My River Pamba

 The River Green always looks like a sheet of green glass, flowing majestically and serenely. It was in a small town beside this river Pamba that we-my brother and me- grew up fighting each other and playing in the water.

My memories associated with the river are innumerable.Every evening we, along with my aunt or grandmother and cousins would walk to the river and play in the water for an hour. Every day was fun, with us staying in the water for at least an hour, though both of us never learned how to swim, splashing and shouting, while the sun set and it grew dark.

In the still waters, near the banks, people washed clothes and for bathing or swimming they walked to where the flowing water was. It was an adventure to stand in the flowing currents without falling. It requires considerable practice. Once we rescued a plaintain trunk from the currents and gave it to a neighbour, who had cows. It was a big adventure, something that brought a "we" feeling between my brother and me, who were like Tom and jerry throughout childhood.

The river was part of the life there, its dips and floods, festivals like Onam, Maramon Convention or Aranmula boat-race. Everybody went to the shops set as part of Maramon Convention, irrespective of religion. That was one time, when all sorts of things came in the shops- bangles, toys, shoes, clothes and items of food.

Then there are boat-rides across the river, holidays during floods (once we had 10 days of holidays) Onam and Aranmula boatrace, when the decorated boats travel across the river to the beat of the boatsongs. It can be heard from a distance and all children will run to the riverbank on hearing the boatsong from the distance.

On the night of Thiruvonam,belief has that Lord Mahabali comes to see his subjects on his boat called Thiruvonathoni. After midnight, people wait on the banks of the river with lighted torches and lamps for the well-lighted Thiruvonathoni. This was one adventure for we, children to boast about. The ones who had slept that night had nothing to talk about and felt ashamed the next day.

Now the river has changed. It is no longer clean. Clean water exists in the middle of the river and it's a long walk. You need to wade through muddy waters to take bath in clean water and then after bath, through muddy waters again. Yet, with all its differences, this is one of the sacred spaces, I can reach in an instant, travelling in thoughts, to where I like to stand, on that mound of rocks (called pulumuttu), with the entire river, looking like a large sheet of green glass, clean and clear.

No wonder, everytime, I stand there in real, I step into the waters and become a child, splashing and loving the water. My young cousins are like ducks, "no getting them out of water". Last time,on my visit to the river, I went till the middle of the river, to where the currents are and splashed there along with my five cousins, while my frantic mother was waving to us from the shore. Short-sightedness is at times a wonderful excuse and I pretended that i didnt see her and went back after an hour or so, drenched completely and dipping water. 

I guess as a child, I related everything to the river. Once during family dinner, when I was six or seven, I told my grandfather that the sky ended at the other side of the river. He roared with laughter and asked me:"Really?"

Confessions of a Shameless Egotist

All these years of book reading has left me kind of dumb, slow to understanding practical things that my friends and my relatives started to view me as a kind of unrealistic idealistic philosopher-like woman who cared not much about dressing up or looking good or cooking that by the time I was twenty I was disliked by relatives who wanted me to be less studious and by friends who wanted to talk about what other girls talked about. 

I don’t remember being welcomed with warmth in any place except with my one friend of years, whom we will conveniently call Anna, who is just my opposite, very practical and good-natured that even without any effort she is liked by whoever she meets while I stare blank-eyed wide-eyed and finally sleepy-eyed at people who seem to give unsolicited advice about studies, cooking, career and God knows what else.

But with all my obstinacy in choosing my life and making my own decisions I never reached any where, nowhere, in fact with all big big words of idealism and rebellion-Love, Freedom and Creativity. In this also there was this mad act of stupid decision making as if the whole life depended on something or the other or someone or the other and nothing else but love mattered but at some point of time all these romantic ideas crumbled and gave way to a kind of stark realism that was even more harmful. 

I wonder is there a relationship between reality and fiction? Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. I never believed it until I saw one day that a person whom I know died in an accident. That single person had caused so much of confusion in the minds of people, quarrels, fights, pains and that too all in the name of God. 

Believe me; nobody can give me what such a small stretch of time has taken away from me. I lost a lot of my original enthusiasm in doing things that I once loved to do and the focus I had regarding what I wanted to become, my belief in people and to some extent my belief in God. I became a kind of recluse who refused to open up to people and tortured myself by considering pleasure and happiness as a sin against religion. 

I was sitting idle at home, doing only household chores when I wanted to do something worthwhile. That’s when I started reading all the stuff that I had written over the years, the chronicle of my life during the past two three years. Since childhood I have found books as interesting and since fifteen writing absorbing. I have never ventured anything beyond a few lines in my diaries. 

Personally I believe that the most controversial book is one truthful journal that you write for yourself. Not only controversial, it can be intriguing as well, for you delve deep into your memory and reconstruct your own life as if you were viewing another’s. These journal entries give some sort of insight into my own nature. 

My belief in God and life has changed. As George Eliot says “Joy is the best of wine”. There is nothing in the world like getting up in the morning happy to see the sunshine peeping through the windows, sipping a cup of coffee and humming to yourself all day while doing chores. That’s where I have stopped, seeing God in being happy with myself and the world. 

Save Paper; Save Stress; Avoid Scandal

This year, I have made a rather strange and dramatic New Year Resolution. No diaries, this time and writing only on scrap paper and with the help of the PC. Regarding empty pages, I have plenty of them left in my other notebooks. So all I need to do is to start writing on whatever sheet of paper that comes handy.

My last year's resolution of writing a page a day was kind of stressing me out. Somehow, there were days when I found it impossible to sit down and write. Of course, there was a hectic, unhealthy and trivial life to lead. Moreover, the empty pages stare at me from the diary accusingly, for I have left no record nor memory of many of those passing days.

Finally, there is this habit of mine to pour out my true feelings and emotions on to paper. For me, that is my remedy for stress and tension and bottling up emotions. But it somehow backfires when I forget to lock my diary up and leaves it right in front of my family with whom I might have fought and wrote venomously. So no causing scandals this year.

Dream Book

Do you dream of writing a book that puts into practice all the lessons learnt from great writers, be it flow of words, the element of lyricism that can question lines of poetry, vivid images and perfect diction in your pet area. Well, I have carried this dream for a long time and made several false starts as well.

My dream book has the following qualities:

• It is addressed to my other, my other self, for one whom I write the best of my thoughts
• Though in prose, the words may be simple, mostly of one syllable and beautiful
• It is a collection of thoughts at different moments of silence between me and my other self.

But I don’t know when I will write this book and even if I don’t write the book, I want to say this dream aloud to somebody so that I might feel the need to put the dream in the form of words. Do you have a dream book, dear reader?

Good Vs Bad

In Friends, when Joey writes a letter of reference for Monica and Chandler, he writes in broken English and substitutes each word in his letter with synoyms from the Thesaurus. Each and every word, until Chandler finds that even Joey's name is subsitituted as baby kangaroo. Now from Joey's basic written English skills to our topic!

Who can say that he/she is a good writer? I cannot claim that I'm a writer. When somebody asks about my work and what do I write, I generally evade the question. Some of it has to do with my awareness of my own limitations. Then comes great writers who can make you enticed for hours and hours without stumbling across any word or thought in their writing.

Then comes this need to simplify everything. When I see bad writing, my gut instinct is to change it into a better form. I have read bad writing that has an antique taste, as if it was taken out of some English book written two hundred years ago and happily copied by a lot of people as good writing.

What I feel is that writing is an internalised process; you cannot study a style and emulate it in writing just by following how the words go. Rather than that the message has to come in clear and sharp terms and many good writers re-write until they get their ideas clearly in writing.

This might be dismissed as plain rubbish; but if you can become a good writer by imitating the style of 'good writers', beware dear writer, you might be centuries behind!

A sacred space

For a time, life meant complete relaxation. Getting up late, making black tea and later lunch, listening to favourite songs (which prompted a question from a curious neighbour who thought it was a guy who played music), checking mails, replying to them and sitting to read on my favourite chair.

That chair was like a haven. The view was restricted with a wall, sometimes with a cat on it, the road you can see at a distance, the neighbour's houses (where at night, the sound of the lady scraping the last bit of food from the vessel for her husband could be heard in my room even with the windows closed) and a guava tree.

On days when I cleaned my room, after the work is done, I would sit and stare, first at my ultra-clean room with white floor (God, I miss my room, with the neatly arranged furniture, whose position I change during every cleaning session, though I am no blood relative of Tuglaq) and after a while at the scene outside. Once or twice I have seen the neighbour plucking the ripe fruits from the guava tree. Anyway, the ripe smell of its soft tasty flesh reached me all those times.

Once, on an idle day, I saw that this guava tree has a strange resemblance to a human form (with a well-shaped posterior) though upside down, with intertwined arms like an ancient supplicant praying incessantly to the gods. I even made a rough sketch of this sight. 

Now living with a husband who runs a chidiyakhana (he’s fond of pets and keeps two cages of budgies in the room) that drives me mad at times, I miss my room of single days- my neat sparkling room with a lot of space and with a good view. 

On books

A lot of books are published everyday on the works of great writers.When you read these books, you will understand that the interpretations given by these writers vary from what the original writers have thought about. Who would have thought that Hamlet would be accused of Oedipus Complex? So what happens is that these learned critics and scholars undervalue literature by giving undue importance to trivia.

Another major trend in the current academia is that literary theory is more important that literature itself. Since the second half of the twentieth century many theories have come into existence and they have replaced literature.What difference does it make to the reader to know that the writer was expressing his/her repressed thoughts through the use of a symbol in a poem under analysis? More than giving strange interpretations, what literature does is to change a perspective of life by providing a richer understanding of its mystery.

Simplify, simplify, simplify, said Thoreau. He was wise to know that most eloquent speeches were vacant of meaning or spirit. Many good writers write with a simple, unadorned style and it is not difficult to see the effort that has gone into developing such clear and lucid thinking. What I would like to know is how was your perspective changed on reading a particular book?

Style is the man or is it the woman?

What is the importance of having a simple style in writing? 
A simple style signifies clarity of thought and is easy to understand. Yet every day lots of books are published that are written in an incomprehensible style. 
Do they have a reader in mind? Or are they meant exclusively for experts? 
Do people really know what they are talking about? How can a book alter the way a person thinks if the reader is not all able to understand it? 

New Year Resolutions

Why Write?

Words

In 1997, Arundhati Roy won the Booker for her debut novel The God of Small Things. Little did she knew then that her proud face could trigger the desire of becoming a writer in a little girl whose only qualification to be so was the bad habit of reading every book that was not in the school curriculum and scribbling what can or cannot be called poetry.

Now two more Indians have won the Booker and what the writer has in hand is only a heap of loose sheets of paper, a few scrapbooks and this blog, which contains certain excerpts from the diary notes. I write for a muse, who visits me once in a while, upsetting my balance and sending me hurling back into loneliness, to restructure and resurrect again as a balanced person, teaching me to live life to the fullest through writing out an unfulfilled and unlived life, a mystery, a strange series of happenings having neither head nor tail and giving a sense of balance to a heart striving for love and a head that loves logic and reasoning; for the dead and the living writers, who have inspired me with the fire of their words though I may not reach their level, let my words touch their foot with respect and love, for their words have stirred and lived as passion, delight and life in my blood, in my imagination and in every word I write; for myself, to remember and certain moments of tranquil silence, when the perfect little sacred space known as the soul is a treasure-house that pours out amazing words that I love to read again and again and share with you!

The White Magnolias

The sweet scent of those blooming magnolias was growing stronger and stronger every moment. I was sitting on a stone bench with my face buried in my hands crying, broken hearted and sad. I was choked with tears watching his anger and indifference. I was going to apologise to him. But as I turned my head I heard a bell ringing continuously and on opening my eyes, instead of seeing that familiar park strewn with all sorts of fresh and dry leaves and the patches of multi-hued flowers interrupted by stone benches, what I saw was the outline of my own room. I realized that it was only a dream and to my utter disappointment it was cut short by the alarm clock ringing.

It was a recurring dream, a memory of that place. That serene park of my young days where I spent long hours in the company of my favourite poets, now haunted me throughout my sleep and my waking moments. Those tall shady trees, lichen covered walls and cool canopies kept coming back to my mind, bringing back with them memories of those happy days in harmony with nature and humanity, when a spectre, a mirage of love flashed before my sight and disappeared without a trace leaving me enticed for life.
The dream was strange because she never wanted her life to be like that.

The day I saw the white magnolias for the first time will remain etched in my memory because it was the same day I met him. As always I was engrossed in a book of poems when a passing breeze carried with it a pale ivory white blossom and placed it on the book I was reading. I held the flower closely in my hands to observe it more clearly. I saw it was soft and ivory-hued with a yellow tint on the inside.

As I smelt it a voice beside me told that the name of the flower was white magnolia. I looked up and saw that the owner of the voice to be a person whom I had met several times during my walks and who always passed me by with a friendly smile or a quiet nod. He further informed me that these flowers called chempaka in the native tongue bloomed only in the evenings. Then the surrounding air will be infused with a heavenly fragrance,, the blossom seemed to be the first to fall this season. Thus magnolias inaugurated a friendship that was to spread roots in the depths of my being forever.

Our meetings became frequent and lively with the talk of flowers and books. I found out in the meantime that he was a storehouse of knowledge of various sorts ranging from my favourite poets to philosophy and theology. A precious bond of friendship was being formed between us,. It became a source of delight and inspiration for both of us. Until the days of an irreparable rift threatened the very existence of our goodwill. A quarrel followed that once again left me alone in my favourite place reading books and lamenting the loss of a relationship which would have lasted a lifetime had I been less proud and more careful.

Years went by. We deliberately avoided each other’s society. During this time my life changed. I became just like an aimless yacht, wild and reckless, desperate and in need of a destination and thrown off the path by every galloping gust of wind. He was like an unhealed wound in my heart that bled me to death on every careless touch. But I could not forget the cherished dreams he had given me. ..the wings of hope for an unfulfilled desire of the heart- the urge for a life of bliss together with him! But these dreams were all in vain.

One day my soul pulled me towards this place with a strong force. Thus led by an inner voice, by some unknown instinct I went back to that familiar spot after years of absence, I found to my surprise that nothing had changed much. The chempaka tree by the fountain was in full bloom and there was the faint smell of fresh flowers hovering in the air. I sat there on the stone bench which I had once called mine. I closed my eyes and instantly my mind embarked on the wings of a dream, which an intimate bond of affection had gifted my heart years ago.

A gentle breeze started blowing, rustling the tree branches and scattering the dry fallen leaves everywhere. In the midst of this clamor, I heard a soft footstep on the ground and looking up I saw a familiar face gazing at me tenderly> so nothing has changed much, has it?

All these years I thought of meeting him with an indifferent manner and a courteous smile, But on seeing him hat happened to my earlier decisions. I ran towards him and buried my face on his chest. He put his arms around me and rocked me gently. There was a tranquil silence enveloping the park. Then a gentle breeze blew showering some magnolias on us. The sweet scent of those blooming magnolias was growing stranger and stronger every moment.

Dreamers Beware

He moved his face close to hers and she closed her eyes. They were sitting on a stone-bench in the park. He was sitting close to her with his arms round her. She was scared of other people staring at them but she found that no one was noticing them. As he said people came there for the silence the park gave them.

It was their first meeting after months. He had turned up all on a sudden and told her: “I need to talk to you”. She screamed in delight on seeing him. She pinched him to check if he was real. He was the one who suggested the park. They walked together towards the place. He put his arm around her shoulders and chatted with her.

They chose a very quiet nook in the park. The place was really beautiful. She felt she was imagining this meeting with him. She sat near him feeling his presence. Her entire body was warm under his touch and her heart was not beating but galloping. Then he began describing the adventures he had during all these months. His left arm was around her waist and he held her hand in his right hand.

She smiled at him and they looked into each other eyes for a long time. Then he moved his face close to hers. She felt that the moment had arrived after such a long time. Their first kiss. She closed her eyes. She could feel his face near hers.

Then she heard a sound. What was that sound, she wondered? It was a ringing sound. Oh! It was her alarm clock ringing to tell her that it was 6 0’clock. She got up and said “@!#$%*.

Then again she went to bed praying for a sequel of the same dream… Oh Lord, please! No way. Sleep had deserted her. She got up and looked in the mirror. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Yet strangely she felt happy because the feel of his strong arms around her was still there. So was the smell of his perfume. She smiled and wished him a good day!

Signs from heaven

I have this personal belief that when you are really sad or depressed, heaven sends you certain signs to know that you are needed in this world. Not that you'll win a lottery or meet your soulmate, but small signs that are too much of an accident and surprisingly delightful.

As children my brother and me looked forward to every edition of Balarama, which was published every fortnight unlike now when it is published every week. We both would run for it and at times struggle to get it first from the old man who used to bring us paper.I remember running with toothbrush in my hand and toothpaste in my mouth to get it ahead of my brother because whoever gets it first could read it first after coming from school.It was a time of intense waiting and struggles and one book full of colours meant a lot to both of us. 

Its with the same anxiety though there is none to fight with now, we both being grown up and understanding, that I wait for the Literary Review page in The Hindu on Sundays. This is because of the column Endpaper by Pradeep Sebastian. His writing reveals a book lover with much sensitivity and understanding.  The article that touched me the most came some  years back in May. 

I was in very low spirits at that time. It was exam time and I wasnt able to study well with my project incomplete and my heart sore over something that I now consider very trivial. Agitated and worried with the exams and some nerve-cracking people around me, I went on doing a lot of self-destructive activities- like skipping studies, tearing up all diaries, cutting my long hair and getting mad at anyone who tried to advise me. A radical and highly rebellious state of mind it was. 

Then in the evening, I was sitting with a vacant mind and my eyes fell on this article. It was called An Unlived Life about a story called "Babette's Feast" by Isak Dinessen. It spoke of how a congregation without any unity is changed by a feast given by an artistic cook who gives up whatever she has for the feast. 

I felt a big calm settle over me as I was reading this. Right after reading it, I went to my room, closed the door and began to write about what was worrying me-my indecisiveness about the life and career I was to take. Not that the problem was solved that day, but it made me feel better.You don't know what saves you from killing yourself. May be a little kindness from someone. Or some signs from heaven that reminds you of your most precious gift. Not lottery. Or a soulmate. This beautiful life. The General in the story gives this speech:"We tremble because we imagine divine grace to be finite. We tremble before making our choice in life and after having made it again tremble in fear of having chosen wrong. But the moment comes when our eyes are opened, and we realize grace is infinite. We need only to await it in confidence and in gratitude. See! That which we have chosen is given us, and that which we have refused is, also and at the same time, granted us. For mercy and truth have had a lover, and righteousness and bliss have kissed one another!" 

Unsolicited advice

It' s a bright day. You are doing your work humming a favourite song. Suddenly you get a call or meet someone who wearies you with a long sermon on this-is-how-things-should-be-done or how-things-were-done-in my day.

You want to mutter a thanks and ask this person to make this into a career by starting a counselling centre. But suddenly remember that counselling requires good listening skills and bite your tongue while putting that smiling face back again.

After a while you feel like your entire happiness has been destroyed by some natural calamity: unsolicited advice. The rest of the day is spent in finding to evade the person or how to contradict the advice.

The worst calamity is listening to unsolicited advice from people who have absolutely no idea about your dreams or the subject matter. Does it help to humour these pestering calamities? I don’t know but I'm helpless when I meet such bores.

I guess there are times when learning is enhanced if a person of experience meets a humble learner. But it applies only to cases when the learner has interest in the subject and is ready to take criticism from the teacher.

Most people who provide such advice ignore the creative powers that are inherent in each and every human being. They do not understand the fact that more than following great examples, every person can come up with original ideas and solutions to problems.

Looking back on the past or looking up to some great person means that you do not trust the creativity of the moment or the work. It's good to have role-models; but mere idolatry is a crime against the pure magic of human thought.

Time for order

There is a season for everything, a time for every occupation under heaven:

    

    A time for giving birth,
    a time for dying;
    a time for planting,
    a time for uprooting what has been planted.
    A time for killing,
    a time for healing;
    a time for knocking down,
    a time for building.
    A time for tears,
    A time for laughter;
    a time for mourning,
    a time for dancing.
    A time for throwing stones away,
    a time for gathering them up;
    a time for embracing,
    a time to refrain from embracing.
    A time for searching,
    a time for losing;
    a time for keeping,
    a time for throwing away.
    A time for tearing,
    a time for sewing;
    a time for keeping silent,
    a time for speaking.
    A time for loving,
    a time for hating;
    a time for war,
    a time for war. Ecclesiastes, The Bible 

I have my days of order and disorder as if my life was written only in opposites and extremes. Now, ending an era of disorder, I cleaned my room and made it sparkling to the surprise of onlookers (read parents) who remarked on how bright the room looks after the long-required much-advised spring cleaning session. This is not a job that I had cherished in those months of work, when everything revolved around going for work, coming back and preparing for classes.

When not working, I'm no fanatic housewife searching for the minutest speck of dust; but only a myopic young lady who sees the room differently with her glasses on, something she rarely does while at home. Instead, the only time I put on my glasses are when some guests are around (in order to recognise them and later comment on them) or when glued to the TV screen or computer or some book or writing work.

Revisiting the Literature in my own mother-tongue Malayalam

When I was a teenager, I was kind of an amphibian voraciously reading (but not always retaining the details) of good books in English as well as Malayalam, my mother-tongue. I could even read in my national language Hindi though nowadays I find it hard to decipher even the alphabets (which I have tried by reading the film news in Navbharat Times).

Regarding Malayalam classics, my tastes more or less revolved around these major writers in Malayalam- Madhavikutty, T. Padmanabhan, MT Vasudevan Nair and Vaikkom Muhammed Basheer. These were the writers whom I loved to read again and again. My mother always brought new books by these writers to replenish my reading list from her office library.

We were a curious mother-daughter duo for in most serious aspects of life and we have always differed from other in principles or just for the difference of it; but regarding books, she is the one who has guided my reading tastes in Malayalam literature. Now, she has turned religious and reads only the Bible and prayer-books but there used to be a time when I could listen spell-bound to the stories that she recounted from the books she has read.

Well, back to my love of Malayalam literature. Though I have read only a few Malayalam books these ten years since I became an English literature student- a few like Khasakinte Ithihasam, Short stories of Madhavikutty, Jeevithanizhalpadukal and Balyakalasakhi by Vaikkom Muhammed Basheer and MT Vasudevan Nair's Randamoozham- the fact that recently I was teaching in a place where Malayalam literature was taught for MA as well brought to light that love of good literature written in Malayalam.

What followed was a gobbling up of Complete works of Madhavikutty now followed by Complete Works of Vaikkom Muhammed Basheer as well as a few works of MT Vasudevan Nair. Greatly amazed by Basheer and well as by MT, I feel like a curious child who is still in the process of joining together a jigsaw puzzle.That means that you, my dear readers will soon be bombarded with reviews and stories of the books I have encountered in Malayalam literature soon! 

Of Libraries and Library Books

For me, library visits mean a lot as can be seen from my trademark huge bags that can carry huge tomes and a slight damage to the right shoulder from carrying them around regularly. So are the constant mind-fogs that come from having too many things on the mind such as the home and the heart, the things to buy and the things to get rid of. 

Libraries and I have a long history of events- finding them, losing them, misplacing them and of reading them so much at the cost of eyesight and a sense of reality. When I was doing my M.Phil, I had placed a book on the Automatic Book Return Kiosk in the Central Library, only the find that the machine refused to read the book and it was a kind-looking staff who enlightened me that the book belonged to the College Library and not to the Central Library. 

I had my excuse that I was juggling a baby, a thesis and a household and that it was difficult to keep track of all the library books that I had taken. Those were the days of the late returns and heavy dues and mind-fogs resulting from having too much on my hands. 

It was in the same library that I had a spat with a guy who formed a new parallel queue for a pretty little thing and called my attention to it, when I have been standing in a straight queue for around fifteen minutes. However, I was too embarrassed after my mercurial outburst, that too in English that I had not gone to the library for a few months.  

For someone who spends a good deal of time in the library, it is at times a little disappointing to see a new notice on fresh arrivals: “Writing or marking on books is a punishable offence”. On seeing this notice the first time, I could not help thinking of my college days, when I was more or less an accidental scholar who found the right books at the nick of time, on the eve of the exam and gorged upon them as if there was all the time in the world to read them. 

Studying English literature was no fun as most people believe. I have had so many relatives and friends tell me, “Oh! All you have to do is read novels”. Sadly, it was not true as I discovered during the second and third years of my graduate study. Buying all books needed was out of the question as most of them were unavailable or way too expensive. So, hunting for books in the library was part of the routine and with time, I was familiar with most of the shelves and what they held. 

The city libraries were part of these book-hunting trips though most of what I read was books that were no part of the syllabus. Only at the beginning and the end of a semester did I think of text books; otherwise it was all Agatha Christie and all the readable ones. But at the end of each semester, on my serious visits to the library, I was always fascinated by the comments and notes on the margins made by some previous reader and at times, I even recognised the handwritings of my teachers in some books. 

Yes, I love it when my number is stamped as the first user on fresh arrival. There is certainly a pleasure in handling a new book: the fresh smell of crisp pages and the ideas that look new and inviting but a much-used and well-thumbed library book offers much more for a reader and student. Just like the books that I had seen in those days, the books left traces of the ones who had read them before- markings, numberings, explanations, critical comments and more not phone numbers as feared by present day librarians. The meanings written next to difficult words or the names of poetic devices with explanations, these texts were most probably used by teachers for their classes. 

In the present age and its demand of annotated editions (that say more than the writer), the ordinary library books on English literature could supply easy reading just by the fact that they were read through the minds of good scholars who could chew and digest the work by marking key words and underlining what was important. But I do remember a girl who studied with me, who had seen me underline a sentence in a library book and screamed “That’s a library book!” in the same tone as “That’s my boyfriend!” 

May be I am just a little zany; but as a teacher, I will be honoured if any day, if a student comes across my handwriting in the pages and recognises it as part of a painstaking but rewarding procedure of preparation for classes and feels the same way as I felt when I had seen those writings, numberings and markings against the margins made in a familiar hand. For someone, whose heaven is a library, whose dreams include having a coffee counter inside the library; finding a new book to read is a pleasure but reading a well-thumbed and annotated one is an even more enjoyable experience. 

When I was a teenager, I had read this story named “An Evening in Grand Central”, in which a man falls in love with a woman just from the comments that she had written in a book that he comes across. The book is a second hand copy of Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage and when they decide to meet she tells him that she will wear a red rose on her lapel. On the day of the meeting, he comes across an old woman wearing a red rose while a beautiful girl in a green dress walks by like “the springtime come alive”. But he decides to talk to the lady only to find that his love is none other than the girl in green dress and that she is waiting for him in a restaurant across the road. May be she was too shy to meet him in person, God knows!

Female Quixote

You are in your twenties. You do not know what to do- whether to get married or pursue a promising career that exists in your dreams. You are brilliant; at college known for punctuality and studious hardworking nature. You have clear cut opinions on almost everything under the sun, including your future husband.

Secretly inside you live a person who believes in finding love somewhere quite unexpectedly but you don’t want that person to take control. For some strange reason love eludes you when it hits everyone everywhere: in buses, trains, offices, colleges, libraries, churches, hospitals, everywhere. No, its not that you do not go out but you are very serious about whatever you do. You go for work and keep cordial relationships with your male colleagues, who have a hard time understanding you. You go to church and either pray or sleep. You travel in buses full of guys but keep reading the boards everywhere. You visit the library crowded with handsome guys thrice a week but nothing interests you more than what’s new inside the well-vacuumed and orderly kept library.

Finally, when some guy is interested you are not and you don’t want to be either. You become conscious of all this stuff only when you decide to be good-looking on your cousin’s wedding day. You are no beauty but suddenly people take note of you clad in this strange costume and say: “Oh my God! You look beautiful. We’ll be attending your marriage next. May be I will talk to your mother. There are a few guys that I know.” There is laughter and you cannot help blushing. From uneducated relatives there are questions and sneers meant to make you understand that their hardly educated daughters had two kids and a handsome husband during the same period of time that you were working hard to earn a university degree.

Here you go. Suddenly you feel confused. You have dreams about your life though you do not know which route to pursue. These wise old women prescribe marriage for you as if you have become an old maid, as if marriage is the end of all these problems while you try to think about the whole lot of people who have trouble keeping their marriages intact.

Worse than the old women are your friends: school, college and workplace. They wonder when they can attend your marriage as if that was something they have looking forward to their whole life. Unbelievable. The haughty ones turn docile after marriage and speak in a sweet voice to their hubbies in a voice that makes you want to puke. In front of you they act that their life is so perfect and to have a perfect life what they advise you is to get married to someone they know: Do you know that my hubby has a friend named A, who is very good? He’s not that educated as you but he’ll keep you happy!” “Et tu Brute was not written without a reason.

If you are not a female Quixote, may be you are unbelievably blessed, lucky or born out of time in this strange age!

The Art of the Perfect Roti

Styles in cooking differ; as many styles are available as there are people. This is one lesson that I learnt once I got married. For many of the food items that I knew how to cook at home were made differently here and held with amusement as well.

It was strange how a simple task like making a chapattis or a roti can be so different. My mother makes it big and wide as big as the tawa at home. It's soft and my comments were always along the lines that all her anger at people she sublimated in the act of making the dough for chapattis.

Here, at the new place, the rotis were small enough to fit the vessel my new mother-in-law (I mean one and the only mother-in-law) had and she could make it round and soft and full, like the ones shown in the advertisement for atta.

First, my trials at making rotis were met with laughter and my husband would remark:" Do these rotis go to the gym everyday?"My father-in-law said: "Kid, I'm past 65 and my teeth are shaky. If I eat these everyday, most probably I wont even have to visit a dentist". True to what he said, three months after I landed, his tooth fell.

Somehow I kept on making rotis and didn’t give up. Finally in a historical moment that witnessed great applause from all, the roti came out perfectly made and soft. More than my years at the college, these few months in the kitchen were the toughest in history.