The Healing Verse

I haven't written much since I changed the blog's name to a Writer from India. In fact, I hardly wrote anything at all in the past six months. Except about a thousand pages of business documents, two thousand or so related emails and a long, complex algorithm that was a pride and joy. Six months or more of walking, talking and living the project, dreaming of a hunded-odd screens and a thousand-odd scenarios at night. I loved this project so much that I almost felt that it must love me back. And now, I just want to let it go. It is heart-wrenching. What were they thinking, those who coined the term 'corporate jungle'? Animals abide by the rules of the jungle, they do not steal one another's work!

For long I have believed and lived by the motto that competition vanishes in front of excellence, or at least it should in an ideal world. Only such adages do not apply to the real world, my immediate world where ethics are getting eroded with each passing day. The darkness of disillusionment creeps in, even as comforting old songs play in high volumes in the background:

Let it be. Don't worry, be happy. Sing a new song, chiquitita. I'll cross the stream. And heck, so I will. I'll do it my way.

Celebrating dark and difficult times as usual, with verse. Verse that sustains, soothes and heals.

I loved this poem as a child. In college, I cringed on seeing it quoted ad nauseum in every other autograph book. Now each line of it begins to make sense and inspire all over again.

And these wonderful lines from the poet who sang that "Sun, rain, curving sky, Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone, Star shine, moon glow" were all that she could call her own:

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Quoted from Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

A Writer from India

The Amazon breakthrough novel contest is in its final stages. Though my novel did not make the semifinals this year, I got this encouraging review from an expert reviewer:

"This novel tells the story of an as-yet-unnamed narrator, a fifteen year old boy living with an aunt in Madras, India, while his parents go through a divorce. The narrator is suicidal, but, in an opening prologue, describes the moment when he realized he no longer needed to feel suicidal, that he could experience renewed hope. The piece is beautifully written in a strong, crafted, lyrical style. The story-telling is subtle, balancing vignettes with background information and plot movement. I wanted to read more.

The author uses repetition and subtlety to convey emotion, as in this passage: "Anu, Sabi and I shared a common bond of the winter within, a winter of the mind that had nothing to do with being fifteen. Though we never discussed it, I knew it from the way they talked, the way they thawed as I did in the warmth of a few laughs in the library. I knew it from the way they were as eager as I was to enter the library, and as reluctant to leave it.""
Review by ABNA Expert Reviewer

To quote Salman Rushdie, "There are books that open doors for their readers, doors in the head, doors whose existence they had not previously suspected. And then there are readers who dream of becoming writers; they are searching for the strangest door of all, scheming up ways to travel through the page, to end up inside and also behind the writing, to lurk between the lines; while other readers, in their turn, pick up books and begin to dream. For these Alices, these would be migrants from the World to the Book, there are (if they are lucky) books which give them permission to travel, so to speak, permission to become the sort of writers they have it in themselves to be. A book is a kind of a passport."
Salman Rushdie, p. 276, Imaginary Homelands

Several books including two of Rushdie's, have opened the windows and doors for me, showing me glimpses of the world within the pages over the years, and the reviews of my first book like the one above stamp my permit validating it.

Thank you, my dear authors, readers and reviewers.

April Updates

Have been on an extended blog break for many reasons, mainly as this is a book blog and I have got to read very little in the past few months.

I returned from Tokyo in March and though I missed seeing the Sakura, I was back just in time to see the first flowers of the Gulmohur, the laburnums raining their golden petals and the pink powder puff flowers making beautiful canopies of shade on either side of the roads. I was glad to be back before April, which is the month of the Tamil New Year and my favourite month of the year.

Some books bought before leaving Tokyo
Zen and Japanese culture by Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki Found this set of lucid lectures on Zen while strolling through Ginza. I had gone in to buy a DVD of 'The Good Earth' that was marked for a discount , and couldnt resist this book. My long term fascination with Zen keeps growing in spite of the fact that Zen seems more incomprehensible with each new book that I read about it.

Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury Had been wanting to read this ever since I read Ray Bradbury's Zen in the art of writing. I love reading Young Adult literature, and books in the coming-of-age genre are especially dear to me. But I was sadly disappointed by this book, a series of vignettes of life in a small American town. The language was too flowery, there were too many embellishments to the prose and I found it to be a cloying narrative, celebrating life.

Kokoro: Hints and Echoes of Japanese Inner Life by Lafcadio Hearn An intriguing and beautiful collection of essays on Japanese thought and aesthetics.

D and I had many plans for the last weekend in Tokyo - Visiting Asakusa and taking a thirty minute Zazen class at the Seishoji temple among others. And I so wanted to go one more time to the Ueno park to say goodbye to my beloved Benzaiten. None of this was to be. D messaged me that someday we would get to explore 'our' Tokyo, as we worked away from our respective apartments through the entire weekend.

D now calls Tokyo one of her hometowns, in addition to Madras and Tirunelveli. And though I can never think of any city other than Madras as my own, I fell in love with Tokyo in many ways. A weird reason was how many places in Tokyo reminded me of Madras. The view from the office windows and walks through the Hamamtsucho roads often reminded me of Indira Nagar. Looking out of my Omori apartment at the beautiful homes and the park outside my window, I would think of Mylapore. And everytime I visited Asakusa on the weekend, it felt like being back in Srirangam, where a feeling of peace, silence and divinity prevails in spite of the thronging tourist crowds.

Soon after I returned, I turned to the piles of TBR books on my shelves. Started with An End to Suffering: The Buddha in the World by Pankaj Mishra, that I had bought a long time ago after reading a particularly good review of it in The Hindu. The book commenced on a very interesting note, with Mishra moving to the idyllic Himalayan village of Mashobra to study the life of The Buddha. However I soon felt that this was a book that was best read on a long journey, when one has a lot of time to think and reflect on the prose, and started instead on the Inkheart triology by Cornelia Funke. It has been over a year since I bought Inheart and Inkspell, and I read them both with a great deal of pleasure over the weekends. Meggie Folchart's adventures within the pages of a book gets more and more interesting with every page, with the boundaries between fiction and reality getting more and more blurred as the story takes a life of its own, and cannot be controlled by even its author Fenoglio who is reduced to a spectator and an unwilling character in his own tale. I am looking foward to read Inkdeath - the third book in the series.

Some new books bought recently:
Tears of the Giraffe by Alexander McCall Smith This completes my collection of the No.1 Ladies Detective Agency titles, for Teatime for the traditionally built is yet to reach the bookstores here. An engrossing and charming read as ever, the twist at the end was slightly filmy but satisfying.

The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches by Matsuo Basho A delightful travelogue that blends Zen philosphy and haiku. I loved this book as soon as I saw it.

Agatha Christie: An Autobiography The few Agatha Christie books at home are all part of my Father's library. I have never bought an Agatha Christie book preferring to borrow them from the library or from friends, for right since childhood whenver I read one of her wonderful books, it would get etched in my memory. But I had to buy this book, to know more about the great writer whose books are much more than simple murder mysteries, with a psychological insight offering a deeper look into the layers of the human mind.

The Tao of Writing by Ralph L. Wahlstrom Couldnt resist another text that elaborates the art and craft of writing.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Reading this now. Yet another among the many books written by seekers from the West about their spiritual quest in India. My favourite among these remains Paul Brunton's 'A Search in Secret India'.

Thanks to everyone who wrote to me during the break. As I now go on to read other blogs that I have missed for long, I leave you with a quote.

"If I knew where poems came from, I'd go there." Michael Longley
Wouldn't we all?

Happy Pi Day

I was pleasantly surprised to know about Pi day being celebrated on March 14th.

Pi reminds of my high school Mathematics teacher A T Srinivasan who first taught me the easy way to remember the first four digits of Pi with the sentence,"Yes. I know a number".

It was in Srinivasan Sir's classes that I first learned to appreciate the beauty of Mathematics and love the subject. Popularly known as 'Centum Srinivasan', the prefix referring to the average percentage obtained by his students, Sir chose his students carefully and imparted to each of us, a lifelong devotion to Mathematics.

Besides strong foundations in algebra, geometry and calculus, he also taught many interesting shortcuts like the one above that brought out the sheer joy of playing with numbers. Like a formula to derive the day of the week given the date and the year and Vedic Mathematics tips for top-speed computations.

Srinivasan Sir passed away soon after my Senior school exams. It is over twelve years now, but I still remember the energy and enthusiasm that flowed in his classes. He is immortal, like all great teachers.

Pi day was just the kind of day Sir would have enjoyed celebrating with his students.

A delicious treat

The first set of a hundred chapters of Corduroy Mansions concluded on Feb13th. It is a delightful coincidence that I got to read this new book from one of my favourite authors a little at a time, for most of these six months I have spent in Tokyo.

I had been wondering if the last chapter would include a poem in the tradition of the Scotland Street novels, and it did. The lines read out by William French, the mild and kindhearted wine merchant would have found echoes in many readers' minds, who would have felt, as I did, replete.

"Happiness is a state
Which few can define –
I shall not try – but even those
Who never attempt a definition
Know from experience,
That happiness flows most readily
From friendship, from the company
Of those we would rather not Be without: "

"Friendship is a guise of love,
And love is friendship
Dressed up for a night out.
That we are together, here at this moment,
Alive, one with another, Is the most delicious treat;
I, for one, ask for no more,
I, for one, am replete."
From Corduroy Mansions by Alexander McCall Smith

It was a unique experience, reading a novel a chapter a day. (Sometimes I found myself reading all five chapters on Friday night, and listening to them on Sunday morning) The online comments by the readers were enjoyable and made one feel as being part of a global audience, eagerly awaiting the next chapter.

As delicious a treat as it was, I found that the characters of Corduroy Mansions sketched differently from the ones in Scotland Street. Scotland Street had a number of characters with all their human complexities portrayed in rich and vivid detail - Like the smug Irene, the vain Bruce and the mild Mathew among others. Corduroy Mansions focuses more on the plot than the characters and is yet to give the reader a deeper look into the many interesting characters who feature in it. I await the next set of chapters in the series, to know what happens to the Yeti-book, to Berthea's biography of her son, to Terence Moongrove and his beings of light, Barbara's relationship with Hugh, and who would Caroline finally choose. And whether William finds a sensitive lady worthy of him. Some of the reader's comments focused on how the characters were going to be paired up. And with Marcia getting closer to Basil in the last chapter, there are bound to be surprises ahead.

I have a quibble about this, why is there so much of interest on the romantic aspect of a story? Why do so many readers think that a story is ultimately all about who walks with who into the sunset?

Setsubun Thoughts and a Half-wish

N peeped into my cubicle on Tuesday afternoon to ask if I wanted to see something special. I followed him to the open meeting area where most of the office were having lunch, from where he pointed in the direction of the Zojoji temple.
"Can you see the red coloured decorations? It is for the Setsubun celebrations, a bean-throwing event"

Some of my Indian colleagues who had been to see it in the morning explained the significance of the festival, how it was about shooing out demons and calling in good luck. I was charmed. Many people began to talk on Setsubun at the same time, when N said, "It marks the changing seasons. Spring will soon be here"

A few moments of collective silence greeted his words, perhaps it was the mention of spring. I thanked N and the others and went for lunch.

The mention of spring makes the heart feel both light and heavy. There is no spring in my hometown Madras, where winter is the best season of all. Yet, springtime months meant summer vacations and I have never ceased to love them. I love them even now, long after summer vacations have become a distant memory.

The heart leaps in hope at the mention of spring, the harbinger of flowers, colours, blue skies, birdsong and beautiful emotions. The heart is weighed down and heavy, as true love still seems a distant dream, almost as elusive as finding a good literary agent. Yet hope thrives with life, and hopes go up as always during the springtime.

Somewhere I read that the anticipation and the wait for something is more pleasurable than attaining the object itself. I used to think that it was indeed so (As a child, the countdown of days to Diwali was so much more fun than Diwali itself, that somehow vanished in a flurry blur of visits and visitors and sweets and crackers and predictable Television programmes). At the advent of yet another spring, I do not think so anymore.

As I read the daily episode of Corduroy Mansions last night, in the web pages of which springtime seems to be working its magic too, I half-wished I were a character in the book like Barbara or Caroline so that the good author could have written a similar twist into my life.

A Republic Day post

It feels wonderful when the gentle, polite strangers here sometimes say a friendly 'Namaste' when they notice my Indian features as I walk to the office in the mornings.

I feel pained whenever I read somewhere that the concept of India as a Nation goes back only sixty or so years. So many of the ancient puranas and everyday mantras cite the name of Bharata varsha. The great poets from our different states wrote about the country as a whole, many years well before Independence.

My Japanese friends, especially C-san always seem puzzled that there can be so many languages in the same country.

What keeps your country together in spite of so many differences?

I can hardly answer such a complex question. I try to remember what I learnt in primary school on unity in diversity. To me it is a sense of belonging as a Nation, acceptance and tolerance that lies at the core of what it means to be Indian.
Of the love that surely forms the basis of these values.

Love that is beyond language, whether it is towards another individual or towards one's Country.

One of my favourite songs that always makes me filled with love and pride for my Nation. Found this while googling for Republic Day songs last Sunday. Whoever put together the presentation that forms the background has done a fabulous job.


Jai Hind!

Meditations on a Saturday Morning

Like my boss who lives the Zen of work, I too love the long spells of weekdays and weekends focused on work without any other thought. Which makes the rare free weekends like this feel all the more precious, and makes me want to write without stop, to explore this delightful city, to drink hot chocolate and to sing for joy.

Stories mirror life, or is it the other way around? Many writers have talked about the plots of their stories finding parallels in their lives. Books such as Muriel Spark's Loitering with Intent are about events in the book foreshadowing incidents in life around the writer and the writer's life.

I often find this to be true. While writing my first novel, I tried manipulating the twists and turns in a vain attempt to influence real life around me, tying up the loose ends in a rather juvenile manner with Sid marrying Amrita and Roshan realising Nivedita's love for him. But both of these were not to be in reality and I had to rewrite the chapters, loosely inspired by what transpired in real life. As I rewrote the chapters in the third draft, reverting the story to its original version as it had come to me, I found that letting go of Amrita was the best thing that could have happened to Sid. And that Niv deserved someone much better than Roshan.

The romantic angles are only on the periphery of the book that is the story of a young man who finds the meaning of his life, the answer to the ultimate question ' Who am I?'

My second novel is fast turning into a love story. I find that I have little choice in the matter, the characters are acting on their own, and I love them for it.

The hero Aakash asks himself, 'What is home?'. The book is about his search for the idea of home and homeland. I havent written it yet, except for sentences scribbled as they come to me in my pocket notepad, in between my 15 minute lunch breaks in Mos Burger.

'What is home?' asks Akash. He has not found the answer yet. Instead, I find that he is caught between a strong attraction to his cousin Lavanya, and an inexplicable attachment to his Aunt's student Michiko. I know the kind of interactions that happen between these three people, what each of them want, how they relate to each other, and how they feel about each other. I know what would happen between these three, I have written the last page of the last chapter.

Once again, not so surprisingly, I see these three people reflected around me and I wonder if life would take the same path that the story pointed out when it came to me originally. For it would be really interesting if it did, for all concerned. It really would.

*********

Reflections on life on a beautiful Saturday morning:

What's duly his, a man receives;
This law not even God can break;
My heart is not surprised, nor grieves;
For what is mine, no strangers take.

From Panchatantra translated by Arthur W. Ryder

Happy New Year

2008 has been awesome. Here is welcoming 2009 with a poem by a beloved poet.

These Simple Things
The simplest things in life are best-
A patch of green,
A small bird’s nest,
A drink of water, fresh and cold,
The taste of bread,
A song of old;
These are the things that matter most.
The laughter of a child,
A favourite book,
Flowers growing wild,
A cricket singing in a shady nook.
A ball that bounces high!
A summer shower,
A rainbow in the sky,
The touch of a loving hand,
And time to rest-
These simple things in life are best.
Ruskin Bond

Truly, simple things in life are best. So are some other things, such as the high of working towards a goal as part of a team, words of commendation from the boss and the clients, the joy of watching your dreams turn into tangible reality, the exhilaration of conversing without words, the pleasure of pleasant conversations, the peace of quietude when you can feel the stillness within.

May your New Year be replete with the best of all delightful things.

Thoughts from Tokyo in December

Walking through the Ueno park one Sunday afternoon, I wandered into the international library of children's literature. Most of the books were in Japanese but the friendly librarian guided me to a tiny shelf of English books and pointed out another one of books in other languages.

I took in the atmosphere, running my hands through the spines of the books and absorbing the library feel, a universal vibe that would make every bibliophile feel at home in any alien land. Saw a copy of Sophie's World (Sofies verden) by Jostein Gaarder in the original Norwegian version and some English books like A Visit to William Blake's Inn: Poems for Innocent and Experienced Traveler by Nancy Willard that would have greatly interested me, once upon a time.

Just to spend a few more minutes in the library, I picked up a book at random (I think the title was something like 'One Hundred poems for children') and browsed idly through the pages when I came across two poems that moved me so much that I sat down on one of the tiny benches and copied the verses into my pocket journal.
The first one was:
Some People
Isn't it strange some people make
You feel so tired inside,
Your thoughts begin to shrivel up
Like leaves all brown and dried!

But when you're with some other ones,
It's stranger still to find
Your thoughts as thick as fireflies
All shiny in your mind !
Rachel Field

To me this poem conveyed that you have to ensure that your thoughts fly thick and fast and never shrivel up, irrespective of the kind of people around you. Makes sense whether you sit on a schoolbench or in an office.
The other poem was equally unforgettable. Extremely simple lines that touch deep within. Simple and profound, these few lines say a lot.

People
Some people talk and talk
and never say a thing.
Some people look at you
and birds begin to sing.

Some people laugh and laugh
and yet you want to cry
Some people touch your hand
and music fills the sky
Charlotte Zolotow

Poems like these touch the heart, and fills it with the joy of feeling connected to the Universe.

Random updates:

* Visited a Saraswati temple for the first time in my life. The Goddess looked lovely in her Japanese avatar and it didnt matter that she was called Benzaiten. I felt a wonderful sense of connection in the beautiful temple set amidst a lake of lotuses. It was a lovely experience, like coming across a close friend in an alien land.
Wonder why there arent many Saraswati temples in India? (Have heard of just one in interior Tamil Nadu).

* Last week was great. Boss was in office for a day on his way to Sydney. It is so inspiring to talk to him, even for five minutes. And D was here the whole of last week.

* My hypothesis for a working day's lunch: A lunch with colleagues is good, lunch alone is better, lunch with a friend (or more) is the best of all.

* Oh to be in Madras, now that the month of Markazhi is here! But it also feels good to be in Tokyo in December.

A Little Night Music

The memory of a dream I had shared with K in schooldays came to me recently.

K and I had often fantasized about living independently in a big city far away from home, of returning after a long day at work and relaxing with coffee in the garden, watching the stars and listening to ghazals. I wonder if K found the time for it when she was working and living by herself in Bangalore before she left like most of my other friends, for the US. Her emails were full of how she was squeezing the most out of every moment, of her full evenings and packed weekends, of how she had turned into a self proclaimed party animal, of the nuances of professional and social networking. But that is another story.

I realised that I was living that dream of old the other day. It was past midnight as I stood in the tiny balcony watching the park from the apartment window. Quiet even in the daytime, the place was serene in the silence of the night. I felt the day's stress melt away as I sipped my cocoa, listening to an old favourite ghazal by Qateel Rajasthani playing softly in the background.

Raahon pe nazar rakhna,
honton pe dua rakhna,
Aa Jaaye koyi shayaad
darwaaza khula rakhna
(Keep an eye on the road
Keep a prayer on your lips,
Someone might come perhaps
Keep the door open)

Which was a lovely song to listen to on a cold, beautiful winter night.

A Pleasant Surprise

There is a great man who makes every man feel small. But the real great man is the man who makes every man feel great
G K Chesterton

A real great man, one of the writers I admire a great deal, was here at my blog yesterday.

I remember reading somewhere a long time back that while walking through the streets of Ettayapuram, a writer exclaimed with a thrill that, "The breeze that blew through this place when the great poet Subramaniya Bharati walked this way, the same breeze now blows around me"

I feel the same excitement as I look at this tiny bit of cyberspace that is my blog, today.

Professor Alexander McCall Smith was here yesterday, and I was delighted to receive an email from him regarding this post, reassuring me that the Scotland Street series will resume after sometime.

Alexander McCall Smith's books have been, and continue to be a great source of joy. Like millions of other readers, I adore his books for many reasons. There is the pleasure of reading the erudite prose, savouring stories that are gentle reflections on life, imbibing the deep wisdom that the books reflect that is flavoured with a lot of goodnatured humour, observing the empathy for human nature and tolerance of little falliblities, enjoying the many interesting facts that are blended into the plot and much more.

Above all these, his protagonists reassure one that values like goodness, morality and decency prevail, and will continue to prevail in this world. The chronicles of Mma Ramotswe, Isabel Dalhousie, Scotland Street and my favourite of all - Professor Dr Moritz Maria von Igelfeld are among the most cherished and reread books in my library. Books that invoke genuine, beautiful worlds where people live in a 'sea of love', and where automobile engines 'flow sweetly, like life'.

I was delighted to receive regards from Bertie, Domenica and other inhabitants of Scotland Street.

Thank you Professor MCall Smith, for writing these wonderful books that make the world feel more like the wonderful place that it is. I am honoured by your visit to my blog.

I am looking forward to the next books in all the series, and also to Corduroy Mansions in book form.

*********

Whenever I visit a bookstore, there is another book that I am really looking forward to see - My first novel! It is a little over a year since I baselined the first draft version 0.1 that went on to the semifinals of the Amazon breakthrough novel award. Now at version 0.9, I have revised it considerably and grown detached from it over the past few months so much that it now feels like another person's book. But still, it is very much the sort of book that I like to read. (Ok, I am biased but who wouldnt be?) :-)

Chinmay and Sid, the protagonists of my first book ask me when they would be able to be out and about in the world. All I need to do is to find the literary agent and the publisher of my dreams. The agents have been getting better and better in their responses to partials - from impersonal form letters to personalised rejections with suggestions and comments. (Got a nice one last week). Most of my writer friends share the same experience, so I am keeping my hopes up for Chinmay and Sid, who are two fine young men whom I hope, readers would like getting to know.

Off on a blog-break. Will be back around mid-December.

A different world

"If we spoke a different language, we would perceive a somewhat different world.”
Ludwig Wittgenstein

I wonder how long it would be before I can perceive this different world.

A lunch that lasted thirty minutes or a little more, it seemed to be a lifetime. Sitting in the middle of a group of friendly people who either couldn't or simply wouldn't speak English, I came to empathise with all the mute and deaf people in the world as I looked blankly from one face to another.

It was as though I was unseen, as though I had ceased to be in that crowded Ginza restaurant, sitting amidst a group of friendly people who spoke in a stream of words that fell upon my ears like music that I do not understand. I eventually stopped looking at the faces around me and took to staring at the blandly grand decor and the waitress dressed in a Turquoise silk suit and matching embroidered cap, who had replied in impeccable English when I said 'Nikku-nashi' with many gestures while placing the order. The conversation flowed on, the words falling off my perception as water slides off a Duckback schoolbag and I sat squirming in a sea of incohesive sounds, some of which made random sense here and there.

They were not being rude, or impolite. They had acknowledged me when we entered. The Indian restaurant had been chosen just for me. They were most concerned when I gagged on seeing a piece of meat beneath my Naan. They were polite and friendly in all respects, except that they wouldnt speak to me.

Some things you can say only with words, I realised as I typed a 'Thank you' mail afterwards for the thoughtful, wonderful lunch that had rendered me mute, deaf and invisible for those everlasting thirty minutes.

I take back my words in the previous post. Sometimes words are everything.

Communicating without words

It's only words, and words are all I have to take your heart away
Boyzone

I had often thought that these were some of the most beautiful lines I have ever heard. As a reader and a writer, I love languages. I am utterly and perpetually fascinated by words. Yet over the past few months, I had a number of encounters with people in which I found that you can communicate as well and as effectively, perhaps more, without words.

Like the young lady I met in the apartment lift, who asked me which floor I wanted to go to in a rush of Japanese words and acknowledged my reply with a friendly 'Hai'. I could feel the friendliness effusing from her wide brown eyes and the goodbye smile she gave me when the lift reached her floor was so genuine that it stayed on my lips even after I reached my apartment on the top floor.

Or like the little Japanese girl I saw on a train one weekend. She must have been around three or four years old, an adorable child with two plaits sticking out of her head. She was excitedly looking out of the train windows walking to and fro, while her parents ran to check her much more boisterous little brother, who seemed equally excited. Perhaps they were going on a weekly outing, I guessed, as I enjoyed the scene. The little girl saw me watching them and gave me a sweet, mischievous smile. Her eyes said that she saw me not as a gaijin with unfamiliar features, just as a friendly stranger to whom she wanted to communicate her joy. I waved to her as I got off the train at Kawasaki. She waved back happily. I hope she and her family had a wonderful time that evening.

Or like the exquisitely beautiful lady who came to my help in the convenience store when I was trying to buy noodles without any meat in them, with many gestures to the confused shop assistant who insisted that the noodles were Nikku-nashi while I tried to explain that I was looking for a pack without seafood or eggs either.

Or when the train stopped abruptly at Shinagawa one late night as I was returning from the office and I wasn’t sure of what was happening or what to do next, the elderly gentleman in the seat next to me slowly and carefully explained in broken English that the train was stopped due to an accident, and would resume after an hour. He walked away and returned almost immediately, slowly climbing down the steps, just to wish me good luck before walking away.

Or like the time last week when the door of the telephone booth would not close, and as I struggled to close it against the rain, a young Japanese lady, her arms loaded with shopping bags came running to my help and tried her best to close it from outside. It was raining and she did not have an umbrella, but she did not seem to mind. I finally abandoned the telephone booth and found another one, as I did not want her to get anymore inconvenienced. It would have seemed rude to ask her to go when she was so earnestly trying to help.

There have been many more such incidents that seem to say that as powerful as words are, sometimes, just sometimes you can do without them. Some things are beyond them.

*********

One lazy Saturday afternoon many years ago, I was writing the script for a school play along with my friend K, listening to an old collection of folksongs for inspiration. One song was particularly sweet and though I did not comprehend many of the words, I translated whatever I understood to K.

"To write a letter to my beloved, I searched for paper
When I found paper, I could not find ink
When I found ink, I could not find words ..."

I paused for effect when K interrupted briskly,
"When I found the words, I remembered that I was illiterate"

I looked at K with a mixture of amusement and irritation, but she said earnestly with a straight face, "The heroines of these folk ballads were usually illiterate, you know. How could the rustic girl write a love letter? All she could do to hope that her lover would know somehow. They usually did".

She had a point there, K did. Many authors have written about moments when "there are too many things to say and not enough words to say them in"

Now a purely hypothetical question - What can you say when you have many things to say and there are words to say them in, but you do not know them? What then?
:-)

Birdsong

Stumbled on this delightful song on Sunday while searching for Aruna Sairam's music. I love the way Ms Sairam has rendered this exuberant folksong with a classical touch. Classical and folk - I love both these genres of music, and this combination is simply irresistible, as in M S Subbulakshmi's Bharatiyaar songs set to the rhythmic Kaavadi Chindhu style. Earthy and vibrant, at the same time magical and mesmerising.



Also superb:

Brought back wonderful memories of Markazhi (December-January), the month of Kolams and classical music concerts in Madras.

Happy Diwali

Wish you a Sparkling Diwali! Hope the festival of lights brings peace and prosperity to the world.

I celebrated an early Diwali by going to Maruzen. Picked up:
The Tale of Genji by Lady Murasaki. This has been on my TBR list for a long time. I had been intimidated by the size of the book and put off buying it each time. This copy was a slim Dover thrift edition with an elegant cover, and I just had to buy it.

Never let me go by Kazuo Ishiguro Ishiguro's books have again been on my TBR list for long. I picked this one up as the style looked interesting, though the reviews make it sound like some of Margaret Atwood's books, set in a dark, an alternate universe. I half-wish I had bought another Murakami instead. I don't mind reading dark books, but they are so much better with humour.

Five women who loved love by Ihara Saikaku I was hooked when I turned the pages of this book. Full of beautiful illustrations, fascimile reproductions of the original by Yoshida Hambei, the paasages reminded me of the stories in Kathasaritsagara and Panchatantra, that combine wisdom and social commentary with fantastic fables.

Counting the stars

As I returned to the apartment at an early hour of 10:30 PM, my friend A came on chat. Two random incidents had been gnawing away at my mind for the past few weeks and I was looking forward to share these with A - Some thoughtless words from L Anni and N.

L Anni is my cousin's wife, a busy doctor who is passionate about her work. L Anni and P Anna have been living in New York for many years. I always look forward to L Anni's emails, the way she comments on life and the world in the same breath that she gives updates on her own world - Her work, P Anna and the children.

"So did you go to any monasteries to learn Zen meditation?" she asked in her email when I wrote to her that I was in Tokyo.

Monasteries??? If I did not reply to L Anni, it was mostly because I was happily swamped in work.

In a strange and disconcerting coincidence, the very next day a colleague N asked me when I was going to the Zen temples and become a Zen monk. It was a poor joke made in silly humour and I thought no more about it. But it felt weird that a casual acquaintance like N and a close relative like L Anni were both associating me with monasteries and meditation. Now I do love the silence of temples and shrines, and I enjoy exploring the spiritual side of life, but this direct and constant association was disturbing.

I was chatting with A after a very long time. The fact that we are perhaps the only two of our batch in school who are still single in spite of having crossed into the right side of thirty last year has brought a new understanding between us. Since we both turned twenty-five, we had often compared notes on how the search for the one went. We had a standing stale joke to set up a free helpdesk to unite distressed lovers, just to accumulate some good karma.

"I am not really searching," I once said to A, "There are always too many things to do on my list, to start seriously looking for someone"
"I have tried everything I could, online and offline" A confessed mournfully, "Every girl I set my heart on, is soon happily married to the man of her dreams. It is just not fair I say, I think of a girl and she finds someone else immediately"
"Please buddy. Think of ME. You can stop thinking after I find the man of my dreams" I joked, and A replied seriously, "But it happens only when I think sincerely"

Which is true. Right since the days when we sat on the same first bench in the class and fought over Enid Blytons, A has been and will always be a brother to me. He is a very comfortable person to chat with and I was glad when he came online. I would tell him how insensitive people could be, and didn't hurts heal faster when you laugh over them with someone else? Zen monk, indeed.

A had glad tidings to share. His messages that rapidly filled the screen were suffixed with a variety of smileys, so many of them that I wondered if his face wasn't stretched, if he was really smiling so much.
"Guess what, I have found THE ONE" I could almost hear the joy in his voice as the words appeared on the monitor.

I was happy for my friend.
"That is great! So is she working there or is she an American Desi?"
I am only a little surprised when A replies,
"She is English, though she has been staying in the US for many years"

A shares her photograph. She looks warm and friendly, and I tell A that they make a good pair. A few more photographs of both of them come up on the screen. A looks different somehow. He looks younger and yet more mature and has a radiant smile as he stands next to his fiancee, who looks beautiful in a pink and green chiffon sari, her blond hair tied in a neat, long plait.
"What about your people back home?" I can't help asking. A is from a traditional Brahmin family and I wonder how they would react to a Gori maattu-ponnu.
"They are thrilled that I am getting married at all, buddy" Another wide smiley. And then, "What about you, aspiring to become the Avvaiyar of the times eh?" This was followed by a devil smiley.

Ouch, that hurt. But to forgive is divine, and A surely did not mean to hurt me in his moment of elation. But me Avvaiyar, at my age? And to think that A is older than me, if only by two months.

"Well there is a young man in my life" I type briskly. "He is American, of Indian origin"
A responds with another smiley before launching into the expected volley of questions. I mention a little about Aakash's family, about his doctor parents, his brother and his sister. I tell him that he is now in Chennai, visiting his Athai and getting to know his roots. I avoid mentioning that Aakash is three years younger than me, that he is very taken with his Athai's daughter who is in her final year of Engineering at the University of Chennai. I do not talk about his growing friendship with Athai's student Michiko who speaks only Japanese.

Above all, I do not feel the need to add that Aakash is the hero of my second novel. I dodge further questions from A on wedding and honeymoon plans with questions of my own which he answers excitedly. I promise to try my best to make it to his wedding in Chennai next year.

As I log off wishing him the best, I realise that our friendship is about to go the same way as most of my other school and college friendships - We fell apart after they moved into a different plane of domestic bliss, and there was no longer any common factor to connect.

I am no longer sleepy as I shut down the laptop and settle down to sleep. I am unable to concentrate on Imaginary Homelands, my thoughts keep moving away at a tangent from Rushdie's essay on Italo Calvino. I feel very happy for A. Somewhat melodramatically I imagine the last of my old schoolfriends walking into the sunset smiling down at a sweet face by his side.

I think of Aakash. I know exactly what Aakash is going to do, and with whom, and when. At least I know for the present - Aakash is still at the developing stage when a character defers to the author's wishes. I hope I find another hero by the time Aakash walks out from my mind into the book and his own life.

I think of the thoughtless words from L Anni, N, and now, A.
Zen monk, Avvaiyar, who me?
But Avvaiyar is not such a bad option to aspire, after all. She must have had a pretty rocking time as an independent wandering minstrel, a diplomat, a much respected and loved writer of her time. If nothing else worked, there is always Avvaiyar to look up to.

But I must sleep now. I put down Imaginary Homelands. I turn off the light, close my eyes and begin to count the stars in Japanese.

Word Game Meme

A word game meme from author Jennifer Hubbard's blog, that has several interesting articles on the craft of writing, revisions and the process of getting published.

Check out her post on literary quotes in which she says that "I believe a relationship with a novel also "requires of us our most secret and deepest selves," because a relationship with a novel is really a relationship with the eventual readers--the readers who will, we hope, nod in recognition. Or, in the words of Nabokov, "who will jump up, ruffling their hair."
Quote from Jennifer Hubbard at http://writerjenn.livejournal.com/2008/10/03/, quote partly attributed to May Sarton and Vladimir Nabokov

How very true. I always feel that way when I am into a really good book.

Now to the game.

"Comment and I'll give you a letter, list ten things you LOVE which begin with that letter, then post this in your journal and give out some letters of your own."

My letter is L and here is my list:
1. Life. I am in love with this great universal paradox called life.
2. Language. I am fascinated by languages of all kinds, those written and spoken and also those that can only be felt and understood.
3. Laughter. I could do with some more, please. Don't we all?
4. Libraries. Jorge Louis Borges had the last word when he called it Paradise. What else can I say?
5. Luck. I was lucky to find out that the harder I work, the luckier I get. Cliched but true.
6. Lucid Writing. The kind of writing I like to read, and try to write. Lucid in the flow of thoughts and in the use of language.
7. Literature. I think all good books are also like looking glasses, helping the reader see a little more of their self as Alice did, through the looking glass. I started writing when I realised that it would be more fun to be Lewis Carroll than to be Alice.
8. Logic. It is very important to me, even though many everyday mysteries of life transcend logic and reason.
9. Logarithms. My pocket logarithm book was one of my dearest possessions as a student.
10. Labrador Dogs. I love all kinds of dogs, especially Dachshunds and Labradors.

I think this meme had been done many times earlier, remember reading one in Lotus's blog a long time back. If you want a letter, please feel free to ask. :-)

My Talisman - A Teacher's Day post

The great teacher is not the man who supplies the most facts, but the one in whose presence we become different people.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

September 5, Teacher's Day in India had always been a special occasion during my schooldays on which the students would take over teaching in the morning session, while the teachers entertained us with songs and skits in the evening.

I was a teacher once upon a time, when I was in Class ten. Having spoken many times in front of both junior and senior classes, I had not expected anything to be different on that day. But it did turn out to be a different and beautiful experience as I wore a sari for the first time and transformed into a fourteen year old English teacher, seriously explaining a Tagore short story (The Hungry Stones) to a boisterous junior class that looked at me with unusually quiet glances and spoke in hushed, respectful tones that lasted the whole forty-five minutes I spent with them.

Over the years, Teacher's day had slowly faded away into a fond memory, but last month on September 5, I remembered two teachers who changed my life completely in the past two years.

One, my mentor who gave me advice, encouragement and support when I needed it most in my software career. The other, my boss with whom I have been working for over the past one year. Working with him, I learnt more about software project execution and management than from any textbook, article or training programme.

Though I no longer report directly to him, I have devised a talisman that I apply whenever I am faced with a problem at work that seems insurmountable. I simply sit down and think, "What would boss have done had he been in my place?" Within the next few moments, my mind clears down, the actions ahead list down by themselves within and all becomes well again.

Thanks to my boss, one of the most dynamic managers in the industry. An inspiration to the team and the entire company. A teacher, a role model, a guide. I mentally saluted this great individual on Teacher's day.

Benzaiten puja and random updates

Navaratri was good with e-updates from home, where the Kannon Devi was a special guest at the Kolu. I had stopped being excited about Navratri since my parents moved from Chennai. For the past few years, it has just been visiting the Kolus of two or three Maamis in the neighbourhood, and have them come over to our home. Came upon this evocative write-up celebrating kolu in Maami's blog, a very well-written blog that I have taken to visiting regularly.

My Navratri puja was mostly sankalpa as I have no puja paraphernalia with me except a small idol. The prasad was real though - A tin of MTR Gulabjamuns (That was later shared with my colleagues) and a box of Yokan that seems just the right offering for Benzaiten, as Saraswati is called here. (During Navratris spent in the college hostel, I used to offer Good Day biscuits as prasad)

I commenced the day of new beginnings with a new textbook, 'Crash course in Japanese for business'. Also started on my second novel.

I had only a vague initial idea of my second novel that stemmed from two things. One was my wish to write about a certain genre of music that I hold very close to my heart. The other was a book project that my cousin's wife L Anni mentioned in one of her emails.

Over the past few weeks, I suddenly found that I had a definite theme, an outline of a plot and some wonderful characters who walked right into the word document in which I had been consolidating random notes. I hope to finish this book in a shorter time than the first which took for years to write, went through a number of versions, and changed considerably in various aspects including plot and genre before I baselined the first draft.

I first thought of a female protagonist, had even chosen a name but when I started writing, it turned out to be the story of a young man. Aakash is so different from the hero of my first novel, Siddharth.There is a lot of work, plenty of specific research to be done before Akash's world comes fully into focus. Parallely, I am trying hard to send Siddharth out into the world. I have enjoyed writing and revising this novel, and I hope readers will enjoy reading it.

I always write better after a hard day's work at office. My work and writing complement each other, I need both.

*******

For a Nation that is universally renowned for its workaholic culture, Japan seems to have quite a lot of holidays. Today is yet another holiday, the third since I came here about a month ago. Finished some office work in the morning. The entire team was working from home so it was easy to coordinate. We have a busy week ahead.

The melodious voice of Aruna Sairam fills the apartment as I type this, drifting on a cloud of melliflous notes.

Bought 'Breakfast at Tiffany's and three other stories' by Truman Capote last week, a book that I had been planning to check out for a very long time. Capote's writing is exquisite, capturing the beauty of emotions without mushy sentiment, finishing even dark stories on a positive, hopeful note.

I am still on a blog break from book posts, as I do not read much these days. Work takes up all of my weekdays, and the weekends are spent on work, writing or walking around soaking in the sights and sounds of Tokyo, enjoying the pleasant autumn weather. Spent a wonderful Saturday sight-seeing with C-san. Details in my next post.