Remembering my Grandmother

It’s been two weeks since my grandmother passed away now, and I’m sitting writing this in the airport.  I learnt about it, when my mother messaged me over Whatsapp, as I was pulling into the parking lot at work. The first thing I tried to do was to call up my parents. My dad was too choked up to talk. And then I cried, briefly, quickly; I had a call I had set up for 9:30 AM that it was too late to cancel. I pulled myself together and took it. I kept my voice low, and I don’t think anyone on the call realized. And then, I sat at my desk, trying to cry quietly, until my manager came and stopped shocked. I cried to her, and then I got back to work, and every hour, every so often, I would find tears rising to my eyes again and again. But the body and mind are resilient, and there’s nothing like burying yourself in work for getting over grief, and the first time I laughed after the news, at a joke that someone told at work, I was shocked; the sound seemed too loud to my ears. I’ve laughed many times since then, with my friends, with my cousins, but sometimes, as I think of her, when someone talks about her, as I write this now, my throat tightens up, and my eyes grow hot.

I guess I didn’t actually believe that she would die so soon. It wasn’t that I thought she was particularly strong – she was delicate and fragile, the volume of her seemed to be made more of the sari she was wearing than flesh and blood. But I guess I thought she wouldn’t die simply because she was mine- my grandmother, and surely, she couldn’t be taken away so quickly, before I saw her one more time, before I was ready to let go. But the truth is, I was never going to be ready to say good-bye. But her death has made the pillars of my world seem a little more brittle, and I look my remaining grandparents with just a little fear, and hold on just a little tighter than I would have a year ago.  The distance between the US and India, bridged so easily by flights, phones and email, suddenly seemed interminable.

She was, as I said, a small person. She lived simply. Her affection was shown in small gestures, nothing effusive; the small box of paal khoa  pressed into my hand as I was leaving; coming home to freshly made fried diamond pakodams.

                                                                                                                          

When I was young, she lived in my uncle’s house. I visited weekly, on Saturday, and she would attempt to teach me the Veena. I was an indifferent student, but she tried her best. She lived in our house in first in Tiruvanmiyur and then, in Alwarpet for many years, and the image of her every morning, playing the Veena in the swami room, humming along, even as her fingers grew stiff, Nuggy watching from the doorway (he wasn’t allowed to enter), sticks with me.

She was very fond of Nuggy, of all my uncle’s dogs, and of animals in general. She’d feed the squirrels and the birds with the leftovers every day. She was often the one to feed Nuggy too, tearing up the chappatti’s into small bits, rolling the rice into little balls, because he was such a spoilt brat of a dog. And if he rebelled, she’d call one of us, to coax him into eating.

When my sister was young, I remember her reading the Narnia books out to her. It didn’t occur to me until many years later, that she too might like reading for its own sake (just like I did), when I saw her reading Jane Austen. Generations, its seems, are not really that far apart.

She had other hobbies as well, crochet, cross-stitch. I don’t know if anything remains in the house of any of the pieces that she did.

 Most of my life, she was active, healthy. She would walk (and sometimes I would go with her, from our house to the bus stand. She’d walk from my uncle’s house to her sister’s place. It was only when she visited me in the US, some years ago, that I realized that age had slowly caught up with her.

We’d gone to Washington D.C. for July 4^th, and walked down to the park to watch the fireworks. She’d leaned on my arm all the way there and back, and for the first time, I realized that age was catching up to her. I wish I’d been a better host that time. I remember not being able to take much time off, searching frantically for some misplaced souvenir, being short and snappish, when we came back from Niagara. The trinket didn’t really matter at all. I wish I’d realized that then.

She and her sister were very close, all the way through to the end. When I was young, I would visit Anamma’s house every weekend; see her and maama; they would reminisce for a while before Appa came. I would pluck pink flowers from the vine in the garden. Kumar Maama would give me stamps. Anamma would give me kalkand when we left. When Anamma grew old, when she could barely recognize anyone else, she always still knew her sister.

Going back for the ceremonies, there is a small absence (she was not a large person), though of course, thoughts of her are more present than ever before. Still, it is jarring as I consciously realize, that I will never again ask where she is (when I go to see her), how she is (over the phone). There is really nothing that I would have said that needed to be said, if I saw her again. Still, I wish I had seen her one more time, spoken to her once more. But once more would never be enough. It will have to be enough.

Meeting Paul Theroux

Paul Theroux had an event in San Fransisco yesterday, and I was so excited about attending. I'd first read his books about a year ago, when my mom got a copy of "The Great Railway Bazaar" at the Palo Alto Library Book Sale, and I was incredibly impressed by the funny, witty, observant author.

And then I went to his talk yesterday. And was incredibly disappointed in the man. He was still funny (though the best zinger of the night came from the interviewer). But he wasn't the open minded, welcoming person I had expected.

Most of the talk centered around his new book, "Deep South" (which I haven't read), and he was talking about his inspiration to write it. And he talked about being in Africa, about how depressing it was there, with every person he met wanting to come to the US and drive taxis here in search of a better life. Why not, he asked, teach or do something else to make Africa better? I suppose that would be a fair question - but it is so lacking in self awareness. How does he think the US was populated? He is not a descendent of the Native Americans who lived here, but of the people who travelled from Europe looking for a better life - land, freedom - the same things, now, the immigrants from other parts of the world are looking for - so how can you deny to them, what your own ancestors got so many years ago?

Then some commentary on how corporations love to work in dictatorships - because all they have to do is work with one person who gets things done. First of all, I don't think this is true- yes, its true that one person has all control; but its also true that that one person can nationalize or throw you out at anytime for any reason, which would make it an incredibly risky proposition, compared to a place which has a working legal system. And he recommends that NGO's should not work in these dictatorships - so that the people can experience the worst, and they will rebel. Well, take Syria for example. There has been rebellion there, and now its just all out fighting from every direction. Is that what he wants for the rest of the continent?

His comments on outsourcing, seeing only the negative effects of globalization and trade - its all well and good, when US is the exporter I suppose, not so good when others compete. He lacks logic, and is all driven by emotion for the last thing he saw which moved him, and for something close to home, which he thinks should be just as it was fifty years ago.

Someone asked him about his friendship with VS Naipaul, why the friendship broke down, how they patched up. He described it as being due to the jealousy of Naipaul's second wife, who was suspicious of the first (dead) wife's friends. And the reconciliation due to his own magnanimity, being moved to pity an old and frail Naipaul. What an extraordinary ego.

I am disappointed, because from the book I read, I expected a deeper more nuanced person. And what I found was a more articulate version of Donald Trump. Far from a great thinker, he is now a person who is better off introducing himself as the uncle of Jennifer Aniston's husband, and in a century he will only be remembered as the frenemy of a Nobel Prize winner. 

The Justin de Quincy series

So long since I've written anything bookish!

So I was all sick and fluey over the weekend, which severely limited my activities, and so I took the opportunity to catch up on some reading.

It so happened that I'd picked up a lovely hardback copy of Sharon Kay Penman's "Cruel as the Grave" at Half Price Books during the the Bay Area Book Fest . I'd been sitting on it for a while, not sure if I really wanted to read an amateur mystery from an author I knew best as a great historical novelist.



But in this book, Sharon Kay Penman really plays to her strengths, bringing out the details of life in medieval Britain. Her protagonist, Justin de Quincy is very likable, the historical characters are believable, and the story makes its way to a satisfactory conclusion.

I love that the author is able to bring out the shades of gray in both the villains (such as Prince John) and the heroes of the story. John especially made a great anti-hero. Maybe it was the shades of Loki in the character that made him so sympathetic.

The book was inspiring enough for me to buy and read the rest of the series(The Queen's Man, Dragon's Lair, and Prince of Darkness in the next few days (even sneaking in a few pages on my iPhone at work), and now I'm itching for a fifth. Here's hoping for more.  

Return to Blogging

Its been so long since I've written anything at all, it feels almost strange. The words don't flow as easily as they used to. But writing is a habit I don't want to lose. There are so many distractions, online and offline, it takes a real effort of will to sit down and write when my feelings and thoughts are so easily swept away by every little buzz and ping that comes my way, and I wonder if I have the same emotional and verbal depth I had ten years ago.

But Facebook is such an ephemeral, "happy-happy" place, the photos, links and occasional post don't do justice.

So what do I have to say? Its been a great week for a lot of people in the US, but one huge thing which impacts me personally remains unresolved - immigration reform. And so I wait, another 6 years here, another 10 years there... And every so often paying my dues to get my visa stamped.

While I wait, I house hunt and the Bay Area market looks crazier than ever. Will this ever subside? The balance of power seems terrifyingly skewed, with multiple offers, no contingencies, offers way over asking and so on. Isn't it time for a stock market correction already?

Now that I've joined a book club...

My enthusiasm for reading has returned. A lot of it, granted, has been cheap YA reads, easy on the wallet and not very taxing on the mind either. But a few really good suggestions have come my way. One was Hugh Howey's 'Wool' series, which takes me back to my time with Asimov, or the Battlestar Galactica marathon that I did not so long ago. Books like that remind me that the best sci-fi, is not about technology, but about people. It's about how people react to change, or to lack of change; what would they do if ... something... was made possible - mind control, space flight, robots, immortality. These are not simply academic questions. Some of them could become real. And in some of the best sci-fi you can see things that have happened- history in a different context, stripped of your own preconceptions of it, allowing you to see it in a new light.

DO NOT discuss politics...

... with me. I don't care if I agree with everything you say. Whether you're being logical or irrational. Completely objective or taking a very personal viewpoint. I don't care if you're Democrat, Republican, libertarian or none of the above. When you're trying to shove your ideas down my throat, you still come off as a d*****bag. And even if I completely agree with you (waaaay inside), I will disagree with everything you say just out of sheer irritation.

Teen reads

I was surprised by how good Suzanne Collins' Mockingjay series is. I started out with the 'Hunger Games' last month on a trip to a cabin in the woods in Ohio, and then have been reading the others as and when I found the time. 'Catching Fire', I bought from a second hand book shop in the Bay Area and read on the flight. 'Mockingjay' I read this weekend, having been ordered to take a break and destress for a bit.

I loved the first book. I really liked the post-apocalyptic world. How people have obviously moved past, but not better - still very much as people are now. I loved the sort of history repeating itself feeling. Of course, the author herself says so at the end, but it did feel very much like the old Roman circuses, people being made to fight to death in a modern arena.

While the last book wasn't as enjoyable from a story perspective, I thought it brought out very well that being on the side of 'the good' does not make you a good person.

In other news, I have been taking full advantage of my Amazon Prime membership to rewatch the entire 'Yes, Minister' series, getting the entire value for money.

Oh Ironies

The Gods must have been laughing as I read E.M. Forster's 'Passage to India' on the way back - from India to Michigan', on the flight. The book was considered enlightened in its time - it presents a case when a British lady wrongly accuses an Indian man of assault, and while a daring proposition in its time, the broad generalizations, stereotyping of race, religion and sex indicate that while the author may have broken down one barrier significant other remain.

What makes the book beautiful (in my eyes) is the incredible detail in characterization, analysis of people's motivations, their reactions, their understanding as coloured by their experiences. These things remain true regardless of how far in the future you go. The rose coloured shades that tint Aziz's meetings with Mrs. Moore, as though a couple of meetings made them close friends; the changing friendship between Fielding and Aziz; the miguided protection of Mahmoud Ali...

An event that particular caught me was when Adela asked Aziz about having multiple wives - what she thought was culturally sensitive, which he took as an insult - little events when the same thing has different meanings in different people's minds. Also, the jostling of servants, of doctors, the Anglo-Indians - each one trying to be a step above the rest - inequality not only in the broad sense, but each individual looking for ways to make themselves seem - or feel - a little superior.

Its a better book in the details, rather that the broad narrative that gives a glimpse into some of the ideas and emotions that could have led to the independence movement.

Politics from an economist

Which is really nothing new. I don't read Friedman or Krugman anymore with the expectation of academic analysis. But I expected better of Amartya Sen. Is it the natural course of things that once a person becomes famous they promptly pretend to be experts in every other field? For Amartya Sen, these fields include history, philosophy, theology and naturally, politics. Though everyone is an expert political commentator in their own heads.
When I started off with "The Argumentative Indian" I expected something a little more academic. I don't want to read the same commentary I can read in "The Hindu" every day! I expected some incredible insight into poverty alleviation or microfinance or base of pyramid. Instead, I got a "India has so much misrepresented history. A zillion years of civilization. A culture of tolerance" spiel. There was the occasional interesting point. What annoys me is that this is a book written primarily for the non-Indian. Maybe because that's where the money is (was).

India, A Different perspective - Shantaram

I'm still unsure as to whether this was a biography or a work of fiction... Its an amazing look into the underworld of Bombay (when it was still Bombay), the network of people that penetrate every aspect of the city - the ones who can put a man in jail and pull him out, who arrange for fake identities, smuggle jewels and drugs and guns, fund politicians, freedom fighters and terrorists, own mansions and slums and everything in between.

The story is a man discovering his love for India - not 'Incredible India' that is presented in glossy fliers, with its 'spirituality', 'history' and Bollywood song and dance - but very likely one that most respectable Indians themselves would rarely ever see.

There were parts of the book that I absolutely loved - the life in the slums, the description of the unwritten rules that keep life going there. The description of gang life and the power that the gangs wielded. And then there was the climax - which was sadly lacking. It was tragic - but also painfully unnecessary, and something of a plot device, I felt, a nice way to close all loops and leave the hero still alive. And how convenient that it ties up so nicely with everything going on in Afghanistan today. So an ending that could have been better.

Lionheart

I've been waiting for this book to come out for almost two years now, and I was jiggling with impatience - and juggling with the usual routine of exams and recruiting right when it was out, so it was Fall break before I got a chance to actually read it. So in a (not so) little cabin in Ohio, under the red and gold leaves (appropriate somehow for the Angevins), I read about the King who'd captured my imagination when I was really, really young, when I first read my mother's school-days history book -'The March of Time', and got all caught up in the idea of the medieval romance. Not so much in the current sense of 'falling in love' romance - but more the romantic sense of adventure and knights and kings and queens.

Sadly, it seems Penman has fallen in love with the concept too. I loved her books before, for joining the realism - the grit and violence, the moral ambiguity of the times. But this time around, her heroes and villians are in black and white, there's none of the blood and gore you'd expect of a war - the women are strong - which is great - but they also seem to be a little too modern - or is it my prejudice that they should be more reflective of their times?

What was good though (as always), was her understanding of the political machinations of that time. The changing loyalties - the understanding of the many things that may make or break an army at war - allies, strategy, politics, supply chain (something my prof would love to know about). But I did find Penman's political correctness a little annoying. Yes, she's writing it now, but I find it hard to believe that there were people who existed then, who were as open minded, of other cultures and ideas as she describes.

What was amazing to see was how much of what - if it had been pure fiction - I would have considered to be a plot device - was actually based on real events! A case of reality being stranger than fiction.

Altogether, a fairly good book. Unlike Penman's earlier ones, it wasn't a really heavy read - more like light literature - but I'm still looking forward to continuing Richard's story, his capture and ransom, and ending in King John.

Still Searching

'Siddhartha' is probably the book which has come closest to answering that big question that is the title of my blog. I've been meaning to read it for ages, but hadn't really got around to it until now. And now that I've read it what can I say?

The language - I suppose the translation, reads strangely in this day and age - a very effusive, passionate type of speaking, and writing, which doubles every emotion, and still keeps you constantly aware that this is a book, a story, not a could-have-been-reality.

The story is of a man's search for peace - the lessons he learns - no one more important than the other - that it is something to be lived, not taught, to be detached and to take no pride in his achievements - all of these we read, over and over, in every quasi-philosophical book. But the last piece of philosophy was interesting - to love something for what it was, not what it could be - to love and yet remain detached from it - to welcome both pain and joy as a part of life - to be able to love everything that life brings.

His journey is as important as the lessons he learns, and the most important lesson to us, I think, is that each person has to make the journey in their own way, has to want to make that journey, and each person takes a different path.

Doom and gloom

The talk of the last several weeks has of course, been the debt crisis - the US's all grown way out of proportion liabilities. The latest has been the S&P downgrade- well deserved in my opinion  - the credit rating agencies may not have a whole lot of credibility given their role in the subprime crisis - but its never too late to start building some rep. And much was made of the 2 trillion miscalculation - which sounds gigantic (it is gigantic) - except its only 10% of the total (20 trillion was miscalculated as 22 triliion). And if you ask me - that could very well be treated as a margin of error.

But the saddest thing in the last few weeks is not the apparent ending of good times on Wall Street (I doubt they're ended, honestly) - its the end of the space shuttle program. No, it doesn't make quite as good news as watching traders panicking on the floor, and we've all become far too used to seeing shuttles taking off for it to have any excitement at all - but it feels a little like the end of a dream. And there's no knowing if we'll ever get it back.

The International Space Station is going to be dropped into the sea in a few years, and putting a man on the moon- something that was achieved with computers that could be built on the back of a cellphone now - looks like an ever receding pipe dream. How was it that so much more was achieved with so much less, so many years ago? The same way the Egyptians built the pyramids maybe? 

In any case, it was the end of the Columbia space shuttle, that truly marked the decline for me - the markets will after all, rise again another day.  

The latest sensation

GRR Martin's 'A Song of Ice and Fire' series - which has become an enormous hit due to the HBO show. I tried it some years ago, but between the attempted murder of children (and it looked like a successful attempt to begin with), and the incest, some of the unpleasant characters, and the annoyingly switching character viewpoints, I decided to give it a miss. But when it had become so popular, I couldn't be seen to be the only one who hadn't read it, so there I was, starting all over again.

With a renewed determination to get past the gratuitous sex and violence, I sat down with the first book, 'A Game of Thrones'. It moves pretty fast, with something happening in almost every chapter, which may be hard to believe, given that its such an enormous book. But it's fast paced, well written, thoroughly plotted, and with an enormous cast of characters. It's somewhat based off the War of the Roses and other real historical events. And for someone used to the happy endings we usually see in fantasy novels, there are a couple of shockers. Martin explained it as wanting it to be like a 'real' war, where people you love die, not just several thousand extras, while the heroes are all safe.

For all that, while I became fond of a couple of characters, I didn't come to love them, as I have in other books. For one thing, with the different viewpoints, you see relatively little of each person, even in a 1000 page book. For another, part of the (dis)advantage of seeing the world entirely through one person's eyes is that you tend to agree with their opinions - because as far as the book goes, you have the same experiences; whereas with multiple viewpoints, its all too clear when people are being foolish, or venal, or just downright evil (though again, there are shockers - because you don't get to see everyone's viewpoint after all).

The second book in the series, ' A Clash of Kings' is when the battle actually breaks out. And more sides of the story begin to emerge - it began with the politics, now it extends to religion, by book 3 ('A Storm of Swords'), we have the banks being drawn into the picture as well. In that sense, the books are very realistic - they show how military might alone is hardly sufficient to win a war, how kings are beholden (as anyone in power), to the different powers that give them legitimacy. They also show how very believable, how delicately negotiations have to be made to gain allies, how grudges can be long held, and how quickly military might can disintegrate.

And where's the fantasy? The world is an interesting one; there are or were dragons once owned by the kings of the country, and now (at least to begin with), they are no more. There are legends, some true, some not so true, of the creatures who originally peopled the continent, and there is the Wall - behind which are real human enemies, as well as more dangerous and mysterious creatures. The world is one where the seasons may last for years at a time, and summer is fading and a long winter is coming - a bad time, in general, for a war. It starts off looking like a reasonably normal world, and people seem to avoid magic as far as possible, but as it goes on, magic comes further in, perhaps as peoples' desperation grows.

Once past the first three books, the pace of the books generally slow down- there are an increasing number of viewpoints, and plot points to keep track of, the war is done, and there is a reason the fourth is called 'A Feast of Crows' - its all about crows picking at the carrion left on the battlefield.

'A Dance with Dragons', the fifth and latest may sound as though it gets things moving again, but its more like the slow start of a steam engine- I hope that the next one really does get moving.

One of the things that annoys me, generally, is that it seems that as authors get more famous, their editors do less and less. The first book, as I'd said, was tight and well-written. By the time we got to the fifth, while the slow pace could be forgiven, there was so much unnecessary padding, so many pages of words that could have been just done away with altogether. Either the authors develop too much clout for their own good, or editors think that readers will simply swallow whatever swill they turn out (which is mostly true).

Specifically for GRRM, I have to say, that while his plotting is excellent, his writing is mediocre. A lot of what he says, the turns of phrase that he uses, are all very repetitive. His descriptions don't stick in your head, the way a really good authors' would - perhaps he intended that, but for many books, I have a picture of the places, of the people, in my head, long before the TV shows or movies come out. For GRRM, not so much. 

One of the disadvantages of overcomplicating the plot is also that people might forget what was going on before the next book comes out. If I have to wait 6 years for the next book, as people waited for the last, I don't think I'm going to remember a thing. And with the size of these books, I don't expect to re-read them either. And quite honestly, I have better things to do with my time than re-reading these books.

A Summer in Atlanta

Naturally, its incomplete without the visit to the coke factory. But there are other little pleasures as well. Notably, the number of cafe's and little dessert places.

There's Cafe Intermezzo -with its alarmingly gigantic cakes - a definite must share - eating alone would be sinful and possibly result in death by chocolate.

There's La Madeleine with its fabolous little mousse's and also its big mousse cake - I went there for the desserts and stayed on for the food

Flavor - which is probably one of the healthiest options here - fantastic soups and salads.

Alon's - Bakery, cafe, general purveyor of little foods - the cookies are to die for - and the mousse is very good too.

There's Morelli's ice cream - rich, creamy, and large.

Sweet Cheats - though small, so rich, you'll find it hard to get through. Definitely recommend taking it home and eating a little at a time.

And there's Apres Diem - which is better for more than just dessert, though after eating at the Mellow Mushroom, even dessert was a bit hard to get through.

And there's Season's 52, with its ever changing menu, and constant little shot glass desserts.

Pura Vida - a tapas bar, with a ton of vegetarian options (yes!) and they were extremely good too (especially the mushrooms)

It seems that in two months in Atlanta, I've tried out more restaurants in Atlanta than I've tried in many years in other places... and still so many left to go!

Telling the future, from the past

is what Jared Diamond aims to do, in his books 'Guns, Germs and Steel' and Collapse'. The first, describes the ways that human societies have been shaped - the way their environment has changed them, made some more competitive in the modern world, and others weaker. The other details the broad reasons why societies may collapse : environmental, failure to adapt, failure to predict the future and prepare for it.

These books are particularly interesting, because they look at small societies, and the ways events played out in them, and adapts the pattern to the larger world. Its a very scientific way of doing things- a small pilot test, and apply the results to a broader framework. However, especially with the environmental arguments there seem to be many caveats that one could apply. For example, there are various small societies desscribed, such as the settlers of Greenland at one time, who failed to adapt their lifestyles to the changing environment, and therefore collapsed, and this could lead one to speculate on the results of us failing to adapt - or prevent- global warming (for example), and yet I find it hard to believe that barring alien invasion, our collapse would be as complete or impossible to recover from.

In Guns, Germs and Steel also, he raises the idea of agriculture being the base on which all society is built- and how in places where agriculture was impossible - or not as productive - societies- villages, towns, cities, trade, commerce, large scale government etc. did not grow. But I find some of his arguments a little difficult to believe. It may be true that many of the current food crops that we use had their origins in a particular part of the world. But they have taken many millenia to reach their current form, and wild wheat, and rice and barley are not nearly as productive. It is the result of generations of human farming and genetic selection that has made them so. If agriculture had started elsewhere, we might be praising some other crop for its incredible bounty - and crediting it for being the base of human civilizations. You could make similar arguments with regards the point about horses and others.

In general, he presents a very politically correct view of the world, which is leaves me a little skeptical.

Having said that, they're both excellently written books. They bring up (at least for me) a new dimension of looking at the world. The books prove that it is not true that the problems we face today are like none faced ever before. Strip away the specifics, and you can see that the same causes that led some societies to fail, and some to succeed are still true today.

I also went on to read a third book of his, 'The Third Chimpanzee'. It wasn't as compelling as the others - but close to the premiere of the new Planet of the Apes movie, it seemed like a good idea. Again, a very well written book. It describes man as maybe aliens would see us - a slightly evolved ape - and compares us with our closest animal cousins. It draws comparisons between the social structures of apes and humans. One of the most interesting chapters was the one on human sexuality, but other very interesting topics covered were the fact that technology is not the only cause of environmental damage and prehistoric humans had a role in the environmental catastrophes of their time as well - this point is one that comes up in all three books - which should put an end to the wistful looking back on civilizations that lived at one with nature - apparently, there were none.

Fantastic Indian Historical

- which is Amitav Ghosh's 'Sea of Poppies'. This one book makes worthwhile all the terrible pieces of pseudo literature I've wasted so many hours on this summer. The characters are beautifully drawn, so that you can see them in your head, their mannerisms, their accents, their colloquialisms, each a product of their particular society, each breaking out of their particular confines. The settings are unbelievably well imagined - its hard to believe that this is set so many years ago - it seems as though the author has been there, seen it, heard them talk - its all made very immediate, very present.

The story is incredibly global in scope - far more so than so many stories set in the present day. It passes through rural and urban India, China, the Mauritius, all through the opium supply chain - the fields where it was grown, the factories where it was processed, the ports where it was loaded, the ships that carried it, and to China where it was finally sold. And all along the way, the people who were enslaved by it - some who had given up their food crops to serve the empires growth - and others who had simply fallen prey to the drug, and given up everything else. The book recognizes how much of a person's identity was caught up in the enormous class, caste, religion, and racial differences that divided people - with each person having to cross their own particular barrier simply in order to survive.

A Different kind of Magic

was what it felt like when I read Lev Grossman's 'The Magicians'. It's this incredible, set-in-the-real-world Harry Potter + Narnia story. It makes its borrowings fairly obvious - in fact, if you're not familiar with the originals, it probably won't make any sense to you. But all the questions that it asks are the ones that you may have asked while reading those books - or as you got older, at least. Its magic without the hero's journey, as would probably be done by a normal person -a rather depressed person- a slow disintegration from family, the withdrawal from the rest of the world, as everything becomes too easy - magic is a little like too much money, no?

The lazy period of trying to figure out what to do with your life, now that you can do anything. The fear of going on alone - the greed over a discovery made - desire not to share. And the things that you can't solve with magic - relationships, death, bad judgement, past mistakes.

I guess that's the best analogy I can make - those who stand around waiting for something that will change their lives for them - make everything better - magic, money, miracles - will always be wishing for something to make their lives better - and those who do something with what they've got - well, those are the Muggles, and they'll go on - happily or otherwise - regardless of the magic

Summer Bookshelf

Its been so long since I've written. Honestly, its been painful everytime I've opened my blog, and seen my memories of Nuggy in words. But I've created a new page for him now, where I can remember him always - and this blog returns to what it used to be - essentially my thoughts, experiences and mostly - book reviews.

Speaking of which - this year has been the year of non-fiction for me - primarily business related it seems. Which is inevitable I suppose, considering that I am in business school now. One of the best books I read was recommended by my World Econ prof - Minyuan Zhao - 'Travels of a T-shirt in a Global Economy' which describes the cotton trade. The most interesting part of it, by far, was the description of the combination of factors that have given the US the lead in cotton production - technology, working with farmers and economic incentives. Almost as interesting was the description of the labyrinthine 'free-trade' agreements, which are almost not worth the paper they're signed on.

Very relevant to the current -ongoing - economic crises are Michael Lewis' books, 'Liar's Poker' and 'The Big Short'. They were both incredibly interesting - one describing how the whole parallel economy of credit default swaps got set up, and the other describing how they took over, and eventually, took down the financial world. I think I learnt more about modern finance from these books than I did from my finance classes - and its mostly shown me how much I don't know.

I'll tackle the fiction I've been reading recently, Harry Potter withdrawal etc another day...

All about Nuggy - In Memorium

Nuggy died today. He was 11 and a half, and he'd lived a full happy life. His kidney's had failed, his hip joint was worn, and I hope he's young, happy and able to eat all the fish oil he wants, wherever he is right now.

I'm so glad I was able to go see him over the last couple of weeks, but I wish I'd been with him at the end. He was the best dog in the world. I hope he knew how much we all loved him.

I remember getting him from the breeder's house in June. He was the only male in the litter, a tin, black wiggling puppy I could hold in the palm of a hand. We brought him home and put him in the cradle I had used as a baby. Mummy was so mad!

He was a ridiculous puppy. I remember how he tried to pick a fight with the Dobermann that went walking outside our house, without regard for the difference in size... there was poor Jessie, the great dane who tolerated him reluctantly as the small thing ran around him annoyingly.

I remember the first time he barked. It was a deep, majestic bark for such a tiny dog. It was a very authoritative bark. His bark seemed to become more like the hoi polloi with time. And we's scold him for spending so much time with bad influences.

He had a number of friends in his morning walk in Tiruvanmiyur. There were the Alsations in the house next door that would promptly start barking when they saw him... then they'd start fighting each other... and Nuggy would ignore it all and walk on with his nose in the air. There was the Iron- man and lady who were his close friends- he'd always run up to them for a quick scratch whenever he saw them We walked all the way to another dachshud's house- Bubble, who, if he was out, would run to greet him, and the two would rub noses for a few minutes, saying hallo, until we dragged Nugs back home.

He hated the trainer who came to train him. He would flatten himself against the floor, his tail tucked under him, so that he had to be dragged outside for the training sessions. I don't think he ever learnt anything he didn't want to. Sit and Roll-over were strictly incentive based- show him the cod liver oil and he would do it. No fish-oil, no roll-over.

He hated taking bath- or at least, he hated going inside the bathroom to take bath. As soon as he saw me walking around with his towel and soap, he'd go hide under the sofa, or bed, or some newly discovered nook where he hoped I would not find him. After he had bathed, he would promptly go rub himsel against the smelliest floor mat he could find. But once he was clean he was allowed on the bed and he loved that.

He would sleep like a person, curled up, his head on the pillow- sometimes, all of him on the pillow, sometimes, sprawled out all over the bed. He'd guard the bed, growling at anyone who tried to sit on it, and he'd dig his feet into the mattress, so that he couldn't be forced off. If we did push him, he'd look around indignantly at the person who was interrupting his pleasant nap.

He loved being scratched. When he was still thin enough, he'd roll over for it and look brightly at the person scratching him. He'd rub his head (and his eye-discharge) against your leg to demand more scratchee. He'd lift a paw- like he wanted to shake hands- something he'd learnt very early, would get him big rewards. And when you scratched him, his back paw would shake frantically, in sheer ecstasy. And if you walked away, he'd look woundedly- it was your purpose in life after all- to scratch him.

He hated the Diwali firecrackers, poor baby, he'd go hide under the bed. He hated the vet, who prodded and pushed him, but he was so interested in all his animal friends there (especially the big ferocious ones- silly dog - he had no concept of what a small pup he was). He hated having his ears cleaned, his nails cut, and looked so relieved when we were ready to leave.

When he was young- in fact up to a couple of years ago, he would dash madly, up and down the stairs. It was terrible for him. We put up a wooden board to keep him from climbing, but very little could keep Nugs from where he wanted to go. He had a bed of his own on the floor of my parent's room, and would sleep there until late hours of the morning, when he had to be forced out of the A/C for his walk.

He would curl up at the feet, and sometimes, on the feet, of anyone sitting at the dining table or the sofa like a warm furry blanket, or pair of fluffy slippers. And sometimes he would jump on to the sofa- infact he claimed it all for himself, and would sit with his head on the arm of the chair, looking around at all passers by. He would sleep on it with enormous contentment- four paws in the air, making little snuffling noises as he dreamt about chasing cars or cats or people.

It was amazing, for an animal without words he expressed so much through his eyes alone. He barked rarely, whined if you didn't pay him attention- usually if you were eating something he wanted a piece of ... but he had the most speaking eyes.

He always knew when you were leaving- he would sometimes clamber on to the suitcase and have to be carried off. And if you were going by car, he'd be the first person in - shoving his nose through the door as soon as you opened it.

He loved going out. He loved sitting in the car, in the back seat, clambering on to someones lap with hard little paws, his weight all on those pressure points, looking out of the window at the traffic going by. Or he would stand right in the middle, his head between the two front seats, occasionally trying to give the person in front a little nuzzle or a lick.

He loved children. They were about the same size as him and he was totally convinced that they were just like him. They loved him too.

There was so much he knew without needing to be told. He'd come and put his head on my lap when I was sad. He knew when people were leaving, when they were going to eat... he knew not to enter the swami room- he would sit just outside and watch my grandmother inside with a pious exression, but he never set foot beyond the door.

He believed that he was human. He wanted to be treated the same as us. Wanted to sleep in the bedroom, on the bed, eat with us, eat the food we were eating, come in the car... I thought of him as human too. Like a baby that would never grow up.

His last few months have been painful, and I feel so guilty, that having been with him for the best years of his life, I could not be with him when he was failing. Even weak though, he nudged me with his head for little scratchees, thumped his tail against the floor. He was so loving, so easy to love, so hard to believe that he's gone and that life still goes on.