Quiz buffs ahoy!

I finally got my quiz questions together. It would be quite tiresome to read 60-odd quiz questions together. So, I will spread them out like knowledge-butter in between regular posts. When I conducted the quiz, they were arranged in a very logical way (No two same subject questions should be back to back) but by the time the quiz got over, it was a real mixed bunch. My brother and I framed almost all the questions barring some which a friend Monty did. Monty's questions will be suitably credited. In no fixed order, here's the first intallment of 10 of them. The answers are below the questions. But since people want to try their hand at the questions, I have left the answers invisible. Select the portion using your cursor, and the answers will be seen. (Since I thought this was at the Durga Puja pandal, it would be appropriate to start with the goddess-related question.)

1. Which form of Durga is represented with a bowl of rice in one hand and ladle on the other?
2. In which country did pasta originate?
3. Which round-collared attire designed by Pierre Cardin was named after an Indian?
4. Of what are arch, loop, whorl, and composite the four basic kinds?
5. Which musical term means "empty orchestra"?
6. In which town did the Kents raise Superboy?
7. This is a first line from which children's classic which was also made into a Disney film: "All children, except one, grow up"?
8. Which Italian dish containing noodles, meat and sauce comes from the Latin word meaning "cooking pot"? Clue: Garfield likes it very much.
9. What term often used in Indian Classical music comes from the Sanskrit word meaning "color" or "passion"?
10. Which group of Australian origin shot to fame with the songs they sang for the movie "Saturday Night Fever"?

Answers:

1. Annapurna
2. China
3. The Nehru jacket
4. Fingerprints
5. Karaoke
6. Smallville
7. Peter Pan
8. Lasagna
9. Raga
10. The Bee Gees

Art, Istanbul, Love, Islam, Philosophy, Power, and Pulchritude: My name is Red by Orhan Pamuk

My Name is Red
by Orhan Pamuk
[translated from the Turkish by Erdag M. Göknar]
Faber & Faber
2001

I went looking for this book in Bangalore. Nuzzled in between other Pamuk books, I found it in Blossoms. I almost screamed with delight, when the power went off and I had to fight the urge to take some books and walk out! (And you thought I was the righteous kind eh?)

The basic story combines love, murder, and intrigue with the situation in Istanbul somewhere in the 16th century. Istanbul, as you know, is sandwiched between Asia and Europe. Even today, the people are pulled in both directions – Western civilization from Europe and Asian customs since they follow Islam. But it not a religious novel.

The story proper: the Sultan wants to make a book which contains pictoral representations of all that is important in the kingdom. However, Islam does not believe in pictoral representations. So, this is a hush-hush project involving the Sultan and some illustrators. At the beginning of the novel, a murder takes place. So far, it’s a common-enough story, did you say? Hold on. The person who tells us about the murder is the corpse itself! Isn’t that novel?

Among other narrators in the story are a tree, a dog, a gold coin, Death, a horse, Satan, and two dervishes. And I’m not counting the human narrators here. This is clearly a new way of storytelling. In fact, I picked up this novel because of its narrative technique.

To continue with the story: one of the illustrators is murdererd and this sends shivers of panic through the spines of other illustrators. To Pamuk’s credit, the identity of the murderer is not revealed till the end. In the midst of all this snuggles a love story of the master illustrator Enishte Effendi’s daughter Shekure and the binder-illustrator Black Effendi. In between the story of the evolution of miniature art and the evolution of love a murder mystery neatly fits in.
The story is unique because it comes from another culture but the translation is a bit strained. It seemed that the translated sentences would shine better in the local language than English. An example:

As I listened to him, I sensed with horror how his words has such strength and gravity that, willingly or not, people would heed them, hoping that would prove true about miserable creatures other than themselves. (Pg, 19, Pamuk)

I can't help thinking that this sentence like many others could have been phrased better.

I confess, I took sometime to finish this book. And the style of the writer/translator, needed sometime to get used to. That said, it is still an excellent work of fiction. Read it if you are seriously interested in reading. It’s not a breezy story. There are heavy asides into Islamic and miniaturist philosophy. Good fun for those who have read heavier books. But if you looking for a timepass kind of book, I’d advice you to skip it.

Rating: : * * * * = Bindaas(Great)

My Rating System:
* * * * * = Khallas (Deadly)
* * * * = Bindaas (Great)
* * * = Jhakaas (Good)
* * = Timepass(Okay)
* = Bakwaas (Avoid it)

Happy Birthday!

Hey, have a nice day, Rita! Happy Birthday!

A very Happy Birthday to you too Karuna!

Soapy terrain

Today, I saw the corniest soap of all times on TV. There were no other channels working but good ol’ DD1. And you know DD. Here’s snippet of a scene that I caught. Two women characters with silky straight hair, false eyelashes and outlined glossy lips were speaking. The only way I could differentiate them was from the fact that one of them was taller. I didn’t know till later that they were sisters on screen. The name of the soap is Maryada.

The soap was in Hindi. This is a translated version.

Nilakshi (Crying) Why? Why? Why did you do this to me? Tell me why!
Rimjhim (looking repentent) : I had my reason.
Nilakshi: But what could it be? What did I do to you, Rimjhim? Tell me!
Rimjhim: You…..you looked beautiful that day.. I was jealous.


At this point, I was shell-shocked! The script writers, I think, have taken a holiday.


Nilakshi: Jealous? Of what?
Rimjhim: That day…. in the party? Everybody was looking at you. You were the centre of attraction. Even my friends preferred to hang out with you. And jealousy raised its ugly head.


My brain fell asleep after this.


Nilakshi: But you are my sister! How could you?
Rimjhim: I am a woman before I am your sister. I too have wishes and desires like you, you know?


I wanted to do some serious damage to something by now. Yikes! Is this the fate of Indian TV? What has TV programming come too? Undoubtedly, there are some good serials like Siddhanth (which will soon go the soapy route but it started out as a legal eagle serial), Hotel Kingston (refreshing story, refreshing facses, refreshing name, sleek presentation, believable characters), Sarabhai Vs Sarabhai (a laugh a riot, Ratna Pathak is simply amazing, minimum characters, punny dialogue but some episodes lack a punch) but all in all, the K serials have clout (or should I say "klout?") that overshadows all other kinds of serials. Gone are the days when people wanted to experiment. Remember Karamchand or Hum Paanch? (Ironically, Balaji Telefilms made Hum Paanch.)

I wonder when can we come up with something creative and original that is not a quiz, a game show, a saas-bahu serial or a soppy love story. Can we come up with something like M*A*S*H, ER, or Alo! Alo! ?


I’m waiting for that day.

Please note: The first image is of Nausheen Ali Sardar. She is not in any of the serials mentioned.

Rained in!

I'm rained in today. The skies have opened up. The rain gods are making merry! Without a protective bubble (in a futuristic style) it is impossible to get to office. So, with so many book reviews piled up, I'm in a mood to write them all. But let's see how many I can get through. Since yesterday, the rain hasn't let up even for a minute! Its continuous and steady pouring can be heard outside. [Funny, but I keep thinking that the sound of rain is green. I'm possibly synaesthetic!] But I'm lucky because I'm writing longhand - the home comp's konked- in bed with books all around me. Ah bliss!



Image courtesy: Chou

Modernist poetry on matchboxes*

A local brand of matches has come out with a brilliant idea of adding sayings/quotes to matchbox covers. They are not attributed to anyone. Excellent, so far, I say. The problem is that some of their sayings/quotes are cryptic and go to the extent of being nonsensical! We don’t need English translations of Sukumar Ray Choudhuri if this trend continues. The literary ramifications of such an act are many and I’m too tempted to “read” meanings into them. But I won’t. Let’s just enjoy them for what they are: some minutes of entertainment.

· Since light travels faster than sound, isn’t that why some people appears [sic] bright until you hear them?
· Eat your spinach and you’ll grow big and strong like Popeye. You’ll also end up with a girlfriend like Olive Oyl.
· If practice makes perfect, and nobody’s perfect, why practice?
· Why do you press harder on a remote-control when you know the battery is dead?
· Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and the world laughs louder.
· One of life’s mysteries is how a two-pound box of candy can make a person gain five pounds.
· When a man says “it’s a silly childish game” it’s probably something that his wife can beat him at.

Indeed. See what I mean?

*I have Rita’s husband to thank for christening these sayings/quotes “Modernist poetry.” And of course, Rita for conveying it to me!
Image courtesy: Chou

Old School Wisdom

Old School Wisdom #36
Bambaata: 'It's time to chase your dreams ...' Listen to Bam.

Old School Wisdom #33
Nas: ' Well you hate me, I'm gonna hate you too, it's as simple as that ...' Quite

Old School Wisdom #32
House Of Pain: 'I got more rhymes than the bible got psalms ...' More than 150, then. Not so many.

Old School Wisdom #30
De La: 'She teased so many she was known as a garden tool ...' a fork?

Old School Wisdom #29
LL Cool J: 'Some girl's will like this jam and some girls won't/ Cos I make a lot of money and their boyfriend don't'. Indeed.

Old School Wisdom #28
Rakim: 'You don't have to speak, just seek ...'

Source: Book Slam at Cherry Jam/Patrick Neat

The Skeleton Key – a subjective review

Who's in it : Forrest Landis, Joy Bryant, Peter Sarsgaard, John Hurt, Kate Hudson, Gena Rowlands

Who wrote it: Ehren Kruge

Where does it belong: Horror, thriller, supernatural

Who directed it: Iain Softley

How long: 104 minutes

Since I hadn't seen a movie in ages, I readily agreed when friends suggested that we try and catch a movie. I really hoped that I would be able to see Bewitched but then there were only two tickets available for that and we were a loud group of four girls. [I still can only call them girls because that's how we behaved!] So, The Skeleton Key it was.

This movie has a Ring connection: Screenwriter Ehren Kruger also wrote The Ring and Scream 3. But it is nowhere near what Dark Water was and thank heavens for that! The horror quotient is not at the same level as The Ring. In the first half, there was hardly nothing to be scared of. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The story first: A disconteded nurse Caroline (Kate Hudson) kicks her job in the city and heads for New Orleans in her red Beetlish car in search of another job as a caregiver following an ad in the papers. We see her enter the sprawling estate of Voilet (Gena Rowlands) whose lawyer Luke (Peter Sarsgaard) had put the ad in the papers. The job: day and night residential care of Ben (John Hurt). At first, Voilet is apprenhensive but she lets Caroline in anyway.

Caroline is given a Skeleton key, which opens every door in the house. After a brief history of the mansion by Voilet Caroline discovers many things -

(1) The Skeleton key does not open all doors: One door in the attic doesn't open with the skeleton key.
(2) The entire house is without mirrors.
(3) Brick dust can help stop an enemy from entering a room or house.
(4) That Ben needs help but not of the medical kind.
(5) That Hoodoo, a kind of Voodoo was and is practised in the house.

(6) The Black servants of the then owners of the estate were lynched by their masters for practising Hoodoo.
(7) That Luke and Voilet are in cahoots with each other.

Caroline starts out as a sceptic who wants to help a patient who is a believer and ends up being a believer herself. The ending is quite predictable. (I suppose being an Indian has something to do with it.) But the movie does have its moments:

(1) The black and white flashbacks were memorable.
(2) The suspense was kept right upto the end.
(3) The atmosphere of decadent Southern aristocracy was brought out well.

The dependence on Hoodoo/Voodoo cult did NOT make the movie scary! What scared me were the bits were Caroline was caught/almost caught sneaking into the attic. Most of the time, it was the sound I was reacting to not the content on the screen.

As far as the acting goes Kate Hudson will not win the Oscar for this but she was quite believable as the tortured victim. The remarkable bit was the turnaround at the end. John Hurt was very appropriate as the hurt and aging character. The cinematogaphy was like any other Hollywood movie. The only interesting camera angle was already done before but having said that I would like to say that the editing was a good job. I did not find any sagging bits. I would not place this movie amongst the greatest movies I have seen but yes it was good fun. Watch it on a rainy Saturday afternoon if you don't have anything better to do and are stranded without a book.

Rating: : * * = Timepass(Okay)

My Rating System:

* * * * * = Khallas (Deadly)
* * * * = Bindaas (Great)
* * * = Jhakaas (Good)
* * = Timepass(Okay)
* = Bakwaas (Avoid it)

Lipogrammatic writing

A lipogram is a text that excludes a particular letter or particular letters of the alphabet. One of the most unique lipogrammatic works in existence is Christian Bok's “Eunoia”, which features a series of chapters in which each uses only one vowel. The word "eunoia", meanwhile, means "beautiful thinking" and is the shortest English word to contain all five vowels.

Another novel that is lipgrammatic work of art is “Ella Minnow Pea: A Novel in Letters” by Mark Dunn. Not only is it lipogrammatic, it's epistolary too. The story takes place on a utopian island, in a community founded by fans of the man who penned the immortal sentence "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dogs." When one of the letters of the sentence falls off the memorial frieze, the town council bans that letter from all speech and writing...and it all gets better (for the reader) from there.

Of course I want to read both of them!

Source: AWADmail Issue 183; October 22, 2005

I'm in a food mood

I'm not into cooking unlike a friend of mine. I rarely step into the kitchen. Of course, it's entirely luck that I'm not yet living alone or cooking for myself. But yesterday I had the sudden urge to eat sandwiches. And since Mom is away in Calcutta, who has to do it? No prizes for guessing but it's me. Anyways, this is not a receipe but it's a an easy-to-make cold lunch in case you want something that's nutritious and tasty.

Cucumber sandwich

Ingredients:
Brown bread - 1 loaf *
Butter - as required
Cucumber - 1
Onions - 2
Freshly ground pepper - 2 to 3 tsps
Lemon- 1
Salt to taste

Method:
Grate the cucumber and onions. Mix them along with salt, pepper, and lemon juice. Take a slice of bread (triangle or rectangle anything will do); apply butter on it, add the cuccumber-onion mixture. Slap another buttered slice on it. And voila! your sandwich is ready!

Tip:
Use freshly ground pepper rather than the readily available powdered pepper as it gives a better taste.
Don't skip the butter. The sandwich is very dry without it.

While I am on the topic of food, here's a list of Indian dishes that is sinful.

*Somik: I have switched to brown bread!

My reading update

What I am reading now:
1. The Anubis Slayings by P.C Doherty
2. Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
3. Percy and the Olympians: The Lightening Thief by Rick Riordan

What I finished reading:
1. Ishmael by Daniel Quinn
2. South of the Border, West of the Sun by Haruki Murakami

What I want to read:
1. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt
2. Kinki Lullaby by Issac Adamson

The limitations of the English language

The English language does not quite give the exact words for many of the ideas that exist in the world around us. “The Meaning of Tingo” is the book by Adam Jacot de Boinod that includes all such instances that one can’t find in English but can come across in other languages. The Marauder’s Map and The Meaning of Tingo have both discussed this in detail. But the best is this Guardian Quiz you can take to find out how many of these words you can guess. I scored a very sad 4 out of 10. You guys can try your luck!

Bright-orange lunchbox

I came across this article some time back and it's amazing because it sends a wonderful message. Yes, the only way you can find out what that is by reading the article below.

Thinking Inside the Box, but Living Outside the Office
By Jennifer Mathieu
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, February 7, 2005; Page C10

About five years ago, I found myself not at all where I wanted to be. I lived in a hip part of Chicago with two cats and two roommates, and had a job as an editorial assistant at a medical journal. On paper I was everything a nearly fresh-out-of-college journalism major should have been, complete with credit card debt and Ikea furniture.

But I was shocked at the feeling I got when I thought about waking up, getting dressed and taking the train downtown each morning. On those days when the alarm buzzed and I almost cried, I realized I had never actually accepted the concept of working for a living. As in paycheck every two weeks, party in the break room, "Whose turn is it to bring the doughnuts?" kind of work.

In my windowless office I spent afternoons inventing illnesses so I could leave early and contemplating the words "face time" and "per your request" -- terms used at the association where I was employed. I couldn't comprehend why people didn't say, "Time you can talk to me," and "Here's that thing you wanted."

I found myself staring at the yellow interdepartmental envelopes, passed from cubicle to cubicle like so many office supply floozies, feeling the very essence of my soul leaving me. All through college I'd had a vague sense that this adult world was inevitable, but like so many students I'd avoided thinking about it. Now I spent time wondering how I could transition to a life where I'd write short stories and be married to a world-renowned sculptor and have a bathtub with claw feet.

I debated exit strategies like moving to New York, which seemed too cliche, and applying to graduate school, which seemed too escapist. The answer -- a small part of it anyway -- made itself known to me at a neighborhood street sale. I bought a lunchbox.

It was a large metal lunchbox like the kind construction workers carry, with a curved lid and metal snaps that shut so definitively. It was a bright, notice-me orange, with white daisy stickers about the size of my palm on each side and a white plastic handle.

I discovered right away that there were many pleasant things about carrying a large, bright-orange lunchbox through the streets of downtown Chicago. It was practical; I could carry my lunch without worrying about the accidental squishing of a sandwich on a packed train. And there was something solid about it, the way it helped my feet get into a rhythm as I swung it back and forth when I walked.

But the really pleasant things were found in the reactions of people in the trains, elevators and on the street. The ones I called the Pod People -- until I became one.

The first day I carried the lunchbox a very large delivery man with a Chicago accent started a conversation with me in the elevator of my office building (a virtually unheard of event).

"Dat a lunchbox?" he said.

"Yes," I answered. "Da bullies useta hit me over da head with one of dem things," he told me. "But den I grew."

"Obviously," I said, and grinned.

Other people smiled at me, or stared at the lunchbox, then smiled. One man walking by on a busy sidewalk looked at me and laughed out loud. A silver-haired man in a sharp suit, without once taking his eyes off the elevator doors, simply said, "Nice lunchbox." And then he was gone.

The lunchbox was my life preserver and my connection to other people on the days when negotiating a crowded street or train made me feel lonelier than ever. On especially bad days I clung to it with all 10 fingers on my ride home, leaning my head against the grimy door of the train. But more than anything, it was a reminder that despite the pantyhose and the interdepartmental envelopes and the weird office-speak I was still the same quirky kid and teenager I'd loved being. The kind of kid who believed the vapidity of adulthood could be stopped with a lunchbox.

One cloudy day as I was walking to the office I found myself in the middle of a protest in front of the Chicago Board of Trade. There were the expected aging hippies and anarchists and so on with their signs and neon green leaflets. They were up against the WTO and the World Bank and the IMF. Suddenly my lunchbox seemed small. Silly, almost.

I had to walk right through all of it to get to my building. When I passed one protester, a boy just a bit younger than I, I heard him pleading, "It doesn't have to be this way! You don't have to be a slave anymore!" I thought of that brief, lovely time in college when I'd bought copies of the socialist newspaper at the student union and had known all the answers to every problem in the world.

I walked past him and held up my lunchbox with both hands as if to prove to him that I was not a slave at all, but a girl. A girl with credit card debt and a job and a soul held together with a belief in artifacts from childhood. A sweet girl, a sort of lost girl. A girl who found comfort in her lunchbox.

And I wanted to tell that boy and the world that yes, I knew carrying a bright-orange lunchbox was nothing like chucking it all to join the circus or save the planet. I knew it was just a small gesture. Just a tiny statement. But it was something. Certainly it was something. It was a start.

Abhishek Bachchan in Spanish

Sigh! Is it not enough that I have to compete with like 99% of the Indian women and girls who salivate at the mere mention of AB’s baby’s name that now even firang people are going ga ga over him? Of course, he is eminently drool-worthy. But this is a really cool find – Abhishek's Spanish fans.

My shot at short short fiction

Is stuff in the blogosphere catchy? It sure looks like it when it comes to writing your own short shorts. Amardeep Singh said that Sepia Mutiny started it. To be entirely honest, I have toyed with the idea of microfiction/short fiction/short short fiction/flash fiction about a year and a half before. I wrote them and then forgot about them. At that time, I was more interested in other things and I didn’t have a blog. Anyways, I have caught the short short bug, so here is my dart at it:

A 49-day affair
One day you say you can’t live without me, the next day you dissapear. I’m left with memories of a guitar exchanged for ring, some soppy messages, no goodbyes, and the slightly salty taste of grief pouring from my soul at dawn. I want to ask: What happened to my stepson? Did he disappear too?

Puja dreams and the stuff reality is made of

I have been away for nearly two weeks from the blogosphere. And I did miss it sometimes. And the reason was Durga Puja. That Madhatterish time that descends collectively on the Bengali consiousness. Every year is a rush-rush Puja. If you think you can plan such things you are so wrong!

All my Pujas have been spent in Madras: this Puja was no exception. I know that Calcutta Pujas are different. There is of course no pandel-hopping for us. The simple reason is that there are no pujas to pandel hop! I mean certainly not on the scale that Calcutta offers. So I spent all my time in one Puja pandel. It’s not that boring because we have certain responsiblities to handle. This time, even though the Puja was short by one day, the enthusiastic people from our Puja started the celebrations on Panchomi itself. Of course, I couldn’t attend. I was still running around for last minute shopping and making the quiz questions. From the next day onwards, I was at the Puja pandel: twice a day, for 5 days. Ain’t that grand? There was no food at home and we were supposed to eat the food stalls already there. But here is the irony, the food stalls make yummy food but getting into the queue is a Herculean task that the few who manage to get into end up missing all the action on the stage.

What I really missed this Puja was friends. All the friends have moved away in a steady trickle to different parts of the world. And without friends, it was so boring. The only day I really enjoyed was the day I hosted the Quiz program. I asked questions, people answered, I felt great. I didn’t know that I did like to be the center of attention and if comes with a mike, all the better! AquaM turned up for the Quiz braving the rains. (It rains here during the Puja.) The funniest part was that after the Quiz, what I call my Fan Club turned up to congratulate me. One guy stood out. He sauntered over to me (btw, I did expect him to do that!) and said, “Hi! I’m Siddharth.” Ordinarily, I would have said “Hi” in return. But no, I noticed this guy earlier and in my nervousness forgot to mention my name! What a stupid thing to do! Later, my cousin said that he was eyeing some kid. Sigh! Such is life! So, I spoke to him and then looked around and saw 5 or 6 huge guys towering over me. They first shook hands with me. And said it was a well-conducted etc etc. I loved it. Every bit of that attention - I glowed in it. Anyways, in the middle Siddharth slipped away. And I was left handling those guys who wanted:

1. To mention their institution’s name (yikes! I forgot what that was!) in which ever publication I wrote.
2. To know why my quiz questions were comics biased.
3. To ask why I didn’t have any sports questions.
4. To ask me to ask them a sports question. (Which I did.)
5. To congratulate me.

Phew! Now, you know why I call them the fan club!! Anyways, that was my moment of glory.

The rest of the days were spent eating, wearing saris, trying to walk in them, and trying to avoid the torrential rains. In the last day, we weren’t even sure if we could make it to the Besant Nagar pandal. But we did manage somehow. I missed Bhashan though: I had to go some place else.

All this Puja madness did take a toll. I fell sick promptly the day after.

I will put up the quiz questions so that you guys who couldn’t attend can take a go at it, what say?

Plagiarism in the blogosphere

So far I thought that the problem of plagiarism was something that plagued the print or the Net. But now it has invaded our personal space within the blogosphere. Somehow I thought it was something that didn’t touch me. But alas, I have been ripped! My original work - that is all turns of phrase that I sweat over - all sentence structures that are passionately worked on, all original ideas - has been at the mercy of some incompetant fool (not the Shakespearean one) whose idea of originality is superfluous at best and non-exsistent at worst.

I agree that the Net is a nebulous place where copyright and copyleft (I will talk about this later) are not clearcut. I guess that’s where the Creative Commons License comes into the picture. But what use is a license like that in certain situations? For example, this guy, also a blogger, ripped off my profile description and some other blogger’s complete blog entry. And added a Creative Commons License to his blog. This means that while his blatantly copied material is protected, my original material is not. What is going on here? Why can’t people respect another person’s work? I’m talking about blogging alone here. Music, text, movies lend themselves to a longer discussion which perhaps can be done later.

What can be called as plagiarism? What are the ethics involved in borrowing and sharing original work? Can one person copy another person’s without their knowledge or acknowledgement? Can a blogger have some rights over what he/she has written and posted? What is the extent to which Anu Malik-esque copying can be passed off for “inspiration”? There are so many questions. I think that bloggers should make an effort to be original. I mean what is the point of having a blog with bits and pieces copied from other blogs? What will that be called? A patchwork blog? Another thing, bloggers if they are using material from other blogs should acknowledge it by giving a link back to the original blogger’s post. Amardeep Singh does that admirably. Images are another issue. It would be great if copyright free images could be obtained. And if and when images are used, a disclaimer should follow it.

While many of these questions cannot be answered, one thing can be made clear. No matter what the situation is, no copying and pasting posts or profiles. I suppose it is not clear to anybody but if you are copying either a profile or a post, you are just indicating that you have nothing original to say, (which though might be perfectly true) you should make an effort. Writing and thinking are not easy, I agree but that’s ok. There’s always a place and time to start.

So, bloggers, what do you have to say?

Post-careerist: the soul café at the last stop on the route to the end of the universe

That’s what “Post-careerist” sounds to me.

I belong to a YAHOO! group called the post-careerists. I started susbcribing to it because I agree with its basic philosophy. (For some reason, the site is down. When it gets up and going, I’ll be the first one to post it here.) Post-careerists believe in putting life before work. Our work (8 hours a day/40 hours a week) is productive but does not define what our life is. I think this is important because in this world of fast paced living we tend to forget that.

This is what the Post-careerist site says:

The Post-Careerist (http://www.post-careerist.com) is dedicated to the idea that when the deals are done and the show is over, what we'll value most about our lives is the richness of our experiences, not the riches we've acquired. The Post-Careerist is about making your life, especially your work life, exactly the way you want it. It's about liberating "work" from its inevitable assocation with "job" or "career". It's about arranging your work around your life, instead of the other way around. The Post-Careerist isn't just about work, though. "Post-Careerist" is a way of life. It means living intensely, deliberately. It means taking time to smell the roses, but also working to carve out a life that precisely fits your tastes and your values. It's about approaching living as an art form. The Post-Careerist will provide guidance, tools, resources, and inspiration to help people find satisfaction, to work and live deliberatelyand purposefully - in the words of Henry David Thoreau, to "live deep andsuck all the marrow from life."

Sometime back I had to take a decision. And making a decision is a very difficult task for me. Just weighing the pros and cons is tiresome. And there are no more absolutes. No blacks or whites. Just greys to confuse us simple people. And on the day, I read some stuff that reinforced my decision or rather pointed me in the right direction. Talk about finding signs in the world around us! I always say the universe speaks to you. We only have to listen. This is what the universe said to me that day:

Universespeak alpha:
You can't do anything about the length of your life, but you can do something about its width and depth. -H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

Universespeak beta:
Vocations which we wanted to pursue, but didn't, bleed, like colors, on the
whole of our existence. -Honore de Balzac, novelist (1799-1850)

Universespeak ultima:
I see myself at exactly the point you are describing about 5-10 years ago. I believe it takes courage to make the changes that can "open life up". I think there are those who come by this courage naturally, or maybe have an unconventional career, and there are those of us who make changes only when we are forced to. The "call" that can be the impetus to change is diverse and many, but once it starts it does not let up. I believe the process of opening to life continues to develop as we progress through our stages of life, one choice at a time. The incentive may be health, relationship, money, empty nest, boredom, unhappiness, ennui… Don't worry about not finding it in yourself to make the changes that could open life up. IT will find you. -Joan Allen

A little poem I found a long time ago

This was a poem that I stumbled across sometime ago. I don’t remember when and the poet’s name was also anonymous. But I loved reading it again and again and again…

How old am I? I'll be 92 next Christmas
Though I won't admit to one day over 20...
Even after all the birthday cards are cut and shuffled
It's hard to figure
I've aged at least 500 years since I stumbled into you;
Yet I still believe in faerie tales
Like the Princess and the Frog
And I still believe you wanted me
Perhaps I am only three or so?
You'll never know how old I am
But I'll tell you anyway
I was born the hour I met you... and died today.

Honeymoon in Hawai'i

It must be wonderful to travel...I have always wanted to travel. My cousin is right now the lucky one though. She was in Hawai'i recently on a Honeymoon. I don't have any pics of me travelling because I haven't started travelling yet. So I have posted some of hers.

Here she is with the ocean for a background

Shreya and Sougata partying Hawai'i style.

I love the sepia tinted photo.. makes me imagine that they are some 1920s royal couple holidaying on some unknown island.

Here she is on the main streets of Hawai'i

The Little Prince and I

My first encounter with The Little Prince was on a summer holiday to Calcutta. I was 11 years old (I think; I wasn’t into keeping track then) and bored to death in an adult world. What kept me going on those lazy summer afternoons were breaking expensive china, chatting with the household help sitting on a mat, contemplating a change of name (which I discussed fervantly with our maidservant), scaring people out of their skins with fake spiders, and discovering The Little Prince. The latter entirely by accident. My cousin had (and does still) a voracious collection of books. I had to crane my neck to see the books on the highest shelf. To me, the sheer size of the ceiling to floor bookshelves were awe-inspiring. I loved reading but at 11 found some of the brown tomes boring. That is until I stumbled onto The Little Prince. Here was a book that spoke to me – later to the child in me – and still does. I don’t remember much about it except that I loved the story and remembered the watercolor illustrations. And even though I didn’t own a copy of the fable till yesterady, everytime anyone anywhere mentioned The Little Prince, a tiny bulb of recognition would go off in my head. To me, The Little Prince was the Little Prince of a faraway summer when I was alone in an adult universe and he came to give me some company.

The politics of history on a comic strip

History is political and politics is a part of history. Only the innocent people are the ones who are caught in between.