Non-Fiction Reads: Going Solo by Roald Dahl

 

A life is made up of a great number of small incidents and a small number of great ones. An autobiography must therefore, unless it is to become tedious, be extremely selective, discarding all the inconsequential incidents in one's life and concentrating upon those that have remained vivid in the memory.  

- Introduction, Going Solo by Roald Dahl 

Going Solo is the second part of Roald Dahl's memoirs.

It is as vivid and engaging as Boy, Dahl's astonishingly well-written account of his childhood.

Cumulatively, the two part memoir gives us the first 25 years of the writer's life in gripping episodic narration.

An 'extremely selective' approach also means that the book is scandal free and safe enough to be published under the Penguin children's book imprint Puffin. Yet war, death, nudity, empire builders, aflame fighter planes, sinking ships and charred bodies make it to the book. 

Each incident is aptly and chronologically placed in a new chapter.Again, Dahl's detailing and uncanny knack to take the reader along clinches the deal.

The ink that flows in his spontaneous writing can't be pinned down to any style. A lively document of life recalled as it was lived; by the looks of it Dahl seems to have nailed it all in the first draft, except for corrections or deletions, probably. 

Going Solo starts off where Boy wrapped up.

It is 1938 and the writer under a three-year contract with the Shell Oil Company is aboard a ship taking him from England to Africa.

Apart from hilarious proceedings on the ship, Dahl starts with the joys of a long journey - Nowadays you can fly to Mombasa in a few hours and you stop nowhere and nothing is fabulous any more...  

Arrival at Dar es Salaam, tales of deadly snakes, lions and his African staff are a storyteller's pride, the blaze of World War II only adds more intensity to the proceedings. The wrath of Germany is everywhere and consequently Dahl asks leave from Shell in 1939 to join the RAF at Nairobi.

Considering the severe caution that travelers exercise nowadays, it is exciting to read about the writer's solo marathon four-wheeler rides across deserts and jungles.

Not a word seems wasted - the book ends with Dahl's return to England in 1941, flying into his waiting mother's arms.

Few writers can claim to have faced death many times or to have had as many adventures as Roald Dahl.

There is nothing like a first hand account and Going Solo has the long-lasting sheen of experience that provides credibility to the narrative.

Interspersed with reproductions of photographs, documents and letters written during those uncertain three years, Going Solo is highly recommended.

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Roald Dahl in his RAF outfit

Poetry Reads: Daffodils by William Wordsworth

Most of us went through school without wondering why in the world we had poems like Daffodils revisiting the English language textbooks every two years. 

Well, at least I did...not...wonder. 

Nobody seemed to have heard of the flower or seen it in those sans Internet days. We were probably too bored to ask among other things - what did the flower look like? While teachers read the whole thing with the assurance of a kung fu master and horticulturist mingled in one sonorous voice, we can see now (as always when it is too late) that they were earning their paychecks. 

Reading the poem now, one can see why it is popular - there is universal appeal, an admiration for all beautiful things. The benefits of lingering in a moment are many, and Daffodils is a treasure house of one such moment.     

Back to the Future? 

Throwing the reins to fantasy, William Wordsworth would probably be too distracted to write solely about daffodils in a single poem in this progressive 21st century world. Things are just not that simple in the modern world nowadays, or so is life lived or made out to be. 

Wordsworth would (probably, probably) curse the looming, flashing cell phone towers, upcoming flyovers and the shopping mall for spoiling a previously unhindered horizon. Maybe, alas, he would just miss the daffodils, the first words of inspiration whisked away by a call from a bank eager to loan him money. Thus typing away furiously on his touchscreen keypad, he would have composed dark, murderous verse on malicious lightning - graphically describing its fatal impact on pesky phone callers. Daffodils would have been a juxtaposition of human accumulation, its image flashing on Wordsworth's 'inward eye', i.e, his mega pixel equipped cell phone camera. 

Reining in fantasy to its stable, we are glad Wordsworth lived in a world when nature were queen & king, and our species its admiring subjects. For those still wondering in school, no Indian poet has written as popularly about marigold, jasmine or the fiery mayflower...yet. If anyone out there knows of poems in any language of the world that tell endearingly about flowers, do share.  

Daffodils

By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Murder Mysteries: The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie

Unlike the sense of occasion that Arthur Conan Doyle's first Sherlock Holmes work A Study in Scarlet has in the way Watson's narration reveals to us a detective with (literally) superhuman powers of deduction, Hercule Poirot is treated as any other character. All Holmes lacks is a superman cape, in contrast Poirot is as human as a detective gets. 

Something is not right at Styles Court, England. Even as the shadow of World War I looms, new hostilities have taken root at Styles ever since the old Mrs Inglethorp took a younger husband. Her step children, dipped in financial problems, are now wary of what will become of them. Even as the old lady's close companion leaves the house after an altercation, the visiting Arthur Hastings sees things are amiss. Soon enough, inevitably in a murder mystery, a murder is committed.  

First published in 1920, The Mysterious Affairs at Styles is an astonishing debut. Christie's Doyle inspiration is only seen in casting Arthur Hastings (Watson to Poirot) as second fiddle and narrator.

Hastings  is often piqued by Poirot's excitement, he frequently doubts that the bald headed Belgian is getting old. 

Nowhere is Poirot allowed to loom as the central figure. He has a passion for method and order; doesn't claim to have knowledge of all forms of cigar ash or of the exact origin of the earth stuck in a suspect's shoes. Instead, he has a sharp mind and common sense. 

Imbibing all that has occurred, taking in each detail, fitting in the pieces, playing a slow game of chess with his 'grey cells', Poirot unearths the truth systematically and painstakingly.

What is more chilling and awe-inspiring is Christie's genius. 

Like her British film contemporary Alfred Hitchcock, Christie had a thing for fitting in crime into ordinary, every day situations. Acute knowledge of poisons was Christie's forte, and somewhere between what seemed to have occurred and what had actually transpired, Christie built her intrigue.

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Short Story Reads: Marrying Off Mother by Gerald Durrell

"When a writer is born into a family, the family is doomed." 

- Czelslaw Milosz, Polish poet

Few writers have been gifted by a wealth of source material as British writer Gerald Durrell (1925-1995) was endued with. The source material we are referring to is Durrell's family. Now, how many writers have lived a event-filled childhood with three older siblings, a widowed mother, and a motley of creatures on the Greek island of Corfu? Gerald Durrell did, between the age of 10 and 14; the four year stay leading to several books, including the 1956 memoir My Family and other Animals. 

Several Corfu short stories were also subsequently published. Durrell mentions in the collection where Marrying Off Mother appears that: All of these stories are true or, to be strictly accurate, some are true, some have a kernel of truth and a shell of embroidery. Durrell cheekily concludes the introduction with: Which of these stories is true and which is semi-true I have, of course, not the slightest intention of telling you, but I hope this will not detract from your enjoyment of them.  

The author's humorous narration makes Marrying Off Mother one of the breeziest stories you will ever read. Then there is the excellent range of vocabulary and rich descriptions of attire and appearance. Durrell himself features in the story as an adolescent Gerry along with his older siblings Larry (Writer Lawrence Durrell), Leslie and Margo. 

It is summer in Corfu and at the start we can already see the person Gerald is becoming. He keeps extraordinary company, waking up to a room filled with his troop of dogs, specimens in test tubes, tree frogs, translucent geckos and a Scops Owl, among other paraphernalia. The proceedings start at the idyllic breakfast table and it is Larry's casual comment on his mother's single status that brings in a wave of suitors to the family's door. Apart from a view of Corfu's heavenly surroundings, by the end of the story we know the entire Durrell family well enough to make their acquaintance. 

The fun never subsides in what is clearly a mix of memoir (certainly) and (probably) fiction. Gerald is usually a silent witness (who thinks a lot) to the proceedings, the quirky rejoinders are provided by his family. 

I do wonder what his family thought of Gerald Durrell's version. So many writers have found their families hostile post publication. We have no news yet of any unrest in the Durrell family. But it can certainly be concluded that easily available source material have their share of perils...

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Short Story Reads: The Secret Life of Walter Mitty by James Thurber

There is a little bit of Walter Mitty in all of us. 

First published in the New Yorker, this 1939 short story tells of a middle-aged day dreamer who is out shopping with his wife. Walter Mitty wades in and out of dream at the wink of an eye - from manning a ship through a hurricane to saving a patient by sheer genius to playing a sharpshooter accused of murder. Mitty plays his own TV channel, getting all the kicks that his routine, boring life doesn't offer - all in in his mind though.  

One can't help identifying with Walter Mitty. Will we end up like that too, having lived an unfulfilled youth, stuck in the routine of middle age, day-dreaming through the glorious adventurous life we could have been living? Man's greatest need is to be needed and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty vents open the pores to the gap that lies between how we live and how we meant it to be.

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Fiction Reads: Angry River by Ruskin Bond

Another wisp of a book by Ruskin Bond, Angry River is a fine example of children's literature. The yarn is never overwhelming, the main characters are few.You should get to the end of the tale in little over an hour.

Having lost her mother early and with her father working in the city, Sita is a little girl who lives with her grandparents on a small island in the middle of a river. She spends her time taking care of her ailing grandmother. Sita can't go to school, because there is 'too much to do' on the island. The grandfather's character has shades of Ernest Hemingway's similarly brief The Old Man and the Sea.

It was an old tree, and an old man sat beneath it.

He was mending a fishing-net. He had fished in the river for ten years, and he was a good fisherman. He knew where to find the slim silver Chilwa fish and the big beautiful Mahseer and the long moustached Singhara; he knew where the river was deep and where it was shallow; he knew which baits to use - which fish liked worms and which like gram.

The trio live in a mud hut with a sole peepul tree, a couple of goats and hens for company. As things turn out, the old lady needs to be taken to the city for medical treatment. Used to living alone on the island, Sita watches her grandfather's boat dwarfing away from view, carrying her grandmother and two goats. The rain is already causing the water level to rise, and what follows as a consequence forms the rest of the book.

Though Sita and the river are the main protagonists of this novella, the enigmatic boy Krishan is an allegoric addition to the water-rising proceedings. A riveting little tale on nature's fury, human vulnerability and the anonymity of the poor.     

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Fiction Reads: The Blue Umbrella by Ruskin Bond

It is a sweet rush to the senses when a book revisited after years still has the lure to momentarily bring back the magic of childhood. The Blue Umbrella, first published in 1974 is one such work. A book for children that can be read in a couple of hours, this Ruskin Bond gem is adorned with extraordinary black and white illustrations by Trevor Stubley and an eye-friendly font size.     

The story is singular, of quite charm and simple pleasures, set in the hills of Garhwal. Ten year-old Binya lives with her widowed mother and elder brother Bijju, tending to the cows Neelu and Gori and helping the family in cultivating various food items on their own terraced fields. The produce is not ample to sell, but enough to subsist on. One day Binya happens to chance upon a group of picnickers from the plains and among their throng she notices a blue silk umbrella and falls in love with it. A woman's attraction to Binya's leopard-claw necklace leads to a dream exchange and lo, Binya now owns the beautiful umbrella! Meanwhile, 'the richest man in the area', the old tea shop owner Ram Bharosa covets the umbrella as its fame grows on the quiet hill side.

Beneath its straight-forward exterior, The Blue Umbrella has its insightful moments. Here's an excerpt:

Binya belonged to the mountains, to this part of the Himalayas known as Garhwal. Dark forests and lonely hilltops held no terrors for her. It was only when she was in the market-town jostled by the crowds in the bazaar, that she felt rather nervous and lost.  

Seen through a child's eyes, the umbrella is an ode to beauty and utility. For an adult it is greed, materialism and a blindness to possess. Yet the two generations meet in harmony at the end of the book in an agreeable manner, and like the best children's stories, a glow of happily ever after pervades long after.   

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Book Excerpts: Londonstani by Gautam Malkani

At the time of writing I am getting through at a snail's place through Malkani's slang-decorated narration of Jas, a rich 19 year-old Indian brat growing up in London. First published in 2006, the novel is told from the perspective of Jas, a wannabe, confused affluent teen who pretends he is deprived of wealth and lives in a slum. A wannabe with a die-hard love for the materialistic, here is just a little pick of the humorous ranting that the boy gets into. The following extract features the most ubiquitous electronic device of our times.

Havin the blingest mobile fone in the house is a rudeboy's birthright. Not just for style, but also cos fones were invented for rudeboys. They free you from your mum an dad while still allowing your parents to keep tabs on you.   

(Article by Snehith Kumbla) 

Poetry Reads: Published Haiku Selections (2011, 2012) by Snehith Kumbla

Ahoy, Wolf here and I am here to howl out the news that a couple of my haiku have been selected for publication in the forthcoming World Haiku Anthology. Also, this post is to showcase a bunch of my previously published haiku.

For starters, haiku is an ancient form of Japanese poetry. It consists of three lines. Traditionally, each haiku deals with nature and must contain syllables in the order of 5,7,5 for each line. English language haiku poets do not adhere to this stringency. 

In a way, a haiku is the prose form of a photograph, it is not extravagant imagination. The purpose of the haiku is simple - to show as it was seen. The document of a moment without adornments - there lies its beauty and philosophy. 

chained dog

chases the bee

with its eyes

hair strand
divides her

smile

battle scarred dog
can't lick its
bleeding ear

(First published in World Haiku Review, January 2011 Edition)

night shift

only the air-conditioner 

is not mute 

(First published in World Haiku Review, December 2011 Edition)

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Book Excerpts: I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale by Khushwant Singh

The monsoon has arrived! It fell upon the city without warning on the night of June 1, 2013, complete with lightning veins, thunder roll and a rush of drops that soon settled down to play a rhythm on all things that interrupted its airborne tryst. 

As usual, the meteorologists got it wrong - the monsoon has commenced its journey two days before the predicted date. To err is human, and in matters of nature, the scientists and experts are to be forgiven. For as much is claimed to be known about nature and atmosphere, human beings must concede that nature's mysteries shall always remain and maintain their allure. 

Anyway, I have been reading Khushwant Singh's remarkable 1959 novel I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale and it is a happy coincidence that the writer starts 'Chapter IV' with an eloquent five-page detailing on this wet, gray season: 

To know India and her peoples, one has to know the monsoon. It is not enough to read about it in books, or see it on the cinema screen, or hear someone talk about it. It has to be a personal experience because nothing short of living through it can fully convey all it means to a people for whom it is not only the source of life, but also their most exciting impact with nature. What the four seasons of the year mean to the European, the one season of the monsoon means to the Indian. It is preceded by desolation; it brings with it hopes of spring; it has the fullness of summer and the fulfillment of autumn all in one. 

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Non-Fiction Reads: Useful Work versus Useless Toil by William Morris

An essay written in 1884 by William Morris can still be revisited for its wisdom, reflection and persistent relevance. A brief look at the life of Morris: William Morris was of all things, a textile designer, apart from a writer and artist. He was English and played a prominent part in the arts and crafts movement.

The essay takes us right into the heart of the thing, as it begins: The above title may strike some of my readers as strange. It is assumed by most people nowadays that all work is useful, and by most well-to-do people that all work is desirable. Most people, well-to-do or not, believe that, even when a man is doing work which appears to be useless, he is earning his livelihood by it - he is "employed," as the phrase goes; and most of those who are well-to-do cheer on the happy worker with congratulations and praises, if he is only "industrious" enough and deprives himself of all pleasure and holidays in the sacred cause of labour.

Morris then cuts through the issue, delving deeper, on how every human being has to work in order to survive. He then speaks on the ‘nature of hope’, the things that you expect when you work – “hope of rest, hope of product, hope of pleasure in the work itself.” He goes on to elaborate on these three points. Without ever wasting time on words, using them economically, he arrives at the statement that - All other work but this is worthless; it is slaves' work - mere toiling to live, that we may live to toil.

There is much more to the essay, practices followed through history and civilization is quoted, but always with an objective, unbiased eye. An essay worth revisiting - you will always find something to think about in each reading. 

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Poetry Reads: First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The oft-quoted lines of this particular poem first appeared in the 1920 poetry collection A Few Figs from Thistles. So much is said in these lines - that to truly live is to burn and dazzle each day with one's free will and wish. 

The poet doesn't need to write an autobiography to get the message across. Instead, as if addressing all the people known to her, probably from an imaginary stage, she accumulates her entire life in four lines of verse.

First Fig
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Fiction Reads: Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaatje

First published in 1976, this is a remarkable debut by Ondaatje, for Coming Through Slaughter uses jazz music, multiple narrator-perspective, selection of factual records and the gift of flowing yet cropped prose to add bones, veins, blood, skin, myth, poetry and soul to Buddy Bolden's largely unknown life.

Buddy Bolden was for real. From whatever little is known about him, and dissipating the myths that have cemented themselves, one thing is certain - Bolden was a famous cornet player at New Orleans in his band from 1900 to 1907. He is considered to be a jazz pioneer, a musician who constantly improvised as he played, consistently touching high decibel levels. Unfortunately, Bolden was never recorded.   

Bolden - second from left, standing. The sole surviving photograph of Bolden's band is used to strengthen 'the truth within the lie', as good fiction is often referred to.   

Ondaatje gives us an enjoyable, tragic myth, breathing in characters, jazz lyrics, shackles of fame, fear and destruction. In this fictional novel, Bolden is a barber, publisher of gossip by day, drunkard by afternoon and musician by evening. 

He was the best and the loudest and most loved jazzman of his time, but never professional in the brain. Unconcerned with the crack of the lip he threw out and held immense notes, could reach a force on the first note that attacked the ear. He was obsessed with the magic of air, those smells that turned neuter as they resolved in his lung then spat out in the chosen key. The way the side of the mouth would drag a net of air in and dress it in notes and make it last and last, yearning to leave it up there in the sky like air transformed into cloud. (COMING THROUGH SLAUGHTER / PAGE 11)

Other characters Ondaatje conjures to create a mysterious haze around Bolden include Nora Bass as Bolden's wife, Webb - his close friend, now cop; Bellocq - a photographer specialized in taking pictures of whores; and Robin - the other woman in Bolden's life. The non-linear arrangement also keeps us hooked. A little gem of a book, raw in some ways, yet astonishing for the control a debutant novelist (Ondaatje was 33 then) displays. 

Recommended Edition
The image displayed below is the front cover of the concise Bloomsbury Classics edition - handy to carry around, the hardcover ensures durability.

(Article by Snehith Kumbla) 

Book Excerpts: Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil

An opium filled opus if there was one, Narcopolis has Thayil take the garb of fiction to document a time of hallucination, ennui and quiet decay through a motley group of characters, covering three decades in old, derelict Bombay.  But what stands out in remarkable swing to the rest of the conventionally written content is the prologue titled Something for the Mouth. In the hardcover edition, the sole prologue sentence stretches for six and half pages. It is a breathtaking piece of literature - telling of a drug addict's delirium, brilliance and also his doom. Here is an excerpt of the first few lines: 

Bombay, which obliterated its own history by changing its name and surgically altering its face, is the hero or heroin of this story, and since I'm the one who's telling it and you don't know who I am, let me say that we'll get to the who of it but not right now, because now there's time enough not to hurry, to light the lamp and open the window to the moon and take a moment to dream of a great and broken city, because when the day starts its business I'll have to stop, these are night-time tales that vanish in sunlight like vampire dust - wait now, light me up so we do this right, yes, hold me steady to the lamp, hold it, hold, good, a slow pull to start with, to draw the smoke low into the lungs, yes, oh my, and another for the nostrils, and a little something sweet for the mouth, and now we can begin at the beginning with the first time at Rashid's when I stitched the blue smoke from pipe to blood to eye to I and out into the blue world - ....

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Poetry Reads: Perfume by Arthur Symons

The arrival of a new bookshelf at my den has led to arrangement, alignment and reappearance of what was previously scattered and stacked away to temporary oblivion. For there was a time when I used to scrawl out in notebooks any kind of gripping literature that I chanced upon. The poem featured below is a reproduction from one such notebook.

Teenage years; a time of titillation; carnal desires were at their wild, uncontrolled zenith. Browsing the Internet was an expensive affair then, limited to rare visits to cyber cafes. Books, magazines and newspapers were thus my source fountain. This poem is a remnant of those bubble dream days, wasted as they were, wound in the most natural of yearnings.

Perfume

by Arthur Symons

Shake out your hair about me, so,
That I may feel the stir and scent
Of those vague odours come and go
The way our kisses went.

Night gave this priceless hour of love,
But now the dawn steals in apace,
And amorously bends above
The wonder of your face.

'Farewell' between our kisses creeps,
You fade, a ghost, upon the air;
Yet ah! the vacant place still keeps
The odour of your hair.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Non-Fiction Reads: Death and the Magician: The Mystery of Houdini by Raymond Fitzsimons

Once upon a time in the 19th century, a 17 year-old Hungarian immigrant by the name of Ehrich Weiss was still undecided whether magic will take him places.Ehrich then chanced upon the memoirs of French magician Jean-Eugene Robert-Houdin and his decision was made. Inspired, the teenager borrowed 'Houdin' for his stage name and added an 'i' to it. 

Among magicians, Houdini (24th March 1874 - 31st October 1926) is still considered to be among the best that ever lived. Death and the Magician tells an extraordinary tale of an exceptional talent and also of a life shrouded in strangeness and mystery. Houdini's relationship with his mother played a major part in his life. It is said that as a child Houdini never cried and if he ever was troubled, his mother's heartbeat soothed him.Over the years, the fear of losing his mother only grew in him.

The methods behind many of the legendary magic tricks are revealed here, yet the amazement persists. From the substitution trick, the water can trick to the classic handcuff release, Houdini was relentless in his pursuit for speed, deception and perfection. A curiousity-driven visit to a lunatic asylum led him to view the use of the straitjacket on the inmates. Houdini bought an old one and put it on. He then struggled for seven days with it (His wife Bess was convinced that he had gone mad), before - bruised and bloody, he finally succeeded in setting himself free. Such was Houdini.

Beyond death

As intriguing as the magic was Houdini himself. The news of his 72 year-old mother's death (Houdini was 39 then, a traveling magician) crushed him. His wife was witness to him waking up from sleep and calling out his mother's name in vain expectation that she would return. He visited her grave frequently, bending down, begging her to tell him what her last words were. 

Houdini's interest then veered to seeking answers beyond death.Desperately wanting to reach out to his dead mother, he started attending seances and interacting with mediums, things he had once thought to be fake. This is where the biography gets even more intriguing, and at the end of it we are left wondering as much as Bess, as she writes to Houdini's friend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on a letter dated December 16, 1926: "He buried no secrets. Every conjurer knows how his tricks were done - with the exception of just where or how the various traps or mechanisms were hidden.      

" It was Houdini himself that was the secret." 

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

 

Poetry Reads: Auria by Snehith Kumbla

Ahoy, Wolf here. It gives me unabashed joy to present before you, dear readers, a poem written by me, titled - Auria.This poem first appeared in the May-June 2012 issue of the Reading Hour magazine.

Evening has long descended and fortunate circumstances have led to a rendezvous between lovers. The poet wishes for the world to be reduced to a hush, night to blanket every intruding light, such that two beings dwell calmly in their cocoon. Gentle, unhurried, cosy, velvety - in the cloud cover of these feelings does the poet meet the woman he adores. Eternity prevails.

Auria

by Snehith Kumbla

may the eyes of every

slithering light be blindfolded,

my love is here with me

may the night be

as quiet as a village,

my darling gently dries her wings

let no thought betray

no stone pelt a shiver

my dove goes visiting a dream

hush now, oh deepest

of all fathom, the
world floats on a heartbeat

all things done, undone,

things indelible, leisurely

things, now discarded

a parting feather in flight

descends...

her beguiling bejeweled body

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Graphic Novel Reads: Corridor by Sarnath Banerjee

Jehangir Rangoonwala sells second-hand books, plays chess with a customer/friend, hands out tea and unsolicited advice.

Digital Dutta stands for people who live and accomplish great things...in their dreams.

A collector of odd things is too anxious to make use of his priced possessions.

Shintu is newly married, worried to death about his sex life, a fear fueled by a quack with "40 years experience." Old Delhi and Kolkata play as bustling random backgrounds to these bumbling characters. 

First published in 2004, Corridor stands out for its sketched black & white human caricatures, sporadic witticisms and creative whirl of its story-boarding - the flow is unpredictable.

Banerjee starts with promise, introducing us to the characters with verve. The terse use of colour is deliberate and works well for the book.

What begins as jazz on paper meanders to abstractness and a hurried wind up.

After setting up the complexities of urban life in its characters, Corridor needed scale and ambition, and preferably more pages to fulfill its torch of promise.

Instead we are left with characters who we like, but do not get enough time to linger and comprehend.

Also, the use of graffiti and photographs from popular culture work only in a couple of bits. Otherwise the effect comes across as crammed use of digital technology than the work of an artist. 

Yet, for the attempt, oh fans of the graphic novel, Corridor is certainly worth a read.

Banerjee has the potential of sketching out a classic, what he needs is a fortress of a story to hold all his zaniness together.  

(Review by Snehith Kumbla)

 

Poetry Reads: Rat Race by John Agard

Now, I haven't read The Puffin Book of Poetry for Children in its entirety, but a selection of poems from this collection appeared a few years ago in a daily tabloid complete with cute illustrations.

It was an unintentional, ironical moment for a tabloid otherwise known for its scandalous gossip mongering content and colour photographs of beautiful women in swimsuits. Children were clearly not their target audience. Anyway, I had cut out the selection and preserved the published verse in my collage book, which I unearth here. This poem is by John Agard, a Afro-Guyanese poet and children's writer, presently living in Britain.

For starters, rat race is an urban term often used in relation to excessive, fruitless work done either individually or collectively. Positively viewed, it is a term meant to invoke reflection and change from a busy and stressful routine of toiling with the expectation of little reward. An article I had written on the 'I am busy' culture can be read here. 

Meanwhile, here is the poem.


Rat Race
by John Agard

Rat Race?
Don't make us laugh.
It's you humans
who're always in a haste.

Ever seen a rat
in a bowler hat
rushing to catch a train?

Ever seen a rat
with a briefcase
hurrying through the rain?

And isn't it a fact
that all that hurry-hurry
gives you humans heart
attacks?

No, my friend,
we rats relax.

Pass the cheese,
please.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Poetry Reads: Body, Remember.... by C.P. Cavafy

Ahoy, Wolf here and in this scorching Indian summer I allow myself to go astray in search of sensuous verse. The work presented here is translated from the Greek poetry of Constantine P. Cavafy (1863 - 1933).

A celebration of the body ensues, for the poet speaks to this temple of flesh, bone and soul as if it were a different person.We can thus safely assume that Cavafy is making a conversation with himself in sweet remembrance of his amorous trysts. There is also gratitude for the love made, and the joy of letting go is emphasized in the following lines.      

Body, Remember....
by C.P. Cavafy

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds you lay on,
but also those desires that glowed openly
in eyes that looked at you,
trembled for you in the voices—
only some chance obstacle frustrated them.
Now that it’s all finally in the past,
it seems almost as if you gave yourself
to those desires too—how they glowed,
remember, in eyes that looked at you,
remember, body, how they trembled for you in those voices.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Comic Book Reads: The Complete Peanuts (1950 To 1952) by Charles M Schulz

For those who have enjoyed the wit, endearing artwork, humour, unexpected poignancy, wisdom and sheer joy of the Peanuts comic strip, this is a must buy. 

Canongate Books deserve applause for coming out with the complete, detailed collection of 25 books that cover the comic strip's entire 50-year illustrated history, tastefully done in hardcover. And of course, hats off to Charles M.Schulz, who lived and breathed the strip for most of his life. Incidentally, Schulz passed away a day before the last strip was to appear in newspapers all over the world.

This particular collection is special for it contains the complete first two years of the strip, right from the first one with the opening line - "Well! Here comes ol' Charlie Brown!". The characters looked a lot different than how they were drawn in the later years.These were early days for Schulz, we can see him still figuring out each character's look and behaviour.

As American author and radio host Garrison Keillor reveals in the introduction, Charlie Brown was a reflection of Schulz's tormented childhood. We  instantly connect with Brown, for like all of us, he has his growing up issues. He is troubled by his constant failure in managing his baseball team. His lack of self-esteem,  loneliness, inability to talk love to girls, all come to the fore.  The important thing is, despite the odds, Charlie Brown keeps trying.

Then there is Snoopy, who, like the Indian drama's 'vidushak', provides comic relief with straight-faced humour. Be it Snoopy's attempts at writing stories that all begin with the line - 'It was a dark and stormy night', his love for cookies, multiple disguises and witticisms, Snoopy is a comic-strip dog like no other.

Additional characters make Peanuts stand out, giving it an epic family feel. Take the forever sour Lucy, an embodiment of an elder sister. Catch her younger siblings Linus and Rerun cower; sometimes get back at her in their own cute, harmless way. Peppermint Patty,  a loyal friend to Linus, reminds us of school friends who stubbornly stuck to our side. Woodstock, a little whisk of a bird with his comma filled interactions with Snoopy provides cute festival decoration to the legendary strip.  

To conclude: No adult characters have ever been featured in a Peanuts strip, ever!

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Short Story Reads:The Verger by W Somerset Maugham

Just like the friends we make, certain writers have the knack of bonding with readers through their works. During my teens, I struck a friendship with the most unlikeliest of writers - a certain William Somerset Maugham (1874-1965). 

As it goes with two peaceful souls, our relationship has been harmonious.Neither has tried to communicate with the other yet, stuck as we are on either sides of the graveyard. Jokes apart, I read most of Maugham's works during my teen years, thanks to The British Library, Ahmedabad - from the forgotten short story collection The Casuarina Tree to his best novels - Cakes and Ale, Up at the Villa and The Moon and Sixpence. 

Rereading certain Maugham's works does tell us that they haven't stood the test of time and are not as relevant today. Yet, the writer's persisting legacy are his short stories.

My favourite Maugham short stories emanate universal truths, surprise, compassion and delight. An otherwise melancholic and serious writer is clearly enjoying himself in these tales. One such classic, cheeky story is The Verger. It is not the O Henry-like twist, but the absurd happy turn of circumstance that is celebrated here. A change of guard, discovery of illiteracy, unemployment and a business idea makes up this breezy tale. Read it here.    

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Short Story Reads: The Lighthouse Keeper Of Aspinwall by Henryk Sienkiewicz

I do not know what to say emphatically about the much-imposed love for the country. To love human beings, trees, rivers, mountains, waterfalls, or a gentle evening breeze is more fulfilling. 

In comparison, the whole idea of patriotism seems manufactured. The way armies man borders and war makes killing acceptable and dying heroic, only proves that human beings are still possessed by fierce territorial blindness.

All other creatures on the planet kill in sheer instinct for food and survival, and are otherwise in harmony, what does that make us then?   

These thoughts surge in the wake of a poignant story I just finished reading. 

It concerns an old man, his life of misfortune, his search for solitude, the sea's vastness, and the faraway aroma of the homeland.

The Lighthouse Keeper of Aspinwall (1881) is a story originally written in Polish and tells of another kind of longing, a desire associated with birthplace, geography, culture, people, and land. 

About the writer

Here's a lesson in Polish names and a pronunciation exercise combined in one. The full name of the writer of this luminous story, Henryk Adam Aleksander Pius Sienkiewicz (1846 - 1916).

Conferred the 1905 Nobel Prize in Literature, the strong vigour of patriotism in Sienkiewicz's works stems from his father's family, who played a major role in the fight for Polish independence. The writer was so loved in Poland that funds were successfully raised to buy his family's ancestral castle for him in 1900.    

Endnote 

Draped with the completeness and girth of a short story, an atmosphere that matches a novella for its fluid verbosity and reflection, here is the link to The Lighthouse Keeper of Aspinwall. 

Happy reading!

(Review by Snehith Kumbla)

Short Story Reads: The Mark of Vishnu: Stories by Khushwant Singh

This compact Penguin Evergreens edition (first published in 2011) contains ten of Khushwant Singh's short stories.

Singh's writing style is akin to an entertaining newspaper article, adorned with a layman's vocabulary and easy to comprehend. 

Cheekiness and biting satire stand out in this collection. The straight-faced effect of the words is the author mocking at mindless conventions, traditions and cruelties. 

On to the stories now. 

The Mark of Vishnu is an early Khushwant (1950). 

It conveys with a fatality, the foolishness of stubborn beliefs. The Mulberry Tree is an insightful story of how a middle-aged man's loneliness and brush with death leads him to disillusion. A Bride for the Sahib is a post-independence tale of an arranged marriage, cultural aloofness and its tragic implications.

The Bottom-pincher is a mischievous tale with its study of high-society perversion and hypocrisy. The Black Jasmine dwells on sexuality and old age. Death comes to Daulat Ram tells of the effect impending death has on us, has a surprising whisk of the supernatural, unusual in a Khushwant Singh story.

The Portrait of a Lady is the most endearing story of the collection. It tells of a grandmother - seen through her grandson's eyes, her stoop and wrinkles get through. The story winds up with an inevitable, poetic demise.The Riot brims in catharsis and violence and brings forth how humans can be more demonic than animals.

Two damning stories make up the book's fag end. The Voice of God tells of a electoral masquerade that could be happening anywhere in rural India. 

Much of the attention that Zora Singh draws is through its casual narration of how a sycophant becomes a Member of Parliament and is awarded the Bharat Ratna!

Underrated, misinterpreted

All through his writing career, Singh has had the habit of getting carried away while describing anything sexual, a characteristic the late writer attributed to senility, leading to crass, bordering on soft porn novels like The Company of Women (1999). But no such frivolities mark the stories collected here. 

The tales tell of Khushwant, the journalist and writer with a keen eye and curiousity for life - and the way people go about it. This collection features the writer at his restrained best. 

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Comic Book Reads: Batman - The World of the Dark Knight

Batman - The World of the Dark Knight is a 200-page odd hardcover encyclopedic compilation of all the things you wanted to know about Gotham's caped crusader. Published in 2012, the mesh of well-designed content, collected artwork and boggling details is a sweet addiction for the trivia-gobbling Batman fanatic. Hold your breath while I take you on a brief tour:

• When and how did Batman make his Detective Comics (DC) debut - Check. 
• Detail of every inch of the Batsuit, its accessories and alterations over the years - Check. 
• A magnifying glass view of the Batcave - Check.
• Detailed descriptions of the Batmobile and Bat-Vehicles - Check.
• The Batman origin story - Double Check.
• Batman's diet, training and physical attributes - Yes.
• The best Batman quotes - Totally.
• Bruce Wayne's character profile - Aha!
• All you wanted to know about Wayne Manor, Arkham Asylum, Wayne Enterprises and Gotham City - Yeah.
• How about Robin? - His whole file is laid out here.
• Alfred, Commissioner Gordon and Lucius Fox - Laid bare.
• Batman's friends, allies, villians, love life - All there.
• Batman's comic book evolution from his 1937 debut to the landmark comic issues that defined him - Spread out nicely. 

I hate to word it in cliche, for the book contains - a lot more...

Even if you are delirious about Batman, there is too much here to imbibe in one sitting, this is more like a sturdy thing you can pick from the bookshelf, whenever the trivia mood takes over.

(Review by Snehith Kumbla)

Conversations: Quiet Happiness by Natasha Nair

Natasha Nair is an Abu Dhabi-based landscape architect, and Quiet Happiness is her first collection of poetry. The interviewer received a copy of the book through his friend Shardul Akolkar, a Pune based music composer.

Most of the poems look inwardly, the poetess is usually having conversations with herself. Rhyme is faithfully put to use; two little poems particularly caught my eye - one on Istanbul and the other on Scotland. Here is the interview:       

SK: How did you end up writing poetry, when and how was your first poem written?

NN: I am a self-proclaimed day dreamer. Because dreams during the day can be creatively woven by the mind!

Day dreaming translated into doodling…that’s how I started writing I guess. Being left handed, as a child, I always wrote the alphabets as their mirror images. It took me some time to differentiate between drawing and writing back then. Thus some forms on paper became words…and I learnt to arrange them. Secretly, I started loving this exercise…and so poetry happened to me!

I still remember when I was around seven or eight years old…and I was on a sick leave from school. My mother suggested that I try writing what I feel …And I did! My first poem described my little pet kitten’s soft white fur and blue eyes…

SK:What inspired you to bring out the poetry collection - Quiet Happiness?

NN: I have always loved to capture memories in descriptions, photos and sketches. I love celebrating life with all bad things cropped off and only beauty preserved. I thought a collection of poems that I had written through the highs and lows of life in the tangible form of a book would best arrest my humble life story that could touch many other lives and be passed on even after my spirit leaves this world…something that nobody can take away from me!

Living in this multi-cultural land of the Middle East gave me the perfect balance between personal and professional life. I continued to juggle a career and an inspiring motherhood with a dash of art. That brought a quiet sense of satisfaction. Hence the name – “Quiet Happiness”.

SK: When do you know that a poem is ready and nothing more needs to be added or omitted?

NN: I believe in writing in the moment…to pour out the feeling when it exists in my heart. At times, when I go back and read my poem again, I feel I could revise some lines…but the emotion to be conveyed holds more importance to me. Nonetheless somewhere my mind just knows when to stop.

Like in architectural design, we sometimes had to return to the tracing sheet to get back to the design done two days before…it’s a process of evolution that largely depends on personal style. My writing has now transformed into a denser and crisper form as opposed to overflowing verses from my book quietHappiness. It’s here that I quote from a letter written by famous artist Vincent Van Gogh, when his brother criticized his painting ‘The Potato Eaters” - “I am always doing what I can’t do, yet, in order to learn how to do it.” This inspires me to continue writing without thinking of imprecisions.

SK: Do tell us about the book design - how were the cover images, book images, design and font selected?

NN: After moving to the UAE, with ease of travel, my husband and I developed a keen interest in photography. The book design was almost ready in my head when I decided to have my poems published. I wanted it to be simple, emphasizing more on the written matter than on any other graphic art. The cover image is a photo from our travel album of Mykonos, Greece. The flowing curtain with the sea beyond seemed to be an inviting image that fitted the dreamy nature of the book. The other images from the book are from our travel albums in India, Greece, Scotland, Jordan, Istanbul and the most precious snapshots of my baby boy.

The font is Adobe Calson Pro - bold for titles and italics for poems as it is not too decorative or too technical in appearance. The book design was done by me using InDesign software and the cover design, by my husband, in Photoshop.

SK: How does your profession influence your poetry writing?

NN: Architecture is not only a profession, but it has become a way of life. My life is my quietHappiness and quietHappiness is my life. My profession has taught me to explore all the creative sides of this life and extend design not only to drawing, painting, photography and poetry but to incorporate it in home interiors, fashion and each and every small product that can be custom made. My poetry stems from this aesthetic virus that architecture sowed in my impressionable romantic mind years ago.

SK: Who are your favourite poets, authors?

NN: The poetic works of Rabindranath Tagore - Gitanjali, have been the biggest inspiration for me. His timeless earthy writings never fail to pass a chill through my spine…and I feel…what a thought! When the effect of a poem is so profound that any number of translations cannot erase its depth, that’s real poetry!

In the new age, I like many poems…not really a specific poet. I like poetry that displays variety in structure or rhyme. I am experimenting with new forms now. But in my book, most of my poems follow a rhythmic structure and alternate rhyming pattern. In new age authors, I like Arundhati Roy’s writing style in The God of Small Things…the way she nails the descriptions of things with a childlike innocence…

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(Poetry enthusiasts may note that at the time of writing, Quiet Happiness is available for sale at Popular Book House, Deccan Gymkhana, Pune.)

(Interview by Snehith Kumbla)

Poetry Reads: Leisure by WH Davies

This is a poem I love quoting to the busy bodies of the world, especially the first two lines, and on its utterance, the effect is usually of silent agreement or a sigh of resignation. I am yet to witness an iota of protest on its rendering, understandably so, for the lines of WH Davies stand out more noticeably than they ever did before. 

Scour you eyes a little over the urban landscape. People seem to be always on the run, the instruments of distraction are manifold now - the television screen is passe, we have cell phones, laptops, iPads, gaming consoles, social networking sites, unreasonably expensive shopping malls, choked-up traffic and mayhem. Not one lingering moment, no simple singularity of pleasure and in such blind, floating conditions the words stand out sparkling and true.   

Leisure

by WH Davies

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs,

And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)