the dialogue
fails
the two
in their own horizon of existence
the painter
explores
leaves a mass of forms
puts down his brush
leaves without looking back
the sky dips into a pot of light
brushes green daze of the day
the other looks on
fails
to understand the canvas
The moon, heavy
as I drive down the silent highway
races with me
dragging its weight
over the neems and tamarinds
torn by the scraggy branches of eucalyptus
briefly disappears behind a dark house
exhausted I pull up my car
hear the heavy breath of the earth around me
as the night swells in the pearly softness of moonlight.
gentle breeze wraps me
I break away from the smell of food
that crouches like a frightened sparrow
in the corners of the room
the sky is lit by an invisible moon
I shudder to think
time hasn’t moved
the deception I play up to
every night as I look
at the clouds racing in the sky
I do not recall in what order I read my books through 2009. But there had been some reason why I read certain books together, sometimes there was a link that lead me from one book to another though they were of different genres, reading of certain books had been prompted by my state of mind, while a few others were because I had read reviews of them. I had undertaken to read Conrad after reading the inspiring blog of Beth, I read Amitav Ghosh’ s Sea of Poppies as a counterpoint to Conrad’s Lord Jim. I know I still haven’t cleared the best books of Conrad, shall continue to read Conrad through 2010. I want to begin rereading alongside Conrad either Dostoevsky or Thomas Hardy.
Here is the list of books I read in 2009
Stranger to History Aatish Taseer
Empires of the Indus : The Story of a River Alice Albinia
The Immortals Amit Chaudhuri
Sea of Poppies Amitav Ghosh
Hotel du Lac Anita Brookner
Providence Anita Brookner
The Prodigal Summer Barbara Kingsolver
Curfewed Night Basharat Peer
The Art of Happiness Dalai Lama
In Other Rooms , Other Wonders Daniyal Mueenuddin
Somewhere Toward The End Diana Athill
Atonement Ian McEwan
On Chesil Beach Ian McEwan
Enduring Love Ian Mcewan
Saturday Ian McEwan
Nostromo Joseph Conrad
Chance Joseph Conrad
Lord Jim Joseph Conrad
Victory Joseph Conrad
Burnt Shadows Kamilia Shamsie
My Family and Other Saints Kirin Narayan
A Pedagogue’s Romance Krishna Kumar
The Japanese Wife Kunal Basu
Authentic Happiness Martin E. Seligman
Happiness Mathieu Ricard
The Wasted Vigil Nadeem Aslam
The Private patient PD James
Snow Leopard Peter Matthiessen
Abandon Pico Iyer
The Open Road Pico Iyer
If You Don’t Know Me By Now Satham Sanghera
Q & A Vikas Swarup
On Beauty Zadie Smith
Books that I read soon after they were published were Immortals, Stranger to History, The Wasted Vigil, Curfewed Night, Empires of the Indus, In Other Rooms, , Private Patient and Burnt Shadows .
Amit Chaudhuri’s novels are remarkable for their minimalism, the bulky 300 odd paged novel The Immortals feels in spirit like a haiku.
PD James crime novels read like a piece of literature, her readers savour her beautiful turn of phrases, her ponderings on life and follow the psychological motives that drive her characters. PD James was 88 when she published Private Patient in 2008, the novel can be bracketed as one of her best along with In the Holy Orders and Taste of Death.
Nadeem Aslam’s The Wasted Vigil is as beautifully written as his earlier novel Map of Lost Lovers. The Wasted Vigil set in Afghanistan spins a dark tapestry of violence, repression, betrayal. The novel at a level communicates that history forcefully buried as in the Taliban Afghanistan, breathes through the pores of the earth - an ancient stone Buddha lying buried keeps a vigil over the wasted land.
I read Curfewed Night, Burnt Shadows, In Other Rooms, Stranger to History and Empires Of the Indus because I was impressed by the reviews they received.
Curfewed Night is an inside story of a Kashmir that the rest of India does not know, it is a disturbing picture of the India that we do not want to acknowledge – an India that initiates crackdown on innocent civilians and keeps them indefinitely in custody, an India that uses its power to hold the valley in terror through military brutality and blood curdling tortures.
Burnt Shadows is a beautiful novel spanning six decades and five countries - from the U S bombing of Nagasaki to the post 29/11 bombing where history appears to come a full circle. The story travels ambitiously from Japan to post British era India to Pakistan smoldering from partition, the Pakistan in the 70s & 80s, to Afghanistan where CIA backs Mujahideen to resist the Soviet power and to the USA paranoid after the 29/11 bombing. At the centre of the novel is Hiroko, a survivor and in its truest sense a world citizen. She is a Japanese who falls in love with a German translator, at his death she travels to India where she marries a Muslim, she chooses Pakistan as her home and lives there as a second class citizen, she mothers a son who is trained by the Mujahideen, she finally moves to America where she follows the fate of her son who is waiting to be shipped to Guatanamo Bay.
Daniyal Mueenuddin’s debut collection of stories , In Other Rooms, Other Wonders, is undoubtedly the best of the books I read last year. Set in modern Pakistan Mueenuddin is as adept at representing the urbane upper middle class as he is in sketching a Pakistani landlord from Punjab or a poor labourer from that region. There is a distinct ring of Chekov’s pathos in his stories.
Empires of the Indus by Alice Albinia serves more than a travel narrative. Alice starts her journey from the delta of River Indus and travels upstream in search of its origin across Pakistan, Afghanistan, northern India to Tibet. She travels back in time to trace the histories of the cultures that this river has birthed, she tarries along sunken tributaries to document the history of forgotten communities. Her narrative is not linear as she moves across times and places and her erudition comes through the densely written book.
Stranger to History - Aatish Taseer, son of an Indian journalist and a Pakistani politician, uses his embattled position to search his roots and construct his identity.
I had read Anita Brookner in my college days, and I chose to reread her two novels to see what I feel about her books now. The female protagonists in the two novels are middle aged like me, still I could not relate to their angst. I wonder if her books lack the timeless quality that you find in Conrad, Hardy, George Eliot, Jane Austen.
I was struggling with Zadie Smith’s White Teeth, my friend suggested that I read On Beauty. I liked the book, and without regret abandoned White Teeth (I hate pulling out of books, I generally plod through them with grit). On Beauty is such a beautiful book that I felt I had to drop White Teeth.
Ian McEwan’s Amsterdam had such an impact on me that I had been meaning to read his other novels, I managed to read four of his novels last year. I began with On Chesil Beach and followed it with Atonement, Saturday and Enduring Love.
Barbara Kingsolver is one of my favourite writers, I have read many of her works. I felt inclined to re read Prodigal Summer last year, will re read her Poisonwood Apple sometime this year.
I read Vikas Swarup Q & A after all the hullaballoo over the Oscar winning movie Slumdog Millionaire that was an adaptation of the novel.
My friend who owns a bookshop recommended If You Don’t Know Me By Now. She kept calling me repeatedly to go over to look up the top-knot guy’s book. If I had refused to buy the book, she would have lent the book for me to read, she was so taken in by the book. A few months later she called again to tell me about Somewhere Toward the End. I went over and picked the book, and at both instances I have not been disappointed.
I read Kunal Basu when I was in between two books, I did not complete all the stories at one go, but stretched it across a couple of months. I chanced on My Family & Other Saints by serendipity, I was searching for some other book in a bookshop. Kirin Narayan has penned a beautiful memoir that makes you roll with laughter and moves you to tears all at once.
As Director of National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT) Prof Krishna Kumar’s views on education in India is perceptive. I enjoyed Pedagogue’s Romance, and have begun reading Prejudice and Pride that compares the way a period in history is presented for school children in Pakistan and India.
One morning, feeling very low, I began reading Dalai Lama’s The Art of Happiness. I opened the book at random and read a page here and one there. Very soon I started the book from the beginning and found myself reading while traveling to work, while waiting for my computer to boot, while sipping my tea.
Soon after that book I read Pico Iyer’s The Open Read which is an interesting biography of Dalai Lama. Back to back I read books which I feel in spirit were a take off from Dalai Lama – Happiness, Authentic Happiness, The Snow Leopard. The only digression at that time was Pico Iyer’s Abandon, a beautiful novel of romance. In spirit, this book which is about the sufi poet Rumi, is very restive that it went with the temper of Dalai Lama.
I hold her photo
I look at her soft flab
the workouts I have fiercely found time for
has kept me slim.
My mother never massaged almond oil around her eyes
never firmed her skin with lotions
never included nuts and sprouts in her diet
never hennaed her hair
sari hastily clad
she ran a comb through her jet black hair
collected her bag and
went for work
sudden calls came from her old distressed father
to manage her violent brother
she bonded with another brother
who shut himself up for days in depression
then, starving he came home
she fed him and they both silently sat together
she thrust money in his palms
when he rose to leave
she was the axle for the family
her brothers and sisters
so diverse and with differences
looked to her to string them together
the smile that she carried
toned her muscles
the compassion that filled her eyes
galvanized her with undying energy.
I nudge time for myself
scoop it away greedily
hate taking calls on a weekend
for fear of committing time to someone.
I close the door to the world
when I get back from work
settle in my large chair with a book
tea steeped in the kettle.
I walk contently around the silent house
the quietness loosens my limbs
cooking meal for the family
stirring soup for myself.
When it is time for a face mask
I get ready to meet a stranger in the mirror
hair thinning at the temple,
henna paling to reveal grey squiggles.
The face toned with massages and masks
can’t hide the anxiety around the eyes
mouth that seldom sees a smile
is drawn tight with stiffness.
By shoring energy for myself
I hoped to appear young
my mother burnt herself out
and stayed radiantly timeless.
My aunt, my mother’s dear sister
lies spent
suspended by distilled memories.
Where can the memories go?
The moments spent in that house in Mylapore
the grains of the wall and the dust of the tiles
settle in her blood stream,
the hollow of her brain
rings with the voices of people-
her mother, her father, brothers, sisters
all her cousins, the beloved uncle.
The smell of boiling milk
simmering with cream
as her mother ladled in sugar and cardamom
in the kitchen lit by glass slats fixed on the roof,
wraps her as a sheath in the ICU.
Unruly hair gathered in a long plait
skirt at her ankles
held by the strong breeze of a July morning
she walked past the temple to her school
squinting at the temple spires against the clear skies
watching the pigeons unsettle from their perches
the noise of the flutter of their wings
carried by the breeze from such a height.
From such a distance in life travels the breeze to touch her
in the hospital, pinned by tubes
images now tinctured with a dust of grey -
memories of her sick mother
breath rasping at her chest
as she lay dying in the room with blue windows
her lonely father slumped in large chair
shrunk with grief at the loss of his companion of fifty years
they began relationship as playmates, remained friends.
Memories of her husband
the brilliant and handsome man she married,
gaining girth, building the family
the meals cooked, the evenings spent with her four girls
in the valley town
climbing to the terrace on a winter evening
to see the sun light the mountains for the last time
as it sank beyond -
a moment stolen as her basmati boiled in the kitchen
and shallots waited to be shredded for rajma.
His head sinks on his shoulders
the soft breath makes his shirt tremble gently
suspended between sleep and wakefulness
his hand shakes as he raises to flick a fly away
a pearl of spit at his mouth.
His wife sharp to catch his movement
moves closer
rheumy eyes oozing with tenderness
clearing her phlegm clogged voice
says, let’s get ready.
A call in the morning - her six
his seven the previous evening, voice across seas
asking her to connect the net at nine
- before I go to bed I’ll catch up with you guys,
their son said.
She searches for the guide
written by her son to use the Skype
words looped the way his father taught him,
holding his hand and taking it over alphabets,
large and bold now for his partial blind mother.
Upsetting the strips of capsules
bottles of cough syrup and antacid
she pulls the paper that has a brown ring left by a coffee cup
taking it close to her eyes
she reads the steps to activate the computer
the way she used cookery books
splayed open on messy counters
she peers into the paper as she reaches for the switches,
adjusts the camera perched on the computer
wipes the dust to see her son better
living in the East coast
holidays captured in photos, of his wife
and son, shown to them in his last visit
when was it - two years? three years?
she asks her unresponsive husband.
The son keeps his time
the mother sits in front of the camera
then angles it so that her husband can be seen
Amma you look good, Appa looks better
what’s happened to the house, it’s a mess
it’s raining – dampness, you know how my arthritis gets,
no servants, nurse’s on a half day break
driver has gone to his village for a marriage
tomorrow everyone’ll be back, she smiles, breathless,
the face powder applied specially for the chat, patchy with sweat.
Why isn’t Appa talking? Appa?
the father looks up vacantly
thoughts coiled in the womb of silence
stirs, translating into a smile devoid of emotion -
rearrangement of facial muscles.
He never talks, he never answers me
I feel lonely
refuses to move around much
nothing interests him anymore
I can’t bear to see him give up totally.
It’s Parkinson’s, dopamine levels
I explained last time I was there
he‘ll get stiff (make him walk ma, it’s up to you)
he’ll withdraw, remain depressed
do Google search on Parkinson’s ma, to understand better.
When are you coming to India, this summer?
bring your son this time,
summer courses, credits you said last time.
Ma he can’t come this summer, and neither can I
he’s joining college
campus visits, preparations, we’ll come next summer
I’ll mail photos of his graduation from school
and … ma, looking at his interests now who knows
he might crack on something for PD – pa, do you hear?
that’s many many years of hard work, let’s see…
… take care ma, take care pa.
Gloom settles like a heavy blanket as she closes the computer
she clears the table of medicines
and leaves the paper with her son’s handwriting there
she’ll need it when she Googles on Parkinson’s that afternoon
she plans to cut and paste information in a folder
her son has left a guide for that on the backside
save as word document his son had explained
set to 125 percent to read he said
when she complained of her bad eyes.
Knowing about Parkinson’s is like fighting it ma, he’d said
now her grandson too is with her, cheering a bit
she comes to sit next to her husband,
reaches for the napkin, wipes the drool from his mouth
and rests her head on his stiff shoulders.
Pigmy flowers mite sized
sulk and mope,
the dung sprouts a scraggly beard
hairy tendrils dance in the breeze,
honeyed centipede curl in natal slumber,
bulbous caterpillar feeds on leaves
and excretes peppercorns,
leaves yellow and toss down
like gold coins.
The earth has taken a deep breath
sucking, hollowing the bowl of life,
as it breathes out
the butterfly unfurls its wings,
the weed flowers a glorious yellow,
and my moody flower perks up
as its petals curdle a rich cream,
my body rejects the wasted eggs,
the lunar sky a crimson red
welcomes the next cycle of waxing.
I roll up the shutter
the car moves
as the light turns green.
A girl,
a woman at thirteen
sari draped around poking bones,
a gash on the cheek
body abused at street corners
laid by anyone – a driver, a police constable
for a morsel
to the mouth twisted in nausea of hunger.
The community of beggars
a straggling family of women, men, children
that interbreed to remain warm on cold nights,
to keep mosquitoes away
share a tattered shawl
on summer nights,
lying under smelly bridges
the throb of traffic above courses through them,
a fly settles on a snot smeared face
a hand rests on someone’s breast
fondling as weariness falls away in thick sleep.
Their home in the plains of the north
tossed deep under mines
when teeth of greed bit into the guts of the earth,
scavenging the cities
inhabiting subways and railway stations
bathing in public taps
lathering a bar of soap among ten
they sit in groups on pavement combing hair
sparkling for the night
the men, women and children -
children still sore with pain between legs from the previous day.
I’ m weary
what would it be
to drop everything and walk out
I’ll have to convince myself first
no books, no laptop,
no paints and brushes
what do I intend to do under the blue skies all day
to walk out you mustn’t be heavy
just the clothes on your back
mind emptied inside out
heart that sings
feet that go nowhere and everywhere
I will have to leave my car behind
forget the moments spent sipping tea
sitting on the rosewood chair looking at the racing clouds
leave the spectacles my mother gave me before wheeled into ICU
and my father’s gold plated watch he got when he retired from work
I shall fold away in a bag the radiance of a smile
I saw on my little boy’s face
when I went to pick him
on his first day at school
searching in the sea of faces for mine
the smile that travelled from his lips to light his eyes
… that I’ll carry with me
