Arithmancy

Arithmancy is a Chaldean and Greek method of divination by numbers. The Chaldeans divided their alphabet into three sections of seven letters and linked these to the seven planets. The Greeks would analyze the names of opponents and predict the outcome of a contest. Arithmancy is a precursor to numerology.

If this sounds familiar, you have read Harry Potter. It's one of the subjects he learns at Hogwarts.

Calculate your character number here.

Not a snob

I am officially not a snob anymore according to a friend of mine. The reason for her to snatch the title away from me is that I have read John Grisham. I did. Two books of his. A Time to Kill and one other book whose name I don't remember, which was a gift from the Rupa Book Club way back when I was in college. Damn! And now I have to stop being a snob? It was almost my identity!

Out of sight, out of mind

I am painfully aware that I am out of circulation. But it just feels good to write. Writing is one area where I feel I have the most fun doing what I like doing. Book reviews are an excuse to write as are pieces like this one. I was trying to be a good blogger and read all the blogs I have been ignored all this time. But I couldn't cover many blogs. Maybe blogging is a sign of normalcy. Am I becoming acustomsed to this place? I don't think so. But then getting used to something isn't a question of thinking it's just being. Sometimes I think I'm so human that I can't see beyond the everyday reality. I can't for example see where I will be in the next 6 months, what I will be doing, and how. Some people I know have planned out their lives. I don't have a plan. As of now, I want to survive today. Take life in doses, one day at a time.

What do I want to be?

A friend of mine wanted to know what I wanted to be. This is what I told her:

Today while having a cuppa tea, I drifted into this lonely window of my office. I looked down at its manicured lawns and saw two people diligently at work in the sun. They were cutting grass but not using a lawn mover but their own hands. Picking out each errant grass blade so that the rest confirm to a by and large uniformity, a man and his wife - I assumed it was his wife: the distance between them told me so, not much, not little either- were at work. Sometimes, they exchanged a word or two. My bigger-than-big organization supports so many people, I thought. But actually I envied them. Their work was simple, kept them in touch with nature and most of all, kept them together. Suddenly, a shadow enveloped the lawn like a giant umbrella. The sun had disappeared. But it didn't make a difference to them. They continued like before. Not a blade more, not a blade less.

I want to be a grass cutter.

Growing Up in India

I got this as a forward and thought that it was a wonderful account of growing up in India and would apply as much to us 80's kids. It has a distinct nostalgic tone and must have been written by an NRI.

This is dedicated to the wonderful kids who were born in India and survived the 40's, 50's, 60's and 70's.

First, we survived being born to mothers, some, whose husbands smoked and/or drank while they carried us. They took aspirin, ate whatever food was the put on table, and didn't get tested for diabetes. They were mothers who did not check their blood pressure every few minutes.

Then after that trauma, our baby cribs and bassinets were covered with bright coloured lead-based paints. We were put in prams and sent out with ayahs to meet other children with ayahs, whilst our parents were busy. We cried, were picked up and cuddled by the ayahs and were quiet again.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets, and when we rode our bikes we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking or going out on our own. As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or airbags. We sat on each other's laps for God's sake. Riding in the back of a station wagon on a warm day was always a special treat.

We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle. We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this. We would share a dosa, dip a chapatti into someone else's plate of curry without batting an eyelid. We ate jam sandwiches or pickle on bread and butter, raw mangoes with salt that set our teeth on edge, and drank orange squash with sugar and water in it. We ate at roadside stalls, drank water from tender coconuts, ate everything that was bad for us from mumfalees to Bhel
Puri to bhajias and samosas, but we weren't overweight because WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING! There was never a child - not one single child - who was obese! We would leave home in the morning and play all day during the holidays, we were never ever bored, and we were allowed freedom all day as long as we were back when the streetlights came on, or when our parents told us to do so. No one was able to reach us all day by mobile phone or phone. And we were O.K.

We would spend hours making paper kites, building things out of scraps with old pram wheels or cycle rims, inventing our own games, playing traditional games called hide and seek, kick the can and rounders, ride old cycles and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem. We swam with an inflated tube which we got from somebody who was replacing their car tyres. We ran barefoot without thinking about it, if we got cut we used iodine on it which made us jump. We did not wash our hands ten times a day. And we were OK. Our parents trusted us to go on picnics with everyone and anyone, a friend of a friend would be OK and we survived. We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no mobile phones, no personal computers, no I-Pods, no internet or internet chat rooms, no TV, full stop.

We did not have parents who said things like "What would you like for breakfast/lunch/dinner?" We ate what was put in front of us and best of all , there was never any leftovers. We polished the lot. WE HAD FRIENDS, great friends, whose parents we called Uncle and Aunty, and we went outside and found them! We fell out of trees numerous times, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no compensation claims from these accidents. We ate fruit lying on the ground that we shook down from the tree above. And we never washed fruit. We had a bath using a bucket and mug and used Lifebuoy soap. We did not know what conditioners meant.

We made up games with sticks and tennis balls. We rode cycles everywhere and someone sat on the carrier or across the bar to school or the pictures not cinema, or you walked to a friend's house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just walked in and talked to them!

Not everyone made it into the teams we wanted to. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!! The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law! This generation of ours has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever! The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas. We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL! Those were the days!!

The Thief Lord: From the land of pizza, a tale of survival, larceny, and adventure

The Thief Lord
The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke
Scholastic 2002
352 pages Rs.250

I usually do a first line test before picking up a book. In this case too, the first line though not that promising sounded interesting: It was in autumn that Victor first heard about Prosper and Bo.

I had no clue about the author nor about the book. All I knew was that the book was classified as children's fiction and was situated in Venice, Italy. That was enough. And to be honest, I haven't regretted picking it up.

The story proper: 12-year-old Prosper and 5-year-old Bo (short for Boniface) are orphans who have come to Venice partially because their late mother's fascination for the city which was transferred to them through the fantastic stories that she told them and partially because they wanted to escape the claws of their aunt Esther who wanted to adopt only Bo because he was this real cute child. The brothers join in with a gang of Robinhood-like thieves led by their charismatic and enigmatic leader Scipio who likes to call himself "The Thief Lord." The gang sells whatever their leader steals to Signor Barbarossa, a gruff and grubby antiques dealer, who pays them a pittance because they are children.

The two brothers' life seems to chug along till there comes a block in the road. Persistant Esther and her tall husband have hired a detective Victor Getz to search for the boys in Venice so that she can adopt Bo. Getz does manage to locate them but does not give away their location because his sharp eyes detect that the aunt actually wants a cute kid not Bo as her child. But I am getting ahead of myself as usual.

The Thief Lord has in the meanwhile been approached by a Duke through Barbarossa to steal a wooden wing for him for which he is ready to pay 5 million. As Victor closes in on the pair of brothers, he is taken hostage. He is later released but by then he is already on their side. The Thief Lord's gang will have to steal the wooden wing from the house of Signora Spavento. But they get caught. When they tell her their story, she readily agrees to give the wing on the one condition that they allow her to accompany them to their secret rendezvous with the Duke. They agree. Signora Spavento tells them the story of the Merry-go-round of the Merciful Sisters: Spavento herself was an orphan brought up by the Mercidul sisters and had heard the story of a magical merry-go-round riding on which could make an adult a child and vice a versa. One day, it was stolen. And no one knew till date where or how it was. If the Duke wants the broken wing from a flying lion's figure on the merry-go-round, is it possible that he knows where it is? So starts the children's adventure to a secret island called Isola Segreta.

They get to know if the merry-go-round really exists and who could gain from it. Of course, there are certain mishaps but which all turn out to be god-send twists in the plot. I can't say anymore because I have already told enough!

What I found most compelling was the plot: a rather unusal but still true story that one could relate to. Also, one could get to know the world (and magical Venice) from the children's point of view. A deep desire to revolt against the authority of adults is very palpable in each of the characters. However, they wouldn't have gone far without the help of two adults who are actually children at heart: the benevolent Signora Spavento and the compassionate Victor Getz. Other themes include the adult longing to return to a child's world and the child's longing to be an adult. Wisdom lies in recognizing that all stages have its time. Once that it is gone, trying to get it back can only be like clutching at straws. The city of Venice is almost like a character in the book. She describes it with a rare passion that makes you realise that this story is her ode to it.

After Rowling, I find that this writer has exploited the use of names to underline the character. Almost all the names are symbolic.

Prosper: connects to Prosperity; P gets the best deal with Barbarossa by playing it adult in the negotiation game.

Bo: Short for Boniface. Named after - I assume - the real holy St.Boniface. The association with religion and purity. His cherubic looks add to the plot. It is the reason Esther becomes fascinated with him.

Scipio: is the family name of a Roman noble family. In the story too, he turns out to be from a rich family.

Barbarossa: is the other name of Khayr ad-din, a Barbary pirate. Also, note connotations of "barbaric" woven into the name.

Victor Getz: Need I say anymore? With a name like Getz, I thought he would get the kids for Esther the moment she hired him!

Reading Funke was fun but she don't expect her to reach the depths that some other writers do. Hers is a fun story with lots of truths, a little magic, some daring, and some beautiful descriptions of a beautiful city.

Rating: * * * * = Bindaas (Great)

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