Metamorphosis

An insignificant paragraph in the newspaper mentioned that "the city had registered a rise in daytime temperature," a high temperature of 38 degrees Celsius had been recorded yesterday. Compared to the normal expected temperature of 34, this sharp rise heralded the beginning of a long summer. It is the same each year, the cool first few weeks of the New year give way to warm rays of the sun right after Sankranti. Nature then turns on the thermostat on the occasion of Mahashivratri, which was celebrated last week. Now comes the final whiff of moderate heat before the sun god, ably aided by the wind, takes a deep breath on the day of Holi and showers us with a great puff of hot air along with the delicate colors of spring.

I don't need a weather report or a thermometer to tell me when summer arrives. My internal sensing mechanism kicks in around this time each year. Severe pain in the neck and shoulders, migraines and sinus pains are the signs that help me get into my metamorphosis mode. I am not a caterpillar that spins out of a chrysalis to become a butterfly but more like a lame bumble bee who turns into a bat each summer. From a diurnal creature I turn into a nocturnal one. I strictly stay indoors during the hours of 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. and venture out tentatively only when twilight sets in. In case I absolutely need to step out during the day, I cover my head with a cap or my faithful dupatta, wrap those brand new Fastrack sunglasses around my eyes and armed with a cold bottle of water, I get into my air-conditioned car to get to my destination.

I give up my favorite morning cup of tea and take to unlimited servings of lime juice, coconut water and buttermilk instead. I eat less, obsess about hydration and SPF. I pray for the monsoons to arrive. And if all else fails, I leave the city for cooler locations. Last year I was fortunate to run off to the US. Where can I go this summer?

Perhaps the weatherman has sent me a veiled message with the weather report - time to make travel arrangements!!

Happy International Women's Day

It began early this morning - emails and text messages wishing me on this day that has been set aside to celebrate women. Some congratulate me on being a good mother and ask me to forward it to other mothers. Some mushy messages claiming "life is incomplete without women" arrive from people I hardly know. There are some that emphasize the differences between the genders and highlight only the good part of being a woman.

I wonder if all this fuss is warranted. After all women make up half the human population on this planet. We really are not an exotic species. And while we have specific emotional characteristics which make us the nurturers, we are as fallible as the next man, afflicted as we are with the common imperfections of being human.

I think it is best that we celebrate not just womanhood, which is a part of who we are, but our own identities as individuals, trying to do our best with our life; by being kind, humble and grateful for our blessings.

My best wishes to all women today - May your day be as unique and special as you are.
(quoted from my favorite email of the day)

Eat Pray Love - Movie Review

Yesterday I watched the motion picture version of Eat Pray Love, a book I had enjoyed reading almost a year ago, at Evening Hour. It is an author's job to bring her character's to life, in the imagination of the reader and as individual readers, we have unique visuals for the same written word. So is the case when one director chooses to make a movie based on a book, the reader is curious to see how another person has visualized the same written word. Of course it helped that Julia Roberts was playing the central character, Elizabeth Gilbert, the author, whose year-long spiritual journey had been chronicled in the book.

The thought that crossed my mind as the final credits rolled, with Liz sailing off into the sunset with her new beau was that the movie was too long. The highlight of the movie was the fantastic cinematography where the essence of the three exotic locations Italy, India and Indonesia (Bali, specifically) were captured lovingly in the frames. Julia Roberts pulled off the character of the tormented Liz who escapes her New York life (a city that seemed bereft of its normal vibrancy, reflecting the mental state of the heroine) to find herself. In the darkened frames in various cities Julia appears far from her "Pretty Woman" image but she does justice to the part nevertheless. Interesting characters cross her path, from Sofi,Giovanni and Luca Spaghetti (really!) in Rome to Tulsi and Richard from Texas at the unidentified ashram in India and of course, Ketut, Wayan and Felipe in Bali. The movie comes across as serious cinema with a sprinkling of comic elements, romance, heartbreak and friendships. An honest depiction of human life and its similarities across the globe. But it felt too long.

I had not thought of the book as being too long but the book did have 108 chapters (of varying length) dealing with the major parts of the story. It is unfair to compare the movie with the book and to judge it inferior, not because it strays from the story (which this one does not) but because it does not match your visualization of it. In my opinion, where the movie falls short is in reflecting the dark humor and sometimes, the irreverent amusement that Gilbert infuses into her book when she describes her experiences. I missed some of the other characters in the book that do not show up and also some of the key turning points in her journey.

If you haven't read the book, please watch the movie. And if you have already read the book, perhaps the movie will make you do the same thing that it did to me - want to read the book again.

From me to you - Book review

It is not really a book. It is a collection of articles written by Sathya Saran, ex-editor of Femina who wrote the eponymous column over a period of a decade. The tagline says, "Writings on love, life and learning" and the collection stays true to this promise. Divided into sections named Encounters, Musings, Cityscapes, Tangents and perspectives and Reflections on nature, we get a glimpse into Sathya's mind as she wrestles with several issues. Most of her inspirations are taken from her daily life. As a resident of Mumbai, there is mention of encounters in the ubiquitous local trains, musings on human nature when it comes to destroying mother nature's bounty, common people who trigger uncommon musings in this thoughtful woman.

Sathya Saran comes across as one among that rare species of famous woman who has a heart and is not afraid to wear it on her sleeve. Her penchant for saving trees lined up for ruthless cutting, or her fanaticism about not encouraging the use of plastic bags make her a lovable activist since she also allows us to glimpse into her fallacies as the time she has to face the reality that she needs reading glasses, or when she discovers that she has turned into someone she does not recognize and wants to find herself. I identified with so many of her articles, it was almost like hearing a close friend narrate an incident from yesterday until you come across her writing about meeting Gloria Steinem or Maharani Gayatri Devi and you realize that Sathya Saran hobnobs with the beautiful and famous. Which makes her wonderful writing all the more precious. To move among the rich and royal, in a world focused on outer beauty and show, to keep alive the flame of a spirit that cares, for nature, for regular people and turn an ordinary daily event into one that is memorable is indeed a formidable accomplishment.

Sathya Saran's writing is extremely poetic, each word chosen precisely and lovingly, considering that the column must have had a word limit. I wished some of the topics had been dwelt upon longer. The other possible improvement could have been the quality of the paper and printing, by Westland. But this slim book is a treat, both to read and to treasure for reading over and over again, whenever you feel jaded with the monotony of life.

Gulzar says in the blurb on the back cover that "Sathya Saran could have been a poet..... should have been a poet", I could not agree more.

Food fight

These are times when everyone with even an iota of talent in the performing arts appears to be on TV, battling with other mediocre contestants to win dance and music competitions. The judges usually are as insipid as the anchors and the elaborate sets and loud orchestra cannot cover-up the sad performances. Then you switch channels and come across some crass reality shows with people choosing their mates or hurling abuses at roommates. And you wonder about the marvels of digital TV that brings into your home, unlimited choices of low quality, mind-numbing, so-called entertainment.

But there is one competitive show that I really like. It all began with Masterchef Australia. The three famous chefs first selecting from a large group of amateur cooks and then challenging them through a series of pressure tests, invention tests, team challenges, mystery box challenges and encounters with celebrity chefs to transform them into professional chef material, made for excellent TV viewing. The accomplished chefs managed to bring a combination of passion, mentoring and true interest to influence the motley group of eager learners, many of whom dabbled in cooking as a hobby prior to trying that hand at being Masterchef. The futuristic shiny steel counters, large pantries and refrigerators, the top quality ingredients used to make and present food that looked like artwork, too perfect to eat, was a great treat just to watch vicariously as the judges sampled the dishes, gave their opinions, sometimes praising lavishly, at other times harsh but specific in their criticism, always with a view to help the contestant improve.

I was disappointed when the show ended with Adam as the winner. So when Masterchef USA began on StarWorld, a couple of weeks ago, I was happy to once again get caught up in the excitement of choosing another winner. This show was a little different, at least the parts that were shown on TV. Reflecting the multicultural society of America, the contestants were from different races and backgrounds including a woman of Indian origin who made it to the top four. But the celebrity judges were very rude, there was a lot of swearing (beeping), with the rounds moving fairly quickly. There were hardly any "masterclasses" where invited chefs came and revealed their famous recipes and trained the amateurs. But this show also came to an end, a little too soon, I thought, with 22 year old Whitney, a girl from Mississippi, who won fair and square. It was a happy moment to see how a young person from a small town, with a passion for food and the ambition to start her own catering business could get to the top prize with sheer determination and single-minded focus. It was a lesson I hope other young viewers also take to heart.

At such times, the idiot box redeems itself.

Queen of Dreams - Book Review

After a long time, I found myself reading a novel by an NRI. I have admired Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni's work for a long time, specially during the years when I was an NRI myself and developed an interest in writing. I have read most of her novels and am a great fan of her poetic style of narration. Like all authors, she has figured out a formula that works and keeps churning out novels that are interesting, on seemingly diverse topics while keeping the core theme common. Her earlier novels like Mistress of Spices and even the more contemporary ones like Sister of My Heart and Vine of Desire, have a magic realism element where the unexplained old traditions of the old country (India) lie side by side with up-to-date descriptions of freeways and bridges of the United States.

Queen of Dreams reads a lot like Mistress of Spices, right from the title itself which to me sounded uncannily similar. But true to the formula, the story begins deceptively as the life of painter and single-mother Rakhi who also co-owns Chai House, a eatery in Berkeley, California with her Sikh friend, Belle. The monotonous life of American-born daughter of immigrant Bengali parents who refuse to talk about their country of origin would have been a dreadful bore if Rakhi's mother had not been a "dream teller". A novel concept of people who have the gift of dreaming the dreams of others and can be trained by cult of women is brought into the narrative through the dream journals kept by Rakhi's mother who has this gift. Rakhi's father appears to be a bystander, largely ignorant of this part of his wife's life and only an incidental character in Rakhi's formative years when her mother's mysterious aura captivates her completely. Jona, Rakhi's little daughter and Sonny the ex-husband play important roles which are lovingly described in the chapters. Rakhi's ambivalence towards the relationship shared by her ex-husband and child, the fascination for India, the mysterious country that is not spoken about, the frustration of dealing with the creative dry spell in her paintings and the competition small neighborhood businesses face from large faceless corporations are dealt with finesse.

The writing is beautiful. Some of the prose reads like poetry, Banerjee liberally uses similes and metaphors that say a thousand words. Some examples that stayed with me were "Inside me the thoughts I have been battling wait like submerged rocks in a river", "When I opened my eyes, the house was in front of me, like a woman kneeling with her arms open." For the most part, the story moves a tad too slowly. After a fatal road accident, while translating the dream journals from her native Bengali, Rakhi's father starts bonding with Rakhi as they both discover the secrets of the woman who was a central but aloof presence in their life. It is Rakhi's father who helps her find the elusive recipe for making her eatery a success and deal with the aftermath of the attack on the World Trade Center that affects all non-white immigrants in America.

The book is an interesting read, written predominantly for a westernized audience, with liberal doses of mystical masalas that are implied as being part of the lives of Indians in India; a cocktail of flavors that always satisfies its hungry audience of readers, both resident and non-resident Indians.

Why is it that we overlook the magnificence of our neighborhood and venture to faraway lands to find natural and man-made wonders to appreciate? The thought crossed my mind while standing on the first floor of the Charminar and looking at the bustling old city which must have been new in the 15th century when the Charminar was constructed.

Thanks to my friend Anupama's insistence that we visit Charminar, we spent a leisurely Sunday, admiring the artistic elegance of the Charminar and appreciating the grandeur of the Nizam's as we toured the Chowmohalla Palace.

Enjoy some pictures.