niqab, the hijab or the jilbab
Before. Growing up in a Muslim household in Bradford
In the 1970s and 80s, my Islamic dress code consisted
Of a school uniform worn with trousers underneath. At
Home I wore the salwar kameez, the long tunic and
Baggy trousers, and a scarf around my shoulders. My
Parents only instructed me to cover my hair when I was
In the presence of the imam, reading the Qur'an, or
During the call to prayer. Today I see Muslim girls
10, 20 years younger than me shrouding themselves in
Fabric. They talk about identity, self-assurance and
Faith. Am I missing out on something?

On the street it takes just seconds for me to discover
That there are different categories of stare. Elderly
People stop dead in their tracks and glare; women tend
To wait until you have passed and then turn round when
They think you can't see; men just look out of the
Corners of their eyes. And young children - well, they
Just stare, point and laugh.

I have coffee with a friend on the high street. She
Greets my new appearance with laughter and then with
Honesty. "Even though I can't see your face, I can
Tell you're nervous. I can hear it in your voice and
You keep tugging at the veil."

The reality is, I'm finding it hard to breathe. There
Is no real inlet for air and I can feel the heat of
Every breath I exhale, so my face just gets hotter and
Hotter. The slit for my eyes keeps slipping down to my
Nose, so I can barely see a thing.

Throughout the day I trip up more times than I care to
Remember. As for peripheral vision, it's as if I'm
Stuck in a car buried in black snow. I can't fathom a
Way to drink my cappuccino and when I become aware
That everybody in the coffee shop is wondering the
Same thing, I give up and just gaze at it.


At the supermarket a baby no more than two years old
Takes one look at me and bursts into tears. I move
Towards him. "It's OK," I murmur. "I'm not a monster.
I'm a real person." I show him the only part of me
That is visible - my hands - but it's too late. His
Mother has whisked him away. I don't blame her.

Every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored
Refrigerators, I scare myself. For a ridiculous few
Moments I stand there practicing a happy and
Approachable look using just my eyes. But I'm stuck
Looking aloof and inhospitable, and am not surprised
that my day lacks the civilities I normally receive,
the hellos, thank-yous and goodbyes.

After a few hours I get used to the gawping and the
sniggering, am unsurprised when passengers on a bus
prefer to stand up rather than sit next to me. What
does surprise me is what happens when I get off the
bus. I've arranged to meet a friend at the National
Portrait Gallery. In the 15-minute walk from the bus
stop to the gallery, two things happen. A man in his
30s, who I think might be Dutch, stops in front of me
and asks: "Can I see your face?"

"Why do you want to see my face?"

"Because I want to see if you are pretty. Are you
pretty?"
Before I can reply, he walks away and shouts: "You
fucking tease!"

Then I hear the loud and impatient beeping of a horn.
A middle-aged man is leering at me from behind the
wheel of a white van. "Watch where you're going, you
stupid Paki!" he screams. This time I'm a bit faster.

"How do you know I'm Pakistani?" I shout. He responds
by driving so close that when he yells, "Terrorist!" I
can feel his breath on my veil.

Things don't get much better at the National Portrait
Gallery. I suppose I was half expecting the cultured
crowd to be too polite to stare. But I might as well
be one of the exhibits. As I float from room to room,
like some apparition, I ask myself if wearing orthodox
garments forces me to adopt more orthodox views. I
look at paintings of Queen Anne and Mary II. They are
in extravagant ermines and taffetas and their ample
bosoms are on display. I look at David Hockney's
famous painting of Celia Birtwell, who is modestly
dressed from head to toe. And all I can think is that
if all women wore the niqab how sad and strange this
place would be. I cannot even bear to look at my own
shadow. Vain as it may sound, I miss seeing my own
face, my own shape. I miss myself. Yet at the same
time I feel completely naked.

The women I have met who have taken to wearing the
niqab tell me that it gives them confidence. I find
that it saps mine. Nobody has forced me to wear it but
I feel like I have oppressed and isolated myself.

Maybe I will feel more comfortable among women who
dress in a similar fashion, so over 24 hours I visit
various parts of London with a large number of Muslims
- Edgware Road (known to some Londoners as "Arab
Street"), Whitechapel Road (predominantly Bangladeshi)
and Southall (Pakistani and Indian). Not one woman is
wearing the niqab. I see many with their hair covered,
but I can see their faces. Even in these areas I feel
a minority within a minority. Even in these areas
other Muslims turn and look at me. I head to the
Central Mosque in Regent's Park. After three failed
attempts to hail a black cab, I decide to walk.

A middle-aged American tourist stops me. "Do you mind
if I take a photograph of you?" I think for a second.
I suppose in strict terms I should say no but she is
about the first person who has smiled at me all day,
so I oblige. She fires questions at me. "Could I try
it on?" No. "Is it uncomfortable?" Yes. "Do you sleep
in it?" No. Then she says: "Oh, you must be very, very
religious." I'm not sure how to respond to that, so I
just walk away.

At the mosque, hundreds of women sit on the floor
surrounded by samosas, onion bhajis, dates and Black
Forest gateaux, about to break their fast. I look up
and down every line of worshippers. I can't believe it
- I am the only person wearing the niqab. I ask a
Scottish convert next to me why this is.

"It is seen as something quite extreme. There is no
real reason why you should wear it. Allah gave us
faces and we should not hide our faces. We should
celebrate our beauty."

I'm reassured. I think deep down my anxiety about
having to wear the niqab, even for a day, was based on
guilt - that I am not a true Muslim unless I cover
myself from head to toe. But the Qur'an says: "Allah
has given you clothes to cover your shameful parts,
and garments pleasing to the eye: but the finest of
all these is the robe of piety."

I don't understand the need to wear something as
severe as the niqab, but I respect those who bear this
endurance test - the staring, the swearing, the
discomfort, the loss of identity. I wear my robes to
meet a friend in Notting Hill for dinner that night.
"It's not you really, is it?" she asks.

No, it's not. I prefer not to wear my religion on my
sleeve ... or on my face.

Guardian Unlimited © Guardian Newspapers Limited 2006

Tripping

It's been a hectic last ten days (or ... whatever. I've lost track of whenever it was I began this cycle of junketing ... no, hang on: it was the 13th of this month. Strange. Feels like at least one year ago last week) -- I left for Bombay on Friday 13th morning, spent the weekend there, left for Madras Monday 16th morning, spent four days there, arrived back in Delhirium Friday 20th evening, and then on the morning of the 21st, E, E's friend J and I left for a hillstation called Chail, in the Himalayan foot hills, (7000 Km up) spent 3 days there, returned to Delhicose on 24th evening and tomorrow, 26th morning, I'm off to the UK for five days, followed by the US for six weeks! And I won't even begin to get into what I'll be doing while I'm away ... or anyway, NOT TONIGHT, Josephine.

There's much of interest to report upon from my trip, but I'll confine myself to just two items: in Bombay, at my friends Jayant and Gulan Kripalani's home, I listened to a reading of monologues written by me, in rehearsal for a performance later in November, at the annual Prithvi Festival. Three of the monos were from HIDDEN FIRES (look to the column on the right of this page, there'll be a link to the SEAGULL website where you can read more about the book) but one was new, written specifically for Jayant, called THE WISH. It was a very good rehearsal, and I can only hope the performance will match it -- you can find out more about the festival at the Prithvi site (too sleepy to dig up the link right now. Maybe later somewhen. Maybe after I've finished packing for tomorrow's flight).

The other item concerns the successful sale of my picture book "I AM DIFFERENT!" by the well-known children's book publisher, Tulika, based in Madras to the German publishing giant, Fischer Verlaag (I hope I've spelt that correctly coz I'm not going to look it up just yet. Maybe after packing). For the first time in recorded history, I feel I actually made a bit of money on a book and that too, of illustrations. It's a picture-cum-puzzle item, concept and illustrations by me. Value-added touch? It's in 16 languages (16 pages, 16 languages). Kind of fun. I worked on it for most of January, in collage and 3D paint. The result looks very different to my usual stuff -- sort of chunky and knobbly. It was fun to produce -- and I'm hoping it'll be fun when it's out in the world too.

And now ... I REALLY MUST PACK!

Laws of Life Learnt Outside Class

Got this list from my niece!


1) Lorenz's Law of Mechanical Repair
After your hands become coated with grease, your nose will begin to itch.

2) Anthony's Law of the Workshop:
Any tool, when dropped, will roll to the least accessible corner.

3) Kovac's Conundrum:
When you dial a wrong number, you never get an engaged tone.

4) Cannon's Karmic Law:
If you tell the boss you were late for work because you had a flat tire, the
next morning you will have a flat tire.

5) O'brien's Variation Law:
If you change queues, the one you have left will start to move faster than
the one you are in now.

6) Bell 's Theorem:
When the body is immersed in water, the telephone rings.

7) Ruby's Principle Of Close Encounters:
The probability of meeting someone you know increases when you are with
someone you don't want to be seen with.

8) Willoughby 's Law:
When you try to prove to someone that a machine won't work, it will.

9) Zadra's Law Of Biomechanics:
The severity of the
itch is inversely proportional to the reach.

10) Breda 's Rule:
At any event, the people whose seats are furthest from the aisle arrive
last.

11) Owen's Law:
As soon as you sit down to a cup of hot coffee, your boss will ask you to do
something which will last until the coffee is cold.

A Joke -- and Some Questions

The Joke
An American gets on a plane and finds himself seated next to an Indian. He immediately turns to the Indian.

"You know," he says, "I've heard that flights will go quicker if you strike up a conversation with your fellow passenger. So, hey, let's talk!"

The Indian, who had just opened his book, closes it slowly and says, "OK, so what would you like to talk about?"

"Oh, I don't know," says the American, grinning. "How about nuclear power?"

"OK," says the Indian. "That could be an interesting topic. But let me ask you a question first. A horse, a cow, and a deer all eat the same stuff -- grass. Yet the deer excretes little pellets, the cow turns out a flat patty, and the horse produces muffins of dried poop. Why do you suppose that is?"

The American guy is dumbfounded. Finally he replies, "I haven't the slightest idea."

"So tell me," says the Indian slowly, "How is it that you feel qualified to discuss nuclear power when you don't know shit?"

The Questions
I think it's fairly obvious that this joke has been re-ethnicized to reflect current political realities. However, I don't believe it suits stereotypes of either Americans or Indians in today's world! The typical international traveller never wants to talk to his/her fellow-passenger, in part because the flights are so long and the prospect of being stuck with an 8-10 hour conversation is too nightmarish to contemplate, in part because neither passenger may want to talk to a foreigner. My guess is that this joke started out about two passengers of the same nationality but belonging to different social groups/classes.

So my questions are: which nationalities (or infra-national ethnicities) are most likely to have been the subjects of the original joke? Which ones might better suit the current situation? Which Indo-ethnic flavours might be substituted for "American" and "Indian"? Your move.

Trrrrrrraffic!

This would've been more effective if I had continuted posting messages for every lesson I had but ... I've been too pre-occupied! Just the effort of waking up in time every morning, in order to get my day together before arriving at the 'tute has been enough to keep my energy fully engaged. Most days the classes have been from 10 a.m. to 11 or 12 depending on whether they've been "practicals" (inside a car) or "theory" (inside a classroom). The simulator (what one friend unconsciously malapropped as "stimulator classes") sessions are for only half-hours at a go -- a great shame, coz they're certainly more fun than being out on the road!

Which is where I went today.

Between my last post and this one, I've had a total of seven practicals, five simulations and three theory classes. The instructors have ranged between good and very good -- thorough, patient and good-humoured. The seven "practicals" prior to the Real Life Session have taken place within the Institute's track, which isn't all that long (around 700 m, I was told) but does include such features as a steep rise and various dodgy curves and bends plus a choice of parking options.

Of course it's easy enough to putter about on a course where the only other moving vehicles are being driven by other students, with their instructors beside them. Theory classes are endearingly earnest -- yes, of course (we're told), 90% of other drivers won't understand your hand-signals but we've STILL gotta teach them to you! They emphasize defensive driving, try and inculcate safe-driving practises and have drilled us at length with the "MSM" and "PSL" methods -- Mirror/Signal/Manouevre and Position/Speed/Look for those of you who have haven't been to an institute.

So ... how was it out on the Open Road? Keeping in mind that I've already BTDT (been-there-done-that) with the Seven Star Acad., I'd say today's was an entirely more grown-up experience. To begin with, it was in the middle of the day, on the Ring Road, (going towards ISBT, then onto the road alongside Prag. Maidan -- the one that links up with Mathura Rd) and even though it was a Sunday, there were buses, trucks and other lumbering entities zooming around. Not to mention assorted three- and two- bugs meandering about heedless of learner drivers sweating behind their steering wheels.

The car seemed to be more under my control than the instructor's and we didn't pretend to drive while he(in today's case, she) held the steering wheel. What was VERY interesting was that it really did feel a lot like the simulator! Except that there were no irritating messages appearing in my field of vision every time I crossed lanes, to remind me to turn on my indicator. Of course this COULD be coz I did turn on my indicator every time and I didn't forget to signal when I wanted to u-turn and I didn't get flustered or even mildly depressed by the amount honking and parping that went on around me.

We got back to the Institute without mishap and I felt quite encouraged. It will be months before I'll want to be out there on my own of course ... but that is another story. One step at a time.

Two more practicals to go, then a final theory class and then two exams, one practical, one theory. But no license -- for that I'll need to go to the RTO again. For today, PHEW! And three rousing huzzahs for the IDTR.

New! Improved!

So I'm back at it -- learning to drive, that is. If you will recall, the previous session ended with me going to Madras/Kodai/Madras. After two weeks of being there I had naturally forgotten whatever skills/confidence/abilities I had gained prior to being away ... BUT I did get myself a learner's licence in the process and that's what counts.

On account of the LL I am now enabled to enrol at a highly superior School for Would-Be drivers, called the INSTITUTE OF DRIVING TRAINING & RESEARCH, at Sarai Kale Khan, between the Ring Road and ISBT. Their telephone number is: 24355003 and 24353541. I read about the place in CITY LIMITS magazine at the time I was reviewing driving school options back in July, and it sounded thrilling, so I went right over. They had just opened shop and were still setting up their systems, but they also said they required their trainees to have Learner's Licences. Whereas the 7 Star Academy didn't require ANYTHING except a willing student with functioning hands, feet, eyes and fees.

Getting the LL wasn't in any real sense connected to the 7 Star academy, but the sheer adrenalin generated by driving around the streets was enough to get me to the RTO and back, armed with the bit of paper and licencing stamp that a learner needs.

So last Friday, after weeks of lying around THINKING about returning to the Instt, I finally flippered over (in a taxi, what else) and -- ta-daaa! -- in fifteen minutes, I was all signed up and registered. As it happened, I had chosen an ideal moment to go there, coz a new session was just about to start and I could enter my first class the next day. The course is constructed out of three types of lessons: Theory, Practicals and Simulation. There are 4 Theory classes conducted only on Saturdays, lasting an hour.

At the first class, there were about 20 other students and I was pleased to see that I wasn't the only senior citizen -- there was one lady who was certainly older than me and at least a couple of men who were perhaps retirees. The majority of the students were men, in the 20/30 age-range. Everyone looked all tight and shiny, which is not a surprise considering the fees start at -- well, not sure what the lowest is, but I paid Rs 3500 for an LMV (yes, you got it: Light Motor Vehicle), non-commercial. We sat in a bright, air-conditioned room and had an ex-army man as an instructor. He was very good, coz he was smart, confident and clear. I'm sure I'm not the only one who felt inclined to salute at the end of the lesson! One tiny drawback: the instruction was in Hindi and since I was the only English speaker I felt a bit unwilling to make a big deal of wanting full translations. So comprehension for me was at the 85% level -- but I asked him to take it a little slower than usual, and he did. And all the on-screen data was in English, so that helped too.

He had a drop-down screen on which to project a series of slides with text n pix about the main features of a car, gave us a quick tour of what an engine is and how it runs. Then we were shown an actual car (taken outside, i.e.), its various intimate bits were identified and we were given a tour of what our daily maintenance routines should be. The institute occupies a considerable area (the pamphlet I have relates to their other location, which appears to be bigger, at Wazirabad Rd), and includes a dinky track complete with road-signs and traffic lights and of course cars. It is managed by Maruti Udyog Limited on behalf of the Government's Dept. of Transport, so it looks kind of official and substantial.

There is a pleasing can-do atmosphere which, as we all know, is somewhat rare in these delhirious sectors of the galaxy -- and I adore miniature tracks! -- I've always wanted, for instance, to play mini-golf at malls in the US, not because I like golf but because the course looks SO CUTE. Anyway. So that was Saturday. On Sunday (yes! No rest for the illiterati) I had my first simulator session and today I had my second. The simulator is a small cabin rather like those cabins you see in video-game parlours, but instead of death-ray-canons and planet-annihilators, they have a standard Maruti-style dashboard and three monitors laid out so that the student's visual field while seated at the wheel is of a landscape which moves as the simulation proceeds. Kind of kewl ...

Of course, the first day, there were mouse problems (in order to get the program started the instructor sits beside the student, on a chair placed just outside the cabin and navigates through an on-screen menu of options) so I had a somewhat uncertain session of learning when and how to press clutch, brake n accelerator. But ... whatever. The sim is really only a kind of acclimatizer, I suppose and considering that I've actually been-there-done-that on Delhirium's Delhicious roads, it was mild entertainment rather than Serious Instruction. At today's session, the mouse worked fine, but I was suddenly zooming off at speeds of 80 km and above, so that was a bit hair-raising! But there was no other traffic (not even bugs on the windscreen!) and the scenery was Temperate Latitudes Placid -- green lawns on either side, fir trees, blue sky.

My first Practical is on Wednesday. I assume this means driving around the dinky track in a Real Car. That should be fun -- all the joys of driving, but without the stoats, weasels and combine harvesters of real roads!! Ah bliss.

Stay tuned ...

Remembrance

My friend Anvar sent me e-mail with the text of Kiran Nagarkar's Op-Ed piece that appeared in the New York Times on September 11th this year. It appears alongside pieces by four other international authors, commemmorating the day and while also reminding us of the multi-facetedness of terror. Definitely RR(recommended reading).

If you're wondering why the link takes you to a site other than the NYT it's coz a direct link requires registration.

Review

Once in a while, I review a book that has a style so strong that it affects the way I write the review. Haruki Murakami's Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman was one such book for me. As you'll see if you read the review, I'm not sure what exactly I thought of the book, but I certainly enjoyed writing my comment about it!

And yes, I've been silent for rather too long. I could claim that last weekend was so busy that it's taken me all week to get over it ... But it was busy-NICE, so that doesn't really count as an excuse. A friend from Bombay days, i.e., this is really ancient history, covering the period 1980-82, was visiting from France, with his partner. My friend's name is CLAUDE SEVESTRE, and he taught me French at the Alliance Francaise all those many years ago. We've met a couple of times since then, but of course, there are always huge gaps of time during which we keep in sporadic touch. But the Internet makes much possible that didn't used to be -- such as being able to find people who have changed address many times and who travel around a lot, which is true of both C and moi.

He and is friend Fabrice (spelling?!) had already spent three weeks (I think) in India and were on the way out. We'd made this date to meet several months ago, so it was something I was looking forward to and made a special effort to be in Delhi for. It was very pleasant to catch up with news. They were here from Friday night to Sunday night, and stayed at the nearby and highly convenient (for me! My hostessing skills are spottier than a leopard with measles) Hotel Savoia. On Sunday, we spent the day doing something unusually energetic for me -- i.e., we hired an a/c taxi and drove out to NEEMRANA, had lunch there and drove back -- all very comfortable and easy to do. I've been to Neemrana once before and found it quite magical, so I knew it would be fun. It's one of those buildings that never stops growing, rather like a banyan tree, so going there is a continuous adventure. It takes exactly 2.5 hours from where I live, either way, so the a/c taxi is mandatory (and NO, my driving skills have not yet reached that point where I can race off across the countryside)(nor do I have an a/c car)(or a licence)(yet).

I could take another two hours writing out a description, but frankly -- it makes much more sense to just leap up and go there yourself. Just click the link! You'll see what I mean.

Just Like That

Many eons ago, when I was just starting out as a web-crawler, a cyberbuddy sent me the following EASTER EGG (if you don't know what that is ... ummm ... ask Zigzackly!! He's better than Google coz he not only knows everything worth knowing but he also explains stuff very nicely. Such as, the other day, how to sort out my query about RSS feeds) -- and it remains one of the best I've seen (well, discounting the eggs hidden in MYST I & II, which weren't fun so much as part of the general MYSTification). If there are others, please share! I know there are prolly web-sites dedicated to EEs -- and I even have links to them buried somewhere in my puter, but can't find them just now and am too lazy to look. I've not tried it on any other versions of EXCEL but I would guess it won't wurk.


EASTER EGG
Try this easter egg, if you have Excel 97. Follow the instructions exactly.

1.On a new Worksheet, Press F5
2.Type X97:L97 and hit enter
3.Press the tab key
4.Hold Ctrl-Shift
5.Click on the Chart Wizard toolbar button
6.Use mouse to fly around - Right button forward/ Left button reverse

Amuzements

AMUZEMENT: an amazing amusement. Not hugely amazing, I might add, but in keeping with the modest quality of "amusement", something that amazes in an amusing but not particularly life-altering way. (I realize that, in the way of neologisms, this isn't a promising one -- coz there's no audible difference between the original amusement and my little variation. Whatever)

Two recently visited websites have affored me amuzement in the past couple of days: How Stuff Works and (just today) Weird Fortune Cookies. I've added them to my side-bar, so they'll remain in place long after this post has moved out of sight.

Oh -- and -- I'm back in Delhicose (to rhyme with "bellicose"). On the transport-bus from the aircraft to the arrival lounge at the airport, the driver chose to open only one of the automatic doors of the bus. Not because it didn't work, just coz he didn't feel like it. When those of us who were trapped at the front of the bus (not wishing to walk the great distance to the back), asked him to oblige, he ignored us, thought he got down from his seat. Then he walked around to the door and gave it a kick, from the outside. It opened. He looked away, scowling absent-mindedly, as we stepped down and out of the vehicle.

Delhicose.

Inside the arrival area, the space beside the baggage carousels was like a riot scene. Three flights were being accommodated on one carousel. Passengers were smashing and grabbing for their luggage. I scraped the skin of the pinky finger on my right hand while doing the jerk-and-haul operation for transferring one of my items from the carousel to my trolley.

Delhicose.

There was blood on the receipt for my prepaid taxi, when I handed it to the policeman manning the prepaid-taxi-post as my taxi pulled away from the cab-rank. But no-one noticed.

Delhicose.

When I got home, I solicited the cabbie's help to get my cases to the front door -- it's not a major distance, but some louts look the other way, while holding out their hand to be given the receipt (for which they collect the money they're owed for the journey) and also for a possible tip. This one obliged good-naturedly. I had only 1C notes with me and had debated going in to get change. But it was hot and I was tired. So I gave him one. Now -- I know many of you are going to be cursing me for being both lazy and idiotically lavish but -- his face lit up so bright that it just made my day.

(not)Delhicose.

The Kodai WorkShop Report (at long last)

It's been well over a week since I got back from my workshop, yet I haven't scraped together the energy to blog about it. Dunno why. It was a very pleasant experience (maybe that's why? It's easier to share rough stuff?) -- mostly because the organizers made me feel so cherished and well-loved that I could pretend for a few days that I really am competent enough to talk to other people about Being An Author.

The trip was composed of two distinct elements/locations: Madurai and Kodaikanal. The organization responsible for planning and setting up the workshop, called SCILET, is based in Madurai. It is part of AMERICAN COLLEGE, an institution which is celebrating its 125th year of existence (it has a charming, old-style campus with red-brick buildings, echoing faintly of the Indo-Saracenic style). SCILET stands for Study Centre for Indian Literature in English and Translation and was begun by two Eng Lit professors at the college, Premila Paul and P. Nair (who will have to excuse me if I've got their names misspelt -- we spent so much of our time together talking and laughing that I never got around to formalities such as written names and addresses). The particular person who got in touch with me and was in some ways the Spiritual Host of the entire trip was Dr Paul Love. I could describe him as an American missionary/academic but that would be a very dull and incomplete description of an unusually warm, generous and friendly presence who was the guiding spirit of the whole experience, Madurai and Kodai combined.

Here's a quick overview of my trip's itinerary: I flew from Madras to Madurai on the 1st of August, spent a night at the North Gate Hotel, gave a talk about Being Me at the SCILET auditorium on Wednesday morning and then in the afternoon of that day was driven up to Kodai in a van, with Paul and two associates, Tom and Debbie, whom I had met just that morning. We got to Kodai by around 6 and I was settled into a comfortable room at the Kodai Club. Thursday, Friday and half of Saturday were given over to the Workshop and on Sunday 6th August, Paul, Debbie and I returned to Madurai, going straight to the airport, whence I caught my flight back to Madras.

It's possible that the most energy I spent was in putting together the slides that I presented at the auditorium in Madurai. I'd never worked in PowerPoint before, though I've often wanted to. My idea was that I'd get a number of my illustrations together and show them in chronological order, while talking about what I was writing at the time I did those drawings. Naturally, it would have been far too organized for me to have done this before I left Delhi, so instead I brought a CD with me which had what I hoped was a fair sampling of my drawings (scanned and rendered as JPEGS), to Madras. I've been attempting over the years to keep some sort of record of my work, so I have bits and pieces already scanned and compiled into folders on my computer. I hadn't really planned on putting them together in PowerPoint, but in Madras, while talking on the phone to the young man at SCILET who would be helping me with the slide presentation, I realized that it could take an awfully long time for him to arrange my input into a coherent slide show and that I could speed things up if I organized them IN ADVANCE.

Well. That took all of one afternoon and half the night just before departure -- do I need to add that I had two computers to work with, one that had a CD burner and the other that had PowerPoint and it was a struggle to get them to cooperate with one another? But eventually I succeeded in squeezing a couple of CDs out of my machine, which would, I hoped do what they were supposed to do. YOu can never really tell with computers: hours of work can still result in stubborn "Please Insert CD in DRIVE E" responses at the receiving end.

So it was a huge relief, when I got to Madurai, to meet the very charming and hugely efficient Lawrence, who smoothly transferred my material to his machine, helped me rearrange the slides so that they were in the correct order for my talk and then walked me through a rehearsal, at the auditorium, so that there would be no surprises the next morning. So yes -- it worked out rather well. I really dislike the idea of just droning on about myself (and have never done it before, so I wasn't even sure what I'd be like) to a captive audience of mostly students and some teachers and interested literary-minded local citizens, so it helped to be able to distract their attention with projected images of my drawings, some of which belonged to the prehistory of my life (i.e., the Years Of Struggle, in Bombay). It was quite amusing even for me to see them blown up large on the screen behind me -- most of my work is small and fussy, so it's always a kick to see it suddenly huge.

The ride up to Kodaikanal should have been a nostalgia-fest, because the last three years of school for me were spent at Presentation Convent, in Kodai -- but I didn't recognize anything much except just a tiny section of the ghat road which looked almost as lushly forested as I remembered it -- that and the threat of feeling car-sick, which I DIDN'T ... but only just. The road is just as hairpin-bended and steep as my tummy remembered it to be. The actual hill-station is now an unsightly jumble of concrete hovels -- buildings which look as if they were made out of plaster of Paris and slapped together in any bit of open space that might afford a few inches of "view". Very sad. I didn't really recognize anything at all -- not even the lake, which was one of the pleasanter Sunday walks we used to be taken on, all those many years ago, at the end of the sixties. Everything is plastered over and built up and anyway, my convent was tucked up at the summit of a hill that was a good half-hours walk away from the lake and from the Club, where I stayed on this visit. Old PCK is now a Tamil Medium school, so there wasn't much point visiting it. And anyway, I'd been quite miserable while I was there -- not exactly happy memories, at the best of times.

The Kodai International School was my host in Kodai and at the Club, when we arrived there, I met Pramod and Sheila Menon who together represented my very warm and genuine Welcome Committee. They took me under their collecting wings and settled me into my room at the club and assured me that I could borrow warm clothes if I needed them ... yes! It was shivery COLD in Kodai -- it's about 7000 ft above sea level -- especially after the muggy heat of Madurai! And at night, one of the Club "boys" actually set up a fire in the fire-place. I went to sleep to the delightful snapping, crackling sounds of Real Fire (as against the hiss of gas) in a Real Fireplace.

The two and half days of the workshop were easy and fun -- that's really all I need to say! Oh, okay, okay ... here's a rough breakdown of what it was like: there were about 40 participants, comprising the seniormost students of the Kodai School and Eng Lit students from American College in Madura, plus a handful of teachers and Paul, Tom and Debbie. Since I was so unskilled in the workshop department -- never having attended one before this, in any capacity -- I chose the path of keeping everyone too busy to notice that I didn't have any tremendous experience or special expertise to share.

So for the first day, I set out two tasks. For the first task, I'd brought along photographs of my artwork (I had them with me, from Delhi), handing out one each to each of the participants, along with a mechanical pencil and a small notebook. I adore mechanical pencils (the kind with a microtip lead) and I believe no-one can have too many small notebooks! So that was my little free gift for the session. I bought the notebooks and pencils in Madras, at Landmark. After everyone had their "kit" I asked each participant to describe the photograph they had got, in whatever way they wished -- my aim here was two-fold: one, I wanted to hear each person's voice, to give me a sense of who was here and what they had to offer and two, to give the participants an immediate sense of involvement and "presence".

The second task had to do with creating a piece of micro-fiction. First I described what I meant by this term (it's something I read about on the web) and then I read out a few examples I got from the web. Then I handed out photocopies of these short pieces -- they are just super-short stories -- but REALLY: 100 words or less -- and set the participants the task of writing their own microfictions. As a way of helping them enter their task, I gave them a theme to focus on -- domestic help -- and asked each participant to stand up and tell the assembled group about the person they might use as the focus of their piece. This was (I think) a little odd an unexpected -- and for that reason, it was really quite interesting. For instance, a couple of the Madurai students said, "My mother"!!

This got us to about an hour after lunch, after which the participants were free to wander about working on their pieces. The next day, we started the session with each participant reading out their respective micro-fictions -- and that was quite interesting too -- after which we moved onto my next project: dramatic monologues. First I described what I meant by a monologue and then I read out one of mine (from the collection called HIDDEN FIRES, pub by Seagull). I think this went down quite well, so immediately after lunch, I asked each participant to discuss possible ideas for their monologues and then, as on the previous day, they had time to themselves in which to write their pieces.

That evening, Friday, I was the guest of a small gathering at the Club, where I read one of my short stories and also another monologue from HF. Paul DID give me, well in advance, a schedule of events, but I had forgotten about this evening. This was probably all for the best, because I didn't have more than a day (after being reminded on Thursday!) to fret over what I'd do/say/read etc. -- I chose "Sharing Air" from the KLEPTOMANIA collection because it's the shortest and I think it went down well. The audience was friendly and engaged, so it was easy to just relax and do my thing. As long as no-one expects me to talk about Literature -- or indeed anything that requires names or dates -- I can manage reasonably well. And dinner was good too, and so was the company.

Saturday morning was the last lap -- the kids read out their monologues, I ended the session with one more reading of "Sharing Air" (since I'd had my rehearsal the night before!) and another monologue and ... then it was a wrap! We all agreed that it had been fun and then straggled off in our separate ways. Paul, Debbie and I had a very pleasant afternoon visiting the beautiful hillside estate and garden belonging to long-time Kodai resident, Pippa Mukherjee (spelling??) and in the evening the three of us (P, D and moi) had dinner with the Menons, at Woodlands.

There are SO many people whom I'd like to single out for special mentions, but I won't, only because it would take far too long. Also, I'm rushing to complete this and post it before I return to Delhicose (to rhyme with Belicose) tomorrow. It is doubt bursting with grammatical inconsistencies and other errors, which I'll only get around to fixing tomorrow night -- so I've got to cut this short RIGHT NOW. The trip down to Madurai on Sunday was pleasant and not in the least tiring, despite a three-hour delay in the arrival of the flight from Bombay, on account of torrential rains there. I got back to Madras by about 5.30 and ... that was that!