Shuttlecock by Graham Swift – A Book Review

Shuttlecock by Graham Swift – A Book Review

About the author : Graham Swift is an English author born in London.

Claim to Fame : Author of various novels including the 1996 Man Booker winner 'Last Orders'. 'Shuttlecock' was the winner of the 1983 Geoffery Faber Memorial prize. Two of his books viz. 'Last Orders' and 'Waterland' have been made into movies.

Review

          Ignorance is bliss! What you don’t know will not hurt you.

          A lot happens in the world around us. And some of this ‘lot’ may directly or indirectly affect us, for good or bad. Some secrets are better kept under the sheets. There is already a huge mountain of woes and miseries clandestinely floating around the world. Wouldn't it be better to not increase any more of it by keeping away from people things which could invariably disturb them? What would you do if one day you chance to find something elusive and shattering about that person you look up to in life, who has always been your ideal, your demigod so to say? Would it not shake your believes, the values that built you, would it not shatter the entire essence, the foundation of your life rather falsifying it? Is everyone strong enough to get over it? ‘Shuttlecock’ is built around these thoughts.
          Prentis, the central character, lives with his wife and two kids, works for a sub department of the police, responsible for keeping the records and files involved in various investigation cases. His attempts to bring in discipline into his kids come at a prize of his anger and frustration. He has a bigger problem in his father who is placed in a mental asylum since he has not spoken for the last two years and just stares without a cause. This has happened since his mothers’ death. His father is a war veteran. The father has also written a book on his war experiences and the horrific torture that he went through at the hands of the Germans at the Chateau Martine. He emerges as a war hero when he writes about the daring escape from the prison in the final chapters of his book. Though Prentis visits his father 2 days in a week and spends his time in a one sided conversation with his stone faced father, the only remembrance and solace he finds for his father is in the book that he has written. He repeatedly reads the book facing the ire of his family but he is at a loss of understanding the quietness of his father and what had brought him to this breaking point. Without a probable answer, he attributes it to the death of his mother.
          His dominating boss Quinn doesn't give him an easy time at office either. He has enough suspicion that something fishy is being carried out by Quinn when he finds files missing from the office on certain cases. While life goes on in such a mundane manner, he one day chances upon a file which has an element of familiarity as the occurrences and incidents have happened around the time of his fathers’ daring escape from the prison. As he decides to probe further and deep, it comes as a cost of indirectly accusing his boss of hoarding files. And this is when it has been disclosed by Quinn that he is to be promoted to his position in a couple of months.
          As he approaches his boss Quinn for the answers he seeks, a shattering story unravels which brings in a possible ugly aspect of his father’s life. Was his father really a hero, does his book really reflect the truth, was this horrific fact that had just been unraveled the reason for his breakdown? But these are accusations to be proved! The missing file holds the key to a lot of truths. As he realizes, the inane strict behavior of Quinn was actually a sham and he did that for a purpose, in Quinn's house, as the real story of his father unfolds, would Prentis want to go through the file or would he like to destroy it at the behest of Quinn who feels it is the right thing to do? Would he join Quinn's quest of feigning righteousness by keeping hurtful information away from people at the cost of their ignorance but at the same time keeping the unwanted misery out of their lives? Would he like to live in his created illusion of his father or would he like to know the truth?

READ THE BOOK!

Beautifully crafted, easy readying, Graham Swift has wonderfully woven an aspect of human life that though invisible and less talked about holds and weighs such significance that it can make or break a person, his belief! The racy plot and the truthfulness, the frightfulness of the characters infuses life into them and makes it a very interesting read!

My rating : * * * * * * * * * * - 7/10

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan - a review

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan - a review

Claim to Fame: 

• Ian McEwan has written more than 12 -14 novels which have been nominated for various awards.
• His novel 'Amsterdam' has won the Man Booker prize in the year 1998

         Review
           The sweet fears of a wedding night! That’s the central  plot of the story. Did it bring a smile on your face…hmmm!!

Well, Edward and Florence are just two different  individuals from different walks of life. They meet, they pair off  even though their tastes are different. She is a violin player  and deep into classical music while he’s into rock music. Their  families are equally weird like all families. The hilarious part is  they are madly in love but deep within they don’t like each  other. Can this happen? You bet!

At the wedding night, he, like all normal males, expects  what should be expected. But with her, things are not easy. So  he has to measure his moves and play in a calculative  manner. She, on the other hand, dreads the very act. She  wants to escape it, run away already. She hates SEX itself; he  doesn’t know it yet. All she wants is companionship and support. She wants to live her life playing the violin and be successful. A lot of ‘She’, isn't it?

What he wants is simple and less demanding and just as normal as breathing or eating or drinking or peeing should be. What else would you want on your wedding night, ha? The fact that they have courted each other for quite some time before has not helped. Even his inserting his tongue while kissing had offended her and she had felt dirty.

Things get really worse and go all wrong when he ejaculates all over in excitement at the mere touch of her hand right there. She finds it really disgusting and probably worse than an acid attack. She makes him feel unfit, insults him by cleaning fastidiously and running away from the room without uttering a word. She thinks he has wronged. A small part of her thinks it’s her mistake.

When he comes searching for her, things get awry and all the hatred oozes out from both of them. She says she is even okay for him to be with other females. That’s her cover and alibi for avoiding sex!

They get divorced without consummating the marriage.

The author, in the last pages of the book has expressed extensively how sorry the male character becomes, how he should have shown patience and all that he writes about the female protagonist is her success…hmmm.

Well here’s my take and I take the leap at the risk of being called a chauvinist. Was it Edwards’ problem that Florence was frigid? Was he asking for anything beyond the ordinary? NO! Florence knew her limitations, her shortcomings, then why did she not clear them before marriage? She was the one not normal between the two, then why is he to show that extra bit of patience? And for what, to get insulted, to be called a failure? Sex is a very integral part of any and every marriage and it is only human to mate, and absolutely inhuman to not!

Also, if they would have sweet talked and reconciled on that day in spite of what happened; what then? Would it have never happened again? No my boy, it would happen each single day and when the dirt and hatred creeps deep in the crevices of your emotions, it becomes very difficult to make a fresh start, next to impossible. You live together, but only for the namesake. Mental deficiencies like this should be discussed in advance, not kept for being discovered on the wedding night!

To be very frank, the book caught my attention only after the actual incident of their wedding night. The initial part, I felt was dragging. The characters and their minds, their emotions have been portrayed with a transparency that is the lineament of a writer of Ian McEwan’s stature. The hilarity of the plot is its gloominess. The severance of the protagonists has been dealt tactfully and with much needed subtlety. Though, it’s easier said than done, sometimes it becomes very difficult to hold back, to not take for granted; at other times it becomes difficult to utter a single correct sentence or a word – and the author has handled this very craftily.

It takes a great effort to cross that thin line between ego and self respect. And at the end of each day, you think, was it/is it worth it?
My rating : * * * * * * * * * *  6/10

Ian McEwan

The Book Of Evidence by John Banville (Irish) – A review

The Book Of Evidence by John Banville (Irish) – A review

Claim to fame: 

• Author of around 14 novels including the Booker Prize winner 'The Sea' (2005)
• The Book of Evidence was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1989 and has won the GPA award.

Review 

          This happens to be the first book of John Banville that I have laid my hands on and I read it in 2 days flat, the quickest I have ever read a book before.

          Freddie Montgomery, the protagonist, is a happy-go-lucky kind of person who cares less about relationships, cares less about anything and everything. It all starts when he borrows a handsome amount of money from an American who on Freddie’s convenient blackmailing had procured it from the mafia. Freddie can’t return the money and the American has to lose his ear – literally! Now it’s Freddie’s turn and at the discomfort of keeping his wife and children under the watchful eyes of the mafia, he embarks on a never returning journey to get money to bail him and them out.

          Returning home 10 years back to his surviving mother, he realizes what a bad son he has been to his parents and was never there when they needed him. His lust for the payback money leads him to the Behrens house where his father’s paintings have been sold. His rage at having lost one of the last hopes of recovering money, he involves himself in an unconvincing plot of stealing a strange painting that he feels he can relate to. It is the painting of a woman whom Freddie gives life and weaves a story around her for himself. Maybe it is the unspoken voice inside himself who he renders to the lady.

          In fact, it is hardly a plot. An unrehearsed disturbance in his mind leads him to execute one fraud after another and then there is no looking back. He feels no more when he fools people and when he gets into the real act of having stolen the painting, the watching of the chamber maid of his doings sets in an ire he cannot control. He conveniently thinks that the world is up against him and won’t leave him alone to do anything. What was supposed to be a simple bargain with the Behrens leads to a heinous crime with the murder of the maid by Freddie.

          What is disturbing is that he doesn’t feel much on smashing her head by the hammer again and again and again while she begs for her life. He says he did it because he could possibly do it. Why he did it, is a confusion he has no straight answer for.

          The book is Freddie’s confession of his life, of his crimes, of his unsuccessful relationships.

          The language is superb and I was hooked to the book from the initial pages itself. It is remarkable writing as should be. The plot is heinous, the characters lucid and the flow is immaculate bending, twisting and turning among the past and present.

Truly recommended reading!

My rating : * * * * * * * * * * (7/10)

Jon Banville

Gran Torino - Movie Review

Gran Torino

Gran Torino - Client Eastwood

          Cast : Clint Eastwood, Christopher Carley, Bee Wang, Ahney Her

                    

          The movie Gran Torino is not about the car. It is more about finding friends in unwanted places, discovering trust, worthiness, motivating others to chance upon their internal strength, to fight back and more importantly to fight and oppose the notion of fighting back.
          

          Walt Kowalski, played by Clint Eastwood is a grumpy old war veteran who doesn't like the neighborhood but won't leave it either. He can't come to terms with his sons and their families. The loss of his wife is like the last nail on his coffin. He detests his Hmong neighbours and the fact that the boy in the Hmong family (Thao) attempts to steal his Gran Torino to prove himself to be a part of the rowdy and nasty Hmong gang doesn't help much. The boy gets caught. As a part of gaining forgiveness, Thao has to work for Walt. Eventually Walt takes it on himself to give some wort to the boys' life and inject a dose of self esteem into him. Both the boy and the old man find a reason to live in themselves.           

          

          However, the local gang doesn't like this association and wants the boy to be a part of their gang and when he refuses, they hurt him badly. Walt hits out on one of the gang members and as a revenge, the gang members rape the boys sister and mutilate her. The boy wants vengeance and wants Walt to help him kill the gang members. The war veteran knows that it is easy to kill, but also has learnt the hard way that after the killings, it is difficult to live each day reliving the cold eyes of the body you pumped bullets into. He knows because he was part of many such killings in Korea as a result of which each day he has to fight against those ghostly thoughts and living this lonely life has become worse than death.

          To save the Hmong boy from making the same mistake, Walt sacrifices himself. His will has nothing for his sons who are anyway doing well. He writes his house to charity while he gives his Gran Torino, the closest to his heart, a symbol of his pride to his newly formed friend, the Hmong boy, Thao.
          

          This movie is about friendship, about sacrificing yourself for the betterment of others. It is also about the false notion of youths who have digressed in their goalless lives who think and feel that power of the gun is the real power.
          

          I simply love Client Eastwoods' direction and his acting too. I find his grumpy sarcasm to be very humorous. Another of his directed movies, The Million Dollar Baby is one of my all time favourite. If you have to live that long, you should hope to age gracefully like Clint Eastwood or Amitabh Bachhan. 

Gran Torino - Ford

Durga Pujo 2013 (9th Oct to 14th Oct 2013)

The beautiful Maa Durga - Hiranandani Powai 2012

          Yesterday was Bijoya Dashmi. Every year the Goddess Durga comes with her four children viz. Maa Lokhi, Maa Saraswati, Lord Ganesha and Lord Kartikeya; blesses us and returns back to her consort Shiva.

          Being a Bengali, since childhood I with my family have been visiting various Durga Pujo pandals. We children eagerly awaited this festival. It is definitely the biggest festival for Bengalis. Not only children, but for grownups too, this was a time to get together, too catch up on life. At the pandals, the mummy’s and aunties discussed their newly bought or gifted sarees, they took pleasure in showing off the intricate designs on their jewelry. They discussed their children and laughed at the silliest jokes. It was a time to make merry and forget the hullabaloo of everyday life. The gents discussed politics most likely over a smoke, conveyed their displeasure over the poor arrangements of the pandal while they were dressed in the latest kurta panjabis. The young lot were dressed in their best attire and flirting accompanied by a search for a companion was always in the air. No matter how poor or how rich, people save money for this festival and buy a different dress for each day of the pujo with everyone asking the same question before the pujo, “Pujor bajaar hoyeche?” (Is your shopping for the pujo done?).

          Earlier, my father says, there was only one Durga Pujo in the entire Thane, Mulund, Kalwa and nearby areas. Everyone would gather in that one pandal. Everyone knew each other and the pandal looked more like a happy family with all smiling faces. Friends not in touch anymore caught up with each other at this time of the year. Everything worth mentioning was discussed with each other. Standing in the long queue in the hot sun waiting for your turn to get the bhog khichdi Prasad didn’t feel tiring. The fight to catch a chair for you and your family or friends with the hot khichdi served in the plate of entwined dry Sal leaves was a challenge. With the sweat trickling down your face, you savored the Prasad while puffing air into the morsel in your hand to cool it. So many times I have seen it happening that a lady with a filled plate in her hands, passing by the huge static fans and the plate overturned on herself and the nearby seated people drawing their ire and a mouthful of unpleasant words. In the evenings, I remember there was this one balloon wallah uncle who used to stand there every single year with colorful balloons, masks, small toys, flutes etc. It didn't take much for us children to be happy. We made teams and played with the balloons or just ran around to our hearts content. Earlier, before pujo, your mamas and mamis, mashis and pishis, kakas and kakis used to gift clothes and children used to eagerly await them. Now that fun has suddenly disappeared. You go to a super mall and pick up 10 clothes for you and your family but don’t think about gifting anybody. It has suddenly started becoming too costly to gift your relatives as relationships have drifted apart and selfishness has seeped into our everyday mundane lives and the sense of belonging being lost.

          Now, a lot has changed! Displeasure and fights within the committees and ego clashes have buried the erstwhile oneness and what has emerged now are numerous pujo pandals of smaller groups that have segregated from the original one. Some pandals are just 100 metres away from each other. Everyone wanted the mother to himself/herself. Today, in Thane itself there are around 8-9 Durga Pujo’s, 2 in Airoli, so on and so forth. This has resulted in the crowd getting distributed; some going to this pandal, some to another and people hardly bumping into each other like before. Families nowadays flock to the pandal which offers the best bhog. Today kids have the smartest smart phones and gadgets and the latest downloaded games and the parents love to complain about it eventually bragging about their kid’s smartness. Balloons and running around are down market. During the night of Maha Navami, earlier, we used to hire buses and entire families from the neighborhood used to roam the whole night visiting the various pandals from all over Mumbai, right from Vashi to Chembur to Dadar Shivaji Park to Andheri Lokhandwalla, to Kalol, Bandra, Khar, Juhu etc. Now everyone goes in their individual vehicles separately according to their convenience. Machines and money have brought the world closer only to drive them in different directions. The good part is that we get to see numerous differently and beautifully decorated pandals and more importantly numerous beautifully carved Durga idols and her sons and daughters. Most people take the entire week off from their offices for the Durga Pujo festival.

          The Durga Pujo starts with Mahalaya, the day when Maa Durga is said to have descended to earth to destroy all evil. It marks the end of Pitri Paksha and the beginning of Devi Paksha with families getting up in the wee hours of dawn to listen to chants of the Goddess on radio. The next day of Mahalaya is Sashti when the idol is unveiled, then Maha Saptami, Maha Ashtami, Maha Nabami and finally Bijoya Dashmi (the win of good over evil). Every Durga idol has a picture of Lord Shiva behind her. A special mention is needed for the organizers of such a grand festival; right from the collections, to the pandal decorations, to getting the best idol makers, to the arrangement of all and sundry requirements for every single day of the pujo, to the bhog (Prasad) distribution. The devotees, I am sure don’t even have a hint of the things required for the pujo. Specialist poojaris are called from Kolkata. Every pandal has a different  theme every year. If one is a replica of Belur Math in Kolkata, in some, the jewelry of the Goddess is made of shells, in others the decoration behind the Goddess is made up entirely of 'Shola' (an ingredient of Jute, I suppose). On each of the mornings during the Durga Pujo festival, the purohit (priest) chants mantras in praise for the Goddess which the devotees repeat with flowers in their folded hands, the process being called Pushpanjali. The flowers are returned back which are then offered to the Goddess. It ends in the purohit sprinkling ‘Shantir Jal’ over the devotees. Then a food offering is made to the Goddess and only when she has eaten is the bhog distribution done to the devotees. There are pandals where seventy to eighty thousand devotees have bhog in a single day! There are special poojas conducted on each day of the festival. Famous musicians, film stars and singers are roped in to perform in the evenings. Some evenings experience cultural dances on the stage; others have self-organized dramas and skits by the committee members. In fact, these programs are major crowd pullers and state the monetary status of the pujo committee; a thing to boast about! Then there is Sandhi Pujo performed at the confluence of Ashtami and Nabami where dhakis play their dhaks and dance effortlessly and dhuni dance is performed in front of the goddess. The Sandhi Pujo marks the exact time when Maa Durga as Mahishasur Mardini slays the demon. The actual killing of the evil demon is supposed to be remembered through a blood sacrifice but today sugarcane and a ‘chaal kumro’ (Ash Gourd) is symbolically sacrificed. It is mesmerizing to watch the dhuni dance where the person with fire embers in a clay pot dances in a trance in front of the Goddess. The Durga Pujo festival ends on Bijoya Dashmi when the Goddess and her cohort return back to their house. The idols are immersed in water among much pomp and splendor and tears and shouts of ‘Durga Maai ki Joy’ and ‘Asche bochor abaar hobe’ (the celebration will continue next year). 

          Before the idol is moved from the pandal for immersion, women dressed in ‘laal pair’ (red bordered) sarees apply shidoor (sindoor, vermilion) on the Goddess after doing a small arti with paan. They then feed sandesh to the Goddess, a process called ‘Mishti Mukh’ and offer water to her. After this is done, the women dressed in white and red apply shidoor on each other and on their shakhas (white bangles worn by Bengali women, a proof of their marriage). Then everyone hugs each other, what we call ‘kola kolli’ and wish each other ’Shubho Bijoya’, a celebration for the prevailing of goodness.

          Oh, being a bong, how can I forget the thing Bengalis vie for the most during the festival! Mutton chops, chicken chops, mochar chop, vegetable cutlets, fish fries, mughlai parothas, egg rolls, kosha mangsho bhaat (thick gravied lamb preparation with rice), macher jhol (fish curry), luchi and aloor dum (puris with thick potato gravy in Bengali style) are on offer on the various food stalls outside the pandal. It’s time to hog on typical Bengali food! My non Bengali friends are amazed that we eat non vegetarian food at a Pujo festival but that’s how we are. There are also other stalls selling sarees from Kolkatta, various accessories etc. but the food stalls are what attracts the crowd.

          It is said that depending on what Maa Durga arrives on to give darshan to her devotees, the year will be good or bad. If she comes from her husband’s home in a boat, she comes empty handed and takes away a lot which signifies calamity. She is also said to come on a horse and an elephant but am not aware of its significance. This year, they say she has come in a boat and left on a horse, so beware!!

          It is funny that Bengalis celebrate the Durga Pujo held in October/November with much pomp than the actual Basanti Durgo Pujo that is traditionally celebrated in spring. The one that is celebrated in Autumn is called ‘Akaal Bodhon’ or the untimely awakening of the Goddess and is considered an inauspicious time according to Hindu mythology. It has a history behind it. It is said that when Lord Rama went to vanquish Ravana, a strong devotee of Lord Shiva because he had captured his wife; Lord Rama knew of the strength of Ravana and the many boons that he possessed. As he went out to battle against Ravana, Ravana started singing praises for Lord Rama. This made him a devotee of Lord Rama and hence could not be killed. The Gods and Goddesses were displeased by this and it was decided that Lord Saraswati would sit on the tongue of Ravana and make him say foul words about Lord Rama. When this happened, Lord Rama pierced Ravana into two halves but a boon from Lord Brahma revived him and he prayed to Maa Ambika who then joined him in his chariot. The Gods and Goddesses then approached Lord Vishnu who advised Lord Rama to pray to Goddess Durga to help him. Maa Durga, born from the fire of the three ultimate Gods viz. Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh and from the blood of all the Devas is considered the strongest and hence is also known as Goddess Shakti. He started calling out to the Goddess but the mother did not appear. Vibhishan then advised Lord Rama to offer 108 blue lotuses to the Goddess as an offering. Lord Rama sent Hanuman to get them but Hanuman managed to get only 107 blue lotuses. Lord Rama, to show his devotion, raised his bow and arrow to pluck one of his eyes to offer as the 108^th blue lotus because Lord Rama was described as born with lotus eyes. It is then that Maa Durga appeared (between Ashtami and Navami) and gave him the strength to defeat Ravana. The slaying of Ravana is described as Bijoya Dashmi.

          Whatever the history or myth, I simply love to see the grand and beautiful Maa Durga, riding on a lion, slaying the demon Mahishasur, whom the Gods could not defeat. The eyes of the mother are the most beautiful and loving eyes I have ever seen. Her stance, her elegance, her curly pitch black hair, the beautiful sarees that she wears, the motherly expression on her face, her spear piercing the chest of the demon, the royal lion that she rides on with his ferocious teeth, her ten arms with different weaponry gifted by the various Devas all denote an unsurpassed, unyielding power that the great mother holds! I humbly bow down to you Mother.

Bolo Durga Mai ki Joy!!

Bolo Durga Mai ki Joy!!

Bolo Durga Mai ki Joy!!

Durga Pujo - Airoli

Durga Idol - Airoli

Durga Pujo - Vashi Sector 6

Durga Maa - Vashi Sector 6

Maa Saraswati - Vashi Sector 6

Durga Maa - Vashi Sector 6

Maa Lokhi - Vashi Sector 6

Durga Pujo Pandal - Vashi Sector 6

Durga Pujo - Vashi Sector 12

Durga Idol - Vashi Sector 12

Durga Idol - Vashi Sector 12

Durga Pujo - Thane Hiranandani Estate

Durga Maa - Thane Hiranandani Estate

Durga Pujo Pandal - Thane Hiranandani Estate

Durga Pujo - Thane Bangiya Parishad (Highland Park)

Durga Maa slaying the demon Mahishasur - Thane Bangiya Parishad (Highland Park)

Jai Maa Durga - Thane Bangiya Parishad (Highland Park)

Pandal Interiors - Thane Bangiya Parishad (Highland Park)

Durga Pujo Pandal - Thane Bangiya Parishad (Highland Park)

Durga Pujo - Thane Navodaya Sangh

Durga Maa - Thane Navodaya Sangh

Maa Lokhi and Ganpati Bappa - Thane Navodaya Sangh

Maa Saraswati and Kartikeya - Thane Navodaya Sangh

Durga Maa - Thane Navodaya Sangh

Durga Pujo Pandal - Thane Navodaya Sangh

Durga Maa - Pandal opposite DMart, Thane

Durga Maa - Goddess Shakti

Maa Saraswati

Mahishasur Mardini

Maa Lokhi

Durga Pujo - Opposite DMART Thane

Maa Ambe - Samata Nagar, Thane

Room - By Emma Donoghue (Irish Canadian author) - book review

I am not sure if the word interesting should be used for the tragic event of the story. It is not uncommon to read of teenage girls being kidnapped by human ogres and being repeatedly abused. But to be held in captivity for 7 long years in a single Room with no glimpse of the outside world sounds terrible in itself. And juxtaposing the fact that the result of such abuse turned out to be the birth of a child, a boy for whom the Room is his and his Ma’s world because he has never seen anything beyond since birth. His realization of the outside world is through a television which his Ma has imposed as being unreal. So he is made to believe that all the people, the animals, nature that he sees are real only in TV but unreal otherwise. The only real things are his Ma, himself, the rug, their bed, the skywalk, his meltedy spoon etc.

The story is about the unconvincing daringly formulated escape of this kid from the clutches of the bad guy and eventually of his Ma. The story is about the ‘Outside’ that he never had, never saw; the outside that is turning out to be so difficult for not only the five year old Jack but even so for his Ma. So many questions are ruffling his curious little brain, so many unanswered questions, difficult questions; so many answers that were answered convincingly yet differently by his Ma that they now sound as a lie.

It felt like reading a grown up Enid Blyton story. The story is Jack’s narrative, the 5 year little boys version. The author has been successful in creating the language, the lyric of a child; a happy child whose only world is his Ma and this Room. Though the plot is seemingly interesting, I felt it is more for those who would look at a sweet kid and go gaga “How sweet, my poochu poochu, what a cutie pie”. But then you move on right? Though it is fun for Jack to narrate what he ate and what he played and when he pooed; it gets a little boring for the reader and you don’t want to read between the lines but in fact skip quite a few. For quite a few times in the initial part of the book, I was wondering if I should brave myself reading through it, but I eventually did. As is rightly written in one of the reviews on the cover of the book “It should be finished in one read”. Yes, else you might think twice before continuing! Am surprised it was shortlisted for the Man Booker prize in 2010.

My rating : 5 out of 10

Emma Donoghue

A dying art!

Goddess Annapoorna

    

          Oh, this ain't about martial arts or playing the veena or a rockers dying song with a bleeding heart and a broken guitar.

          This is about that one special person in your life. In my life. In everybody’s lives. That irreplaceable strength, it’s about just one of those magical creations from those magical fingers that caressed your hair, that powdered your bum when you were a toddling toddler, that fed you when you conveniently ran all over the house at the cost of her inconvenience, those fingers that pointed at the moon while they thumped you lovingly while you fell asleep listening to her created stories.

          This is an ode to the Goddess Annapoorna we know as Mother. This is about the virtuoso's' brilliantly composed delicacies, about her prodigious talents as a cook, approved, applauded and commended since ages, her charming art of turning lifeless non-eatables into mouth slurping delicacies, her magical powers of mixing and matching, of cutting and smashing, of turning and tossing, of pulling out and presenting on your plate an impeccable something which evokes more awe than the rabbit pulled out of a hat by a magician.

          Since birth, or maybe even before that, we have taken her for granted. Almost always! She has always reserved the best for us, made the best for us. As a nestling, while we fussed and gave her a hard time, she made sure we ate all that is right, all that made us look plump yet healthy. She made sure we had the right diet, the right vegetables, the right fruits, the right fish. She fought with dad and caused a riot if anything was missing in the kitchen that hindered her from making that perfect dish for us. She ensured that we had our meals at the right time while she skipped hers most of the time.

          While our school mates laughed at the size of our tiffins, she relentlessly filled every nook and corner of the lunch box lest we remained unfed. Nobody enlightened her on our likes and choices. She observed, she noted, she knew!

          She took extra effort to feed us all the niceties. If she didn't know, she learnt. There was no internet then, the mother-in-laws weren't mothers and the daughter-in-laws weren't daughters, and one was expected to know everything. She was a fast learner, she was dedicated, earnest and the most significant part was that she CARED. She was never satisfied by the food being just edible, she treated it as a work of art. We have always known her as a maven, but she has relentlessly worked her way to be one. We have seen the incessant forgiver never forgiving herself for that extra bit of salt she put, or the missing ingredient she forgot. She genuinely felt bad though you appeared to not notice it.

          She didn't need the praises, she didn't need applauding, and she didn't wait for a pat on her back to know how much we loved every wonder she put on our plate; she read our expressions, she knew from the way we licked our fingers.

          Would any of the species today take the trouble of remembering to buy raw mangoes on time, to put them to dry in the sun, to keep a watch on the crows lest they deprive us of that tongue and lip smacking sour and salty pickle?

          On Diwali, while dad got the crackers, Maa lit up the house and our bellies with the unstoppable aroma of chaklis, besan laddus, shankarpallis, chewda and shev. Back in her hometown, all these items were and are unknown but she adapted with panache this lifestyle that she accepted gracefully. When we mouth those spiral chaklis, we don’t spare a thought for the hard work that has gone behind it. Try making a chakli all by yourself and you will infer that though it ain't rocket science, but come nearly close to just being that science – a little exaggeration can be tolerated! While we went to schools and office, she toiled in the kitchen making the batter with the exact amount of masalas, making those perfect shapes (trust me it isn't easy), parallely bringing the oil to a simmer, frying it to perfection. An attempt of this sort today by the current generation will prove to be no less than a feat and a single harmless comment would invite blatant glares that could burn not only you but the entire kitchen to ashes! Keep that extinguisher handy.

          For those rainy days, she cogitated months in advance, singularly made and dried the pappads  of different lentils (daals), watched them every hour so that they got enough sun, so that the crows were denied their share, every pappad of the same size and taste, smelling of the touch of love and care, the unconditional kind? Nobody told her, nobody reminded!

          When the rain Gods lets the streams loose and it poured, the enlivening smell of kaanda and moong bhajis filled the house and brought an unconscious slurp and an attractive greed! At Janmnasthami, pati shaptas and puran polis ruled the kitchen. On holi, garma garam khichdi with begunis were gorged on. At Laksmi Puja, the zest with which she made those mouth smacking nariyal laddus and sandesh was as much for the Goddess as much for me. Modaks and malpuas were never missed on Ganpati. The tasty pickles and boris were satiated with delight. In a house where a few ate only fish, some only chicken and the others acted like pure Brahmins – the real kind, she cooked relentlessly, day in and day out, a variety to satisfy each of us dimwits without the slightest bickering. She took the opportunity on Christmas to bring that large round plum cake, less for the crucified Lord Jesus and more for me.

          Girls of today live out of boxes, go to plush offices, travel, are more educated and have less time on their hands for anything beyond their work. The growing restaurant business is proof to that. Times have changed and so have lifestyles. The word ‘Independence’ has attained a new dimension, at times respected, at most other times abused. When preparing the night meal and feeding your family becomes an adventure in itself and is a source of constant bickering and unwanted fights, you would be a fool to expect chaklis and malpuas and kheer. When every task we thought was a daily chore and hitherto went unnoticed is glorified to unwanted proportions, you dare not open your mouth and say that the salt is more.

          Everything is getting bottled up nowadays, packed and packaged to perfection, but that four letter word called LOVE and another one called CARE, what about that, does it feature in the list of ingredients on the printed mention of calories outside each bottle? I guess not.

          Maa, we are truly blessed! Like the life you induced in us, you sustained and kept it going on with the food, the innumerable delicacies that you provided; you puffed magic with your fingers. This is just a small salutation to you. To my mother, to your mother, to every mother!