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.