To Each His Own Is Beautiful ~ Cicero

The Occasional Poster

2010-07-26T17:56:00.002-06:00

Hello Dear Reader,

It’s me. You might remember me – at one time, I used to post regularly about what was going on in my life, and other random things. That was a long time ago… I have since degenerated into being an occasional blog poster – posting mainly boring updates and nothing else of consequence. You might have all but forgotten about me. Well, I deserve it. :-(

I celebrated my 31st birthday this month. I can no longer kid myself that I am still in my 3rd decade. I have my feet firmly planted in the 4th decade of my life (goodness – that makes it sound like I am pushing forty). Anyway, I made a bunch of birthday resolutions, not the least of which concerns this blog. I have resolved to make myself sit down and post at least one post each month. Maybe I will gain momentum along the way and rediscover my 28-year old erstwhile blog-post-glory. In the meantime boring (and exciting) updates…

After six years of Master’s and PhD study, thesis, prelims, dissertation and internship (my experience through all these things are recounted on this blog in past entries), I have finally finished. I got an email from the graduate college at Iowa State letting me know that I had completed all my degree requirements. And they addressed the email to: Dr. Stephen. My professor had called me that right after I defended my dissertation, but the email was the first time anyone has really addressed me as Dr. Stephen in earnest. This is apart from my wonderful father, who last May booked me in with a dentist under the name: Dr. Stephen. My dad, as expected, is far more proud of the “Dr.” in my name than I.

But the most exciting of the lot is that I now have a JOB!!!! I am finally ready to move on into my first real job. I started the job search in March (ridiculously late and procrastinating as usual). I don’t want to post the details of the job search here, save to say that I had a bit of a roller coaster ride. I had some wonderful experiences, went to a whole bunch of places, met a lot of wonderful psychologists, and finally four months later ended up at the place that I wanted to go to all along – the University of Oregon. I accepted the position on 7/12/10, and will start as soon as my OPT authorization comes through. In the meantime, I am wrapping up the internship, and moving back to Ames for about a month. I leave my apartment at the end of the month, and am packing and getting ready to say goodbye to MN.

Leaving MN is going to be bittersweet. I have loved my time here. I knew when I moved here that the move would be temporary. That makes it easier, I suppose. I have been genuinely happy here, and met some people who have changed my life in wonderful ways. I will miss them dearly (R, if you ever read this, I will miss you most of all). Halfway along the year, A&A left, and like I mentioned in a previous post, their leaving has made my move out easier. Above all, the excitement of starting a new job blunts any pain that I might otherwise have felt. As is always the case with me, despite all that may be less than ideal, life is beautiful.

That’s it for now dear reader. The next time it shall be more than mere updates, I promise!

Updates Time and some Poetry

2010-05-23T00:30:00.008-06:00

Despite the very best of intentions, it has been a while since I have posted an update. I have been busy – busy with the everyday business of life. But transitions are on the horizon. I am in the process of searching for a new job. After almost three decades as a student, I am set to finally start working at a “job”. I have been travelling quite a bit for interviews at various places. I like travelling. Let me catalogue the reasons:

This will take me a step closer to a potential future job.
I get to visit new places as part of my travel. I already have visited two states that I have never been to before as well as revisited some that I have been to.
I get to catch up on my reading in the flight and in my hotel rooms (VERY BIG PERK)
It is free. I’ve never travelled without having to pay for it myself, so this is a good change.
I get to eat at wonderful restaurants. Most prospective employers have tried to give me a genuine taste of the city and taken me to delightful places with delectable fare. One never completely experiences a place until one has sampled its cuisine, and I certainly am getting a generous dose of this.
I get to meet all kinds of wonderful psychologists, and talk about what they do for their students – it gives me all kinds of inspiration for what I eventually want to do.
I rake up a ton of frequent flier miles.
I get to watch cable TV at the hotel. Ever since I gave up cable at home, I have not had the chance to watch trashy TV. I get my fix the night before the interview. Guilty pleasure. Hee hee. :-)

I would love to write at length about all my travels, but perhaps that will be a post for another day. Let me just say this - most beautiful college campus: Michigan – Ann Arbor. The beauty of this campus took my breath away. I think it also helped that it was the start of the summer break, and most students were away. Throngs of people have a way of diluting the effect of a beautiful vista. The ivy-laden buildings of the law quadrangle of the Ann Arbor campus might almost have been what Mathew Arnold had in mind when he wrote:

Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep:
And air-swept lindens yield
Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers
Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
And bower me from the August sun with shade;
And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers...

He did not, of course. As the poem points out, he had Oxford in mind. I have never been to Oxford, and until I do, Ann Arbor must be my definition of the epitome of beauty amongst college campuses.

In other news, my friends A&A have left Minneapolis. I feel happy for them, and somewhat sad for me. A&A have been my friends since our Kansas City days, and after a few years of living in different cities, when I got matched with the internship in Minneapolis, we were in the same city again. A&A made the move to Minneapolis easier and infinitely more fun. There is nothing quite as nice about moving to a new city as having good friends already in place. Oh well… all good things end, and so A&A have moved to a different city. This is very exciting for them, since they have probably done everything that there is to do in the Twin Cities and surrounding areas. A&A now live in an apartment with the most gorgeous view of snow-capped mountains that I have ever seen, and I have already received the first installment of photographs of their many new adventures. As for me, the transition out of this lovely city will be much easier by their absence.

A Century?

2010-03-16T22:16:00.002-06:00

I just noticed something curious. It appears that quite unwittingly, in my last three posts, I referenced in chronological order: months, years, and a decade. I can't think of anything to write about a century, but here's the obligatory mini-post anyway.

Updates on eating new species of plants: since my last post I have eaten a lot of other familiar plants, but the exciting new one is: Quinoa. More to come...

Farewell to the Naughties

2010-03-12T19:29:00.005-06:00

In the millennial episode of Gimme Gimme Gimme, James Dreyfus’ character wonders what the next decade is going to be called. We had the 80’s and the 90’s. What’s next? The zeroes? With a fair measure of glee, he concludes that the first decade after the millennium ought to be called the “naught-ies”. The dawn of this year marked the end of the naughties. I first came to the US in 2001. I was fresh-eyed and eager to finally be an adult. Having lived all my life until then under the protective shadow of my parents, I for the first time was making really important decisions. What I really was doing was navigating my way through a new and unfamiliar culture by a process of trial and error – a fact that I did not realize until many years later. In many areas of my life, a considerable amount of “naughtiness” took place as a result of this naiveté – most notably in the areas of finances and health.

Being a graduate student for an entire decade took its toll on my bank balance which was constantly shrinking, and on my credit card debts which grew increasingly large. Also, having easy access to highly processed and cheap food, gave me a ready excuse to desert the kitchen and abandon my culinary skills. At the end of last year, I had a considerably larger girth and was much unhealthier than I was at the beginning of my life in the US. Any number of financial advisors or doctors would have shaken their heads at me in stern and somber disapproval. The naughtiness was complete.

While at the start of the year I had vaguely resolved to abandon the “naughtiness”, I have over the past two and a half months gained a much more clear idea of what I need to do to improve the quality of my life, pocketbook, and health. While I have little control over my financial life, I am doing what I can. My health on the other hand is another matter – I have complete control over this (almost). I have been scouting for health philosophies that work for me for the past year, and I think I have finally found it in Michael Pollan’s "In Defense of Food". I recommend it and Pollan’s other book, "The Omnivore’s Dilemma" unreservedly to anyone who has an interest in learning about what they eat. Consequently, I have abandoned nutritionism, and am reverting to a diet which consists of whole foods (Pollan’s definition of whole foods does not correspond with what is popularly considered whole food), and as much of it as possible organic and GMO-free. This will of course put a substantial dent in my finances, but for the moment, I think I will try and balance that out with other expenditure.

I will not bore you all with my progress on these counts. But one of the guidelines that Pollan suggests is that people diversify their diet as much as possible in order to include as many micronutrients as possible. For example, rather than eat blueberries to get one type of antioxidant, eat a variety of different fruits and vegetables to get a number of different types of antioxidants. Pollan suggests that a good diet consists of as many species as possible. Since I don’t eat meant, this means that I will have to eat as many species of flora as possible. So, I have resolved to include half as many different species of plants in my diet as there are days in the year. I don’t know if I will be able to find 183 different kinds of fruits, vegetables, nuts and seeds, but I will keep you updated on my progress on what I think is a rather interesting resolution. I did not start counting species in January, so I will attempt to reach my goal between now and December 31st 2010. Right now (since March 1st), the count stands at 22 species, which I think is a good start. However, these twenty-two species include the basic elements of most of my cooking, so it probably will be slow going from here on. If you can think of novel fruits or veggies that I could experiment with, please let me know.

It finally is: Farewell to the Naughties!

Three Years

2010-02-14T21:23:00.001-06:00

Happy Valentine's Day to you all!

Although I don't have much to say today, I wanted to make a quick post noting that today is the third anniversary of my blog. The last half-year has been rather slow in terms of updates and posts, but I anticipate writing some more soon.

I marked this Valentine's day by watching "The Hurt Locker", reading a few chapters of the first Lord Peter Wimsey novel, and eating vadas with tea while it snowed outside my window. Delightful Sunday afternoon, don't you think?

Five Months Later...

2010-02-02T22:26:00.005-06:00

Hello All,

I have been neglecting my dear old blog for such a long time. There has been so much to write about, and so much that happened - none of which has had a chance to get posted. Over the past five months, I have settled in at my internship in the Twin Cities, completed nearly half of said internship, made some new friends, missed my old friends, had some interesting new experiences including an intimate acquaintance with the “Minnesota nice” which has shaken me up a bit, and have in general been far too busy to be able to make sense enough of my life to post it here. My friend Aarti pitches for a new post every time I see her, and here it finally is - five months later.

Life in Minnesota has been interesting to say the very least. Professionally, I have grown tremendously. Personally, I have grown a lot too. Life keeps casting fascinating things onto my path. Dealing with all of this has been rewarding, but draining too. I do want to talk about everything that I had hoped my time here would be, which it has not been; and of all the unexpected delights that have found their way into my life. My sister has given me various pointers about what I should write, but just thinking about all of that exhausts me. I’m going to do a yearly roundup of books and an update of what I am up to now. But other than that, I think I shall just hope that my wish to write does not dry up, and that I will continue to post about what happens from now on.

I read twenty-eight books this year. That’s one more than last year. I started with the lovely Villette, and it certainly has been a most wonderful year of reading. I don’t think that I had set a reading goal for last year, so I don’t feel disappointed about not meeting it. These are the books I read in 2009:

* The Evil Genius - Collins
* A Few Quick Ones - Wodehouse
* Mystery Mile - Allingham
* The Big Four - Christie
* The Professor - Bronte
* Young Men in Spats - Wodehouse
* Eggs, Beans and Crumpets - Wodehouse
* Service with a Smile - Wodehouse
* Sense and Sensibility - Austen
* The Clocks - Christie
* The Absentee - Edgeworth
* Castle Rackrent - Edgeworth
* The Thin Man - Hammett
* Passenger to Frankfurt - Christie
* The Vicar of Wakefield - Goldsmith
* Unexpected Guest - Christie
* Men Behaving Badly - Nye
* Murder on the Orient Express - Christie
* Thank You Jeeves - Wodehouse
* Rumpole and the Primrose Path - Mortimer
* Right Ho, Jeeves! - Wodehouse
* Carry On, Jeeves - Wodehouse
* How Right You Are Jeeves! - Wodehouse
* A Baker Street Dozen - Doyle
* Love Over Scotland - Smith
* Cranford – Gaskell
* Rumpole Misbehaves – Mortimer
* Villette – Brontë

I also read half of “Roald Dahl's Book of Ghost Stories”, but ended up tossing the book out when I moved to Minneapolis. My goal for this year: thirty books.

I am looking forward to this year. It will probably mark quite a few landmarks for me. I will graduate after a quarter of a century in school. My parents will breathe a sigh of relief – I think they are rather tired of telling people I am still a student. I will have my first “real job”. I will move to some place where I will not live in the anticipation of moving. I have also resolved that I will do several other things that I have always wanted to do, but never got around to. My life is beautiful and only hope dawns on the horizon.

“Thus times do shift; each thing his turn does hold;
New things succeed, as former things grow old.” ~Robert Herrick (Ceremonies upon Candlemas)

Today is Candlemas day. But for my blog and my life in general - quite apt, isn’t it?

What Happened...

2009-08-22T11:23:00.001-06:00

... to my previous post? It has disappeared!!!

The Big Move

2009-07-31T00:20:00.002-06:00

Despite having a month filled to the brim with things I could write about, I have not had the chance to make a post about said things. Over the past month, I have pulled out every single thing, hidden or otherwise, and decided if it would make the journey with me to Minneapolis. I donated or discarded several things – mostly clothes and furniture, and lovingly packed several other things – mostly mementos and other stuff that I don’t really need, but am too soppy to let go of.

“Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves
Of cabinets, shut up for years,
What a strange task we’ve set ourselves!
How still the lonely room appears!
How strange this mass of ancient treasures,
Mementos of past pains and pleasures;
These volumes, clasped with costly stone,
With print all faded, gilding gone;
These fans of leaves from Indian trees--
These crimson shells, from Indian seas--
These tiny portraits, set in rings--
Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things…”

While I was busy packing the evidence of my entire existence into the contents of one large cupboard, I also wrapped up other business in town and got ready to move into a quaint little studio flat that I found almost a month and a half ago. I had gone to Minneapolis to look for apartments, and stayed with my friends A & A. Almost as eager to find me a new place as I myself was, they joined me in scouting the internet for ads, and touring a few places with me. Thankfully, they also managed to keep cool heads about it unlike me, and rescued me from rashly engaging apartments that I liked on the spot. Anyhow, on my third day there, I walked into the apartment that was “the one”. I bunged in an application and the necessary holding fee the next day; and the month following this has been one of impatient and eager anticipation.

And when the day of moving (yesterday) finally came, I teamed with a friend A on this end and friends A & A on that end (I seem to have lots of friends whose names begin with A), to complete the move. While leaving a place I called home for the last five years was a bit upsetting, it was coupled with the excitement about being in a new, and well-loved city. Sadly, as I had to return the rental moving truck the very next day, the most I could enjoy of my new place was the view of a spanking clean room with old and familiar stuff dumped all over the floor. I return in three days time to piece my space back together again. Updates re: the new place shall hopefully not be as tardy as this one.

P.S. Poetry courtesy Charlotte Bronte (published as Currer Bell)

Thirty Years

2009-07-03T09:53:00.005-06:00

I turned thirty today. I ought to be depressed – that is what thirty-year-olds are supposed to feel. But, I feel no different than I did on my twenty-nine-year-old yesterday. I expected to feel numb, but if anything I feel a sense of elation. All creation makes itself agreeable to me – the weather in Kansas City is dark, overcast, windy and wet. Some call it depressing, but it is the perfect mix of the elements in my opinion. I ushered my thirtieth year in by singing Happy Birthday to myself in unison with my sister who gave me a chocolate cake and several quaint gifts. Friends and family called and wished me, and I went to bed as happy and contented as I did the first night I came into the world.

As I reflect on my thirty years, I notice just the same mix of the beautiful and the beastly as everyone else. I have had my share of the laughter, adventure, disappointment and heartbreak that is due me. I have met and been influenced for better or for worse by the most interesting kinds of people. Sadly not one amongst them was a perfect saint, and thankfully none of them was an Iago. I am right now at a point in my life which I could scarcely have imagined ten years ago. And yet, I revel in my achievements and am satisfied and happy. And if the next thirty years of my life could leave me as contented as these past thirty have, then I shall count myself blessed.

"Here at my feet what wonders pass,
What endless, active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear." ~ Matthew Arnold

Stupid Indian Soaps

2009-06-02T21:20:00.001-06:00

Each evening after the day’s labors, I used to get back home and indulge in my daily dose of crap reality shows where absolutely idiotic men and women get drunk and go about competing for money, the love of dubious B-grade celebrities and so on. I was thoroughly embarrassed by my guilty hour of mindless entertainment, but since coming to India and watching Indian TV for five days, I have developed a strange sense of pride in my enjoyment of American reality TV. Indian television, which I used to love for the quality of its televised serials, has lost all its erstwhile glory. Most shows on Indian TV these days appear to be soap operas or melodrama-filled game shows.

The soap operas are so insufferably stupid, that I feel sick. In addition to having absolutely no plot whatsoever, they are infuriatingly sexist and unashamedly promote ridiculously conventional ideals. Ironically most of the characters are women, but each one of them is either diabolically evil and malicious, or unbearably conventional and good. All of them wear several kilograms of bangles that sheath their hands from wrist to elbow in a sickeningly gaudy display. Every other part of their bodies that can possibly be, is adorned with other similarly outlandish jewelry. And the ‘good’ women are defined entirely in terms of the men in their lives – as daughters, wives, sisters and mothers – not a single independent personality amongst the lot of them. None of them have an occupation – none of the wives anyway. The sisters might be something completely gender-biased such as a fashion-designer or a school teacher. The men on the other hand are mostly businesspersons and keep out of the way of the women’s machinations – is it any wonder that many Indian men think that women are not to be trusted and are underhand and devious? Furthermore, all these ‘good’ women are painstakingly devout – every second sentence that they speak is either a prayer or an affirmation of faith. At least one segment of each half-hour episode is devoted to a melodramatic prayer with the woman beseeching her deity that her mentally challenged husband (a fact she did not know when she was tricked into marrying him, but now she believes that taking care of him and lovingly feeding him his food and so on is her supreme duty) be spared the pain of losing a cricket match to his brother who is married to the wicked and scheming sister-in-law. I bet Indian television would never dare to portray an atheist spinster scientist as a good woman, or a man subscribing to feminist principles as an ideal man. I am so angry I want to punch a hole through the television screen. At least in the idiotic reality television, women are afforded the choice to be able to make utter fools of themselves. I am told that these soap operas are highly celebrated television serials. To each his own, and those that watch them are welcome to them. As for me, I would much rather watch drunken degradation than have conventionality stuffed down my throat.

P.S. Disillusioned with television, I have turned to my ever faithful entertainers – books. When mummy and daddy are off at work, knowing nothing of this strange new city, I find that I have nothing else to do but read. I’m polishing them off at the wonderful rate of one book every couple of days. I’m done with two Agatha Christie-s (one of which – “Passenger to Frankfurt” – surprisingly reads less like Christie and more like John le Carre), have finally finished “The Thin Man” (which despite Sinclair Lewis’ assertion that it is a book you cannot possibly put down once begun, I have been inching through for almost a whole year now), and am almost done with the “Vicar of Wakefield” which I am finding enormously entertaining. I hope to be done with at least five more before I return to the US.

Dr. Me

2009-05-12T21:29:00.004-06:00

This afternoon, I got all dressed up and dolled up, went to school, and shut myself up in a room with six professors for two hours. At the end of that time, I emerged alone and paced around in the hallway while the posse of profs debated about what I had said in there. Ten minutes later, my advisor popped out smiling a big smile. She then threw her arms around me in a warm hug and said:

"CONGRATULATIONS DR. ASHA STEPHEN"

Yes, after months of crazy preperation, I successfully defended my dissertation this afternoon. I can't stop grinning, want to pat little children on their heads, blow kisses to strangers in the street, and am generally in love with everything and everybody. Coming at the end of the most productive year of my life (getting my second masters, passing the Ph.D. qualifiers, proposing my dissertation, and applying and matching to an excellent internship), this is the pinnacle of my educational career. I've done it - I've got my Ph.D!!! (Actually, I technically won't until I finish my internship. But without today's victory, I would not get the degree).

I called my sister, my parents and a few friends. Then I had a quiet celebratory dinner with three of my closest friends in Ames. I shall never again have to spend sleepless nights at school, and can now enjoy my weekends without feeling guilty about not having completed research or assignments. I feel rejuvenated. Once again: Amat victoria curam!

The Auto-complete List

2009-04-20T16:47:00.002-06:00

Ha Ha Ha!!! I feel so stupid and yet so gleeful saying this: I am now on the autocomplete function on google. This is hilarious. When I googled myself and saw my name on the auto-complete list, I was astonished. At first I thought that it must be because there are lots of people with my name. But it turns out that the majority of hits (those that do not have a comma between my first and last names) are indeed related to me. Presumably, this is either because there is a lot of information about me out on the internet, or there have been a lot of people looking me up - I am not sure which of these google uses as a auto-complete list criteria. And I am not convinced that either of these is a very good thing, but am nevertheless flattered.

What Has Happened To Me?

2009-04-15T22:10:00.003-06:00

I don't know the answer to the above question. My life has suddenly become more banal than ever. I go from home to school and back home again in a sort of daze, and nothing seems important enough to report. Although that sounds very much like a bout of depression, I can safely say that I am actually quite happy. I have a dissertation defense date set for the 15th of May, and I am looking forward to the summer holiday. I am also beginning to wrap up things in Ames in anticipation of my big move in August. Things are looking cheery, hopeful and very busy. But nothing seems important enough to post on here. I do wish something exciting would happen to me!!!

However, having come to the terrible, but inevitable conclusion that nothing exciting or new is going to happen to me unless I make it happen, I make the following resolutions for the coming month (and hopefully will follow through on them):

ONE:
Will buy a nice variety of alcohol and mix myself a fancy cocktail every other night. (This one is inspired by an envious admiration of my friends A & A's choice collection of booze bottles).

TWO:
Will watch ABSOLUTELY NO cable television - especially crap reality shows (news shall be excepted); and go for an hour-long walk each night instead in order to enjoy the wonderful weather that Iowa is getting these days. This will also be time to muse and think up things I want to post on here.

THREE:
Will call one of my friends each night. Maybe the reason for the dried up imagination is the unwitting isolation I've let myself into during this busy month.

FOUR:
Will eat at one (or two) restaurant(s) each week which I have not been to during my stay in Ames. For Lent, I gave up eating out when I was not travelling. While this did vastly improve my home-cooking and bank balance, it did rather take a lot of fun out of the eating. Now, I intend to savor every single non-chain restaurant in Ames between now and August.

Let's hope that makes life more interesting and gives me more to write about. Stay tuned...

I've Been Busy - In Verse

2009-04-15T21:37:00.003-06:00

I have been busy all month, and these lines from Anne Bronte's "The Student's Serenade" capture what the past few weeks have been like.

"I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the day
Yet my weary soul opprest;
And, before my dreaming eyes
Still the learned volumes lay,
And I could not close their leaves,
And I could not turn away." ~ Anne Bronte (published as Acton Bell)

I'm writing an update that I'll post in a little bit...

The Fourth State

2009-04-07T14:33:00.003-06:00

Today, Vermont has become the fourth U.S. state to legalize gay marriage — and the first to do so with a legislature's vote. This happy news comes at the heels of the April 3rd legalization of same-sex unions in Iowa, the state I live in. On Friday, the Iowa Supreme Court legalized gay marriage by a unanimous decision. And today, Vermont did so by the legislature's vote. Of course, there is widespread uproar and unrest at these decisions. Already, opponents of the same-sex marriages are seeking constitutional amendments that will reverse these controversial laws.

I simply do not understand people who oppose same-sex marriage. I get that many people, for primarily religious reasons do not think that same-sex relations are right. And I am okay with religious institutions not accepting such unions. But why some people think that the non-religious state should discriminate against gay individuals (or indeed side with a religion on any issue) is beyond me! Homosexual individuals and their allies have yet to go a far way in their struggle. Congratulations to them on their second victory in the same week!

Beaded Lace

2009-03-31T14:04:00.003-06:00

Those of you who know me, know that no matter how liberal I might be in terms of my attitudes and beliefs, I tend to be pretty old-fashioned when it comes to my tastes in design, décor, architecture, and lifestyle. My furniture is well-worn and cozy, I rarely hang abstract pictures on my walls, my surroundings in general tend to veer away from minimalism or cold straight lines, and anything that is old or antique finds a warm reception in my environment. Of course, this makes me less fashionable. But I don’t care too much about that sort of thing.

In my quest to obtain quaint little knick-knacks for my home, I comb thrift stores, garage sales, antique malls, and so on. However, I rarely make anything old-world myself. Since it would seem that most of my creativity in writing seems to have dried up over the past few months, I decided to craft something. I was looking for inspiration, when I found it in the old britcoms that I watch. First in “Jeeves and Wooster”, and in quick succession later that night in “Rumpole of the Bailey”, I chanced to see two very delightful beaded lace jug covers. I was captivated and wanted one.

Following some preliminary research, I found that lace covers used to be used in pre-refrigerator days to keep the flies out of drinks. The lace was usually weighed down with beads so it stayed in place and did now blow away easily. I briefly considered making my own lace, but discarded the thought quickly – I can’t tat very well, and I wanted this jug cover quick! So, off it was to Hobby Lobby where I purchased several glass beads, and a lace doily. Then, I beaded round and drop beads together and sewed the loop to the ends of the doily. The result is magnificent – not quite as authentic as a real lace jug cover, but close enough. I’ve been using it all the time ever since. Mostly to cover a jug of lemonade, but I also have started using a creamer for my tea – which I have never done before – just so that I may be able to use the lace. This fascination won’t last of course, but it’s fun while it does.

P.S. I could not help clicking lots of pictures… enjoy!

Beaded lace on the lemonade jug…

…on a glass of lemonade…

…on the creamer that I usually don’t use…

Match Day News...

2009-02-23T08:40:00.003-06:00

I just heard about my internship for next year... I got matched to the University of Minnesota - Minneapolis! Yahoo!

Laissez les bon temps rouler!!!

The Green Fountain Pen

2009-02-17T15:01:00.005-06:00

As Valentine’s day came and passed, I began thinking about all the different loves of my life. I am not talking about the various things I am passionate about, and these are numerous. No, I am talking about the men I have been infatuated with. These have been numerous too. By now, you all know that it takes me absolutely no time to build up a fantasy land, replete with fantasy situations and fantasy romances. Throughout my life, I have built fantasies around many things – places, objects, music, animals… the list is endless. Individuals of the opposite sex occupy no small part on this list. Talking about all of them is going to take too long. Maybe I’ll start a series on them. But today is devoted to the charming W. who gave me a beautiful green fountain pen.

On the street that we lived on when I was growing up, there were no other children my age. Everyone who was not an adult was either an infant, or belonged to that delightful section of teenage where one firmly believes that one is an adult, and is always shocked to see that one’s parents don’t think so. In any case, once I returned home from school, other than my sister I had no one else to play with. The infants were boring and played ridiculously childish games that I thought were shockingly stupid and completely beneath my level of maturity. And those in their late adolescence treated me with a sort of benign pity, as if to sympathize with how young I was while also thanking the heavens that they were not that young and they never again had to be. Interestingly enough, all of these arrogant youngsters happened to be boys. The girls of such an age seemed to be secreted in the inner chambers of their houses. Hyderabad in those days used to be a much more conservative city than it is today. We lived close to the Old City, and it was not at all unusual to see burqa-clad women walk the streets, and for less-than opulent houses to have inner chambers that functioned as the women’s quarters. In any case, this was where the young women were – shielded from the eyes of the young men. But this is beside the point – it is the boys, or rather a boy that is of interest to this story.

Two doors down from my house, was the home of a large family. There was a grandfather, and a grandmother, and numerous uncles and aunts, and an absolute army of children – whose ages ranged from the early twenties to a few months, though still none in my age group. I always wondered as a child how they all fit into that one small house. As I grew older, I noticed that the presence or absence of the members of this clan seemed to rotate with the seasons. January and February belonged to Uncle X and his family, May and June to Auntie Y, and so on. It turns out that only the grandparents actually lived in the house, their numerous offspring - most of whom lived abroad - turned up about once a year to visit them.

One summer holiday, when I was about 12 years old, a new kid whom I had never noticed before surfaced within this clan. I call him a kid, but in reality he was about 7 years older than I was. He was cheerful and charming, but ever so intrusive. I was used to regarding this family (and indeed the inhabitants of my entire street), as interesting subjects from an anthropological viewpoint, and observed everybody closely. For the most part, they never noticed, and if they did, they all ignored me. That is, all except one. The new kid started back – as though I provided him with as much amusement as he did me. He would even go a bit further – he’d follow me around and stare at me. It’s not quite creepy as it sounds because I think he did it as a way of putting me in my place. And like all the other young men his age, he regarded me with a sort of benevolent pity. And he always had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth – an open and ready smile. He seemed to find my embarrassment, and my discomfort enormously entertaining. I hated him. At times I had an advantage over him – the vantage point from which I did most of my ‘anthropological observing’ was a section of my house which had a sort of screen one could look through without being seen. From this vantage point, set higher up than the single-story house he lived in, I observed him go about his day. It was sheer delight to be able to watch him – he had the other children devotedly following him about, and he seemed to be a favorite amongst those older than him. He was charming and delightful. I never could hear what he was saying, but he had everyone in bits and pieces. And watching him made me smile. Two months later, he disappeared.

Two years later, he miraculously appeared again. This time, I was older and wiser, and did not spend too much time perched behind the screen wall on my roof. I had my tenth class board examinations to study for – they were a year away, but my mother made sure I was at my books each day in preparation. Every once in a while, I’d see him in the street and he’d smile at me with the same kind of benevolent sympathy that he had done two years before. But this time, it infuriated me. What was his problem, I’d mutter to myself, fuming! I was fourteen, and practically and adult! What did he mean by smiling at me in such a pathetic fashion? How dare he? Did he not see that I no longer had time for this? He might be here to enjoy his summer holidays, but I had no time to waste. I would seethe with anger at him. But anyone who has been fourteen, and has professed hatred for someone who once fascinated them, knows that beneath the burning passion of fourteen year-old hatred, beats the heart of a much more tender feeling – fully blown infatuation. I was smitten by him. The more he treated me like a child, the more I wanted him to feel I was his equal. The more benevolently he smiled at me, the harder I fought back the tears. The more good-natured he was, the more violently I sobbed at night. He haunted my thoughts day and night. I experienced a rare and beautiful heartache, all summer long.

Two weeks before he left Hyderabad, one balmy summer evening found us both on our terraces. I was reading an old and battered book. He was playing with one of the numerous infants who inhabited his house. I would look coyly at him, and he would smile. It took me all my courage to stay put and not disappear indoors. Surprisingly, it seemed that he was finding it difficult to say something to me. This was not lost on me, and it made my heart ache even harder for him. Finally he spoke, and I heard his voice for the first time. There was nothing spectacular in his voice or what he asked me, but it was sweet relief to hear it. He asked me what I was reading. I told him, he asked me if he could see the book, and he scaled the terrace that separated our homes. As I passed the book to him, he smiled, and I saw that he was shy too. It was the closest I had ever been to him, and I was weak at the knees. He flipped through the pages of the book and then asked to borrow it. I nodded assent – I would give anything to talk with him again. He asked me my name. At the time, I had been reading another book in which the child-heroine was called “Susanna”. I told him that was my name. I knew instantly that he did not believe it – he knew my name already. But he said nothing, and told me it was a beautiful name. In that moment, knowing that he went along with my little falsehood to humor me, I loved him more than ever. His name, he said, was W.

All week long, I repeated his name to myself countless times. I built beautiful fantasies of a shared life together. It was the most delightful week of my fourteenth year. A week later, he returned my book to me. On one of the pages, he had written his name and his address in a faraway land. He also seemed to have scented the page – because it smelt wonderfully like him. He wanted me to write to him, he said. And he gave me a slim box wrapped in festive foil. He bade me open it, and I did. In the box was a green Parker fountain pen. It was beautiful. I promised to write. A week later when he left, I sobbed myself to sleep for a fortnight. We exchanged two letters. In the letters, he called me Susanna. But the intensity of my feelings for him was lost in them, and I looked forward to his return two years later.

When he did, we were both older. He tried to talk to me once, but out of fear of something unknown, I was unkind to him. He left again, only to return a year later. This time around, we got an invitation to his wedding. I felt empty when I saw the invitation, and although I knew that I did not love him, I was jealous of his new bride. At the end of that summer, I left to go to college in Kerala. The next time I saw him was four years later. I was twenty-one, and he was twenty-eight. He had always been handsome, but now he was radiantly so. He had lost none of the charming and impish smile, but it was tempered with an easy and mature air that became him well. One evening, as I was walking along a different street of the colony, a motorbike pulled up beside me. I looked around sharply, and there he was. He had a small child on the bike with him, whom he introduced to me as his son. The child had his father’s good looks, and good nature. ‘Can we not be friends?’ W. asked, and I said that we could. This exchange was neither bursting with supressed passion like our first had been, nor bitter like our later meeting had been. It was easy, and light. It was also our last. I have not seen him since. As long as my sister lived in India, each summer I’d ask her if he had come home for the holidays. I don’t love him anymore, maybe I never actually did love him. But I dearly cherish my childish infatuation.

The green Parker fountain-pen was stolen from me at my college-hostel. It was well-loved and well-used, and I never wrote in my diary with any other pen until it disappeared one day from my desk. I still have the diary in which I wrote of my childish fantasies about W. And on my bookshelf in Ames, sits a book whose inner pages hold a long-faded scent, and a slightly smudgy name and address that remind me each time I read them of balmy summer evenings, and beautiful heartache.

Two Years

2009-02-14T14:06:00.000-06:00

It's my blog's second anniversary! Two years and counting...
Also, HAPPY VALENTINE's DAY to all my readers!

Paulina

2009-02-11T10:47:00.002-06:00

On Sunday afternoon, I was feeling bored. It was beautiful outside, and I decided to walk to the grocery store instead of driving. Right next to my local Hy-Vee is a Goodwill store, and I often stop in here to see if I can spot a good item at a bargain price. I usually don’t. But this Sunday, between the framed pictures, and the furniture, I found a gem! It was a black wrought iron clock – beautifully built. It was also a Howard Miller clock. I don’t know very much about clocks, but I knew enough to know that this was a clock of a rather good make. I grabbed it up and looked for any tell-tale signs about why it might have been given away to Goodwill. None presented itself. It was in perfect condition - not a scratch or dent. So, I walked to the sorting room and asked an attendant if he had a couple of batteries so I could see if the thing worked. It did. I was still skeptical – maybe it did not keep very good time. It was marked at $3.99, so I thought I’d give it a shot. I could always re-donate it later if I found it faulty.

So, holding it in my hand and went to browse the second-hand books. As I was looking at the books, a voice behind me said, “That’s missing a piece.” I turned around. An elderly gentleman was smiling at me and pointing at my clock. I was surprised. It looked okay to me. He must have sensed the confusion in my face. “The pendulum”, he said. “That clock used to have a pendulum.” I turned the clock over and looked at it. The man pointed at the spot for the second battery. “It only takes one battery to run the clock. The second one is for the pendulum. Maybe you could buy one and replace it.” I smiled and thanked him, and asked if he was the one who donated the clock – how did he know all this? “I used to be a clock-maker”, he said. It sounded sad. I thought clocks were dished out my automated machines. “That was long ago” he added, “We went out of business years ago. I am retired now.” Where could I get a pendulum, I asked. He told me I could find one at a clock-store, or online. “That is a good clock. A great bargain.” I thanked him, and bought the clock.

Then, I did some research online. I was looking for a pendulum, and it is surprising how few clock parts are available online. Anyway, I typed in “wrought iron pendulum” into Google Images, and there it was – my clock, plus pendulum. It turns out, this Howard Miller clock is called “Paulina”, and retails at $61 on sale. I called Howard Miller today, and it turns out each Howard Miller clock has a serial number. I gave them mine, and asked for a pendulum. And they are sending me one – no charge, and no shipping fee. I was astonished. What an amazing chain of events! My Paulina has to be the best Goodwill bargain I have ever got. She also keeps perfect time. :-)

Villette

2009-01-12T11:48:00.001-06:00

Happy New Year everyone! Over the first two weeks of January, I have been very busy – I’ve been doing bunches of interviews and then took a long road trip to visit a few places I am interviewing at. In the complete absence of a computer and a TV, I finished two books – I listened to a book on CD in the car, and read a Rumpole book while I wasn’t driving. Considering that this is in less than two weeks, I am quite impressed with myself. Not too bad, eh?

The first book I finished was Villette, considered to be Charlotte Brontë’s best work. Although Brontë’s Jane Eyre has always been one of my favorites, Villette has surpassed Jane Eyre in my opinion and has risen up to my top three books of all time next to The Way of All Flesh and Brideshead Revisited. It is a BEAUTIFUL book – it gives one an intimate view of the thoughts and psychology of the narrator. It is amazingly expressive, sensitive, and touching. Towards the end of the book, I could not bear how heart-wrenchingly sad the plot was getting and was streaming tears as I was driving (this was the book I read on CD). On the last CD, I had to pull over and sob uncontrollably because of the transparent beauty of what I was hearing. Villette is a semi-autobiographical book which draws heavily on Charlotte Brontë’s time in Brussels at the pensionnat of M. and Mme. Heger. Brontë’s love for M. Heger was unrequited, and the depth of her sadness is reflected in Villette. The intensity of her love and pain is described beautifully. It smote my heart to think that love like that had in real life been spurned. I alternated between so many emotions as I listened to the book – love, anger, joy, hatred, despair… It is a rare writer who can draw out emotions like Brontë did from me through Villette. God bless her!!!

Roundup of the books I read last year – I surpassed my goal of twenty-four books by three.

Lord Emsworth and Others - Wodehouse
Poirot Investigates - Christie
The Miracle at Speedy Motors - Smith
Murder in Three Acts - Christie
The Golden Ball and Other Stories - Christie
The Penge Bungalow Murders - Mortimer
Mr. Parker Pyne, Detective - Christie
Funny Boy - Selvadurai
The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories - Christie
Dolores Claiborne - King
Espresso Tales - Smith
A Season of Betrayals - Hyder
44, Scotland Street - Smith
Murder at Hazelmoor - Christie
Morality for Beautiful Girls - Smith
Persian Girls - Rachlin
At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances - Smith
The Good Husband of Zebra Drive - Smith
No Country for Old Men - McCarthy
Blue Shoes and Happiness - Smith
The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs - Smith
Portuguese Irregular Verbs - Smith
The Kalahari Typing School for Men - Smith
Tears of the Giraffe - Smith
Kamasutra - Vatsyayana
The Full Cupboard of Life - Smith
Forgive Us Our Press Passes – Skidmore

Exciting News...

2008-12-15T12:34:00.005-06:00

I have been hearing back from lots of places I applied to for internships. I've heard back from ten internship sites so far, and they have all been yes-es. Consequently I have a busy January. I'll phone-interview at all these places and will visit as many as I can. By the end of january, I imagine I shall be exhausted, broke, and very very happy!

12/16/08: 10am: ELEVEN now :-)
12/16/08: 3pm: TWELVE yes-es and counting!
12/17/08: I heard back from them all. And they ALL said YES! Now, what do I need to do in order to get men to behave in the same way???

The Golden Road to Samarkand

2008-12-03T10:32:00.004-06:00

Two years ago, I wrote a post on one of my blogs which never really took off. It was about a poem. I was reading the poem again yesterday, and thought I'd repost what I had written here...

I was watching "Rumpole". And Rumpole, being Rumpole, was quoting poetry as usual. He quoted something that brought back a deluge of memories. He spoke about the golden road to Samarkand. I felt that somehow the floodgates of forgotten memories had been opened. I felt shaken, and almost cried, for right in the middle of the strange crises of adulthood, he had called to my mind one of the most vivid dreams of my childhood. He had reminded me of a longing I had felt since my childhood, of taking the golden road, and of entering the gates of Samarkand.

It was somewhere between the ages of 7 and 9 when I first heard my father mention "The golden road to Samarkand". It was a phrase, quite out of its original context. I never thought it belonged in a poem. I thought it was one of those odd sentences, heard in one's childhood that happily haunts one's memories even years later. Those words caught my childish fancy. I did not know where Samarkand was. But by the name I imagined it to belong in the Arabian nights. The second I heard of it was when I was about 11 years old. I was reading the history of the Mughals, a daunting, but exciting volume in my father's small library. I read the story of Emperor Babar as a child longing to enter the golden gates of Samarkand. I imagined it to be a bustling city full of busy bazaars, with peculiar looking street vendors selling their exotic wares - spices, incense and delightfully odd unnamed concoctions. There was the old-world charm of the Arabian nights, the wise old men puffing off at their hookahs, the birds, the animals, the smoke, and the earthy, musky fragrances of the people and the land. This Samarkand existed nowhere but in my imagination. Yet, I could see, smell and taste all its wonders. As a child and perhaps even now, my Samarkand seems so exquisitely tangible; I could almost reach out and touch its arcane secrets and unknown treasures.

But equally fascinating to me was the road - the golden road to Samarkand. I always was a loner at heart, never needing anyone else, never wanting anyone else to enter that world of my own, the sacrosanct land of childish fantasies, from where the world of grown ups seems so dull. It was the same with this journey. I wanted to travel to Samarkand alone, discover its riches and wonders alone, so that in some strange way it would belong only to me. I think I had subconsciously even resolved to travel there when I was old enough. I think I imagined myself to be a sort of Dick Whittington. I think I still do. The road and the journey seemed to promise exhilarating thrills and exciting experiences. I still want to take the road and relive the happiest years of my life - my childhood, when under the protective eyes of my parents I built that fantasy land where I go even today when the burdensome worries of my adulthood grow too heavy for me to bear.

I think as an adult, the road seems more a metaphor. I have attempted a few short forays onto the road, but always returned to the calling of responsibility and maturity. But one of these days, I'll bundle up my belongings, and set off down the golden road for good; the child in me singing and hopeful. I will reach my Samarkand one day. And it will be as beautiful, as exciting and as wonderful as I have always known it will be.

We travel not for trafficking alone;
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. ~Flecker

A Snippet of a Conversation

2008-11-29T16:19:00.005-06:00

“May I go to the restroom?” he asked. And then a moment later, “Please?”

I stared. “You don’t have to ask my permission to leave”. I was flustered.

“I know”, he replied quietly. “But it is polite to ask.”

I lowered my glance and nodded my assent. He stood up and heeled his chair back into position.

“Can I bring you anything back?”

His voice was playful, and I rose to the challenge.

“Yes”, I said. “Bring me back the mirror.”

We both blushed. He started to say something, hesitated, and then turned away.

I looked around the coffee shop. On the bookshelf next to our table was stacked an odd assortment of books - some which I would never have imagined belonged in such an establishment. I pulled out a volume on the wines of Tuscany and lazily flipped through its pages. Friends of mine, a couple, were visiting Italy. I remembered her asking me if I would like them to bring me back a bottle of Italian wine. She had called me a connoisseur. I smiled despite myself. Although I would like to be, I am not a good judge of flavors. I prefer Beaujolais to Burgundy. Some people tell me that is sacrilegious, but I have never understood why.

I glanced at my mug of Ethiopian coffee. Strong. Bitter. Overpriced. And served in an awfully ugly mug. Most “cool” coffee shops serve their hot beverages in hideous mugs. They are meant to be artistic, I suppose. I try to be broad-minded about these things, but to my rather primitive and untrained mind, all art – all appealing art at any rate – needs to be aesthetically pleasing. I put the book back on its shelf. The book at least had aesthetically pleasing pictures.

I closed my eyes and listened to the lowered voices of the other customers. Coffee shop conversations always sound so intimate. I sighed and opened my eyes. He had returned, a boyish grin on his face.

“I tried”, he said earnestly. “The mirror wouldn’t come off the wall.”

I giggled with mirth at the thought. He extended his hand and I saw a shiny quarter in it.

“It’s like a mirror”, he said. “I can’t believe I found this. It has been ages since I found a coin.”

I took the extended quarter from his fingers and looked into his face. I could not tell if he was lying. Coffee shop conversations are meant to be mysterious. And the lights were too dim for me to care.

"May I Write To You?"

2008-11-14T12:12:00.002-06:00

Yesterday, someone asked me, “May I write to you?” How often does one get asked such a beautiful question? I think people today say, “Can I call you?” or “Can we talk again?” But an exchange of ideas, and the continuation of a conversation through the writing of letters is practically unheard of. I was quite happy when I was asked this question and consented to a correspondence, upon which we exchanged our email ids. Not quite as romantic an end to the wonderful question as I would have liked, but still…

I would like to write to someone. As a child I had several pen-friends. I even tried reviving my interest in writing to people in distant lands after I became an adult. However, this franchise soon disillusioned me because I found that most adult pen pals are only trying to pave their way to a romantic relationship. But imagine… if you were writing just for the sake of writing… to be able to tell your story, and listen to the stories of others… wouldn’t that be beautiful and delightful and enlightening? C.S. Lewis said, “We read to know we are not alone.” I think this might be truer for writing. We write to know we are not alone… to know that someone wants to read what we have to say and share… that insignificant though we may be in the grand scheme of things, little bits of ourselves are significant to others even if only just momentarily. Is it any wonder then that I enjoy writing this blog?

Hurray for the President Elect

2008-11-05T13:42:00.006-06:00

Last night was one of the most historic nights in the history of the United States of America. By an overwhelming majority Barack Obama was elected America's 44th president - and became the first African American ever to be elected to this post. The energy of the American public was infectious and heart-warming. As I watched election night TV, I was struck by how many things were different about this US Presidential election - people turned out in record numbers to cast their votes, first time voters (the generation many people think does not care) were keen to have their voices heard, and in the face of ignorance and prejudice, Senator Obama scored a proud victory.

Listening to Sen. Obama's address to the nation after winning the 2008 presidential election, I was moved. This isn't my country, and I cannot vote. But this certainly is an incredibly exciting time to be in America! I hope many more good things lie ahead...

"Pie" Surprise

2008-11-03T09:50:00.002-06:00

Typically, when I attempt to throw together a recipe from things that just happen together in my fridge, I end up with an eatable, but equally forgettable end product. However, last night, I made up a recipe that turned out something that was a delight – one which I am going to continue to make often.

So, in an attempt to clean out my fridge, I located these things:
• One butternut squash that I wanted to make soup with, but which I did not end up making
• A quarter packet of mixed vegetables – too little to put into anything else.
• Half a red bell pepper left over from a pizza that I made last week.
• One pre-made pie crust with which I was going to make apple pie, but I ended up eating the apples raw

So, I decided to make a vegetable pie – most of my previous vegetable pies have been passable, occasionally good, and never exceptional. However, I needed to clean out the fridge. So on I went with the project, and the result was amazing – a LOVELY pie: tasty, savory, filling, healthy, and above all EASY! It really was what I might classify as “healthy comfort food”. I’ll post pictures soon. Here’s how I made it:

I diced the whole butternut squash, the red bell pepper, and half an onion and boiled these in a bit of salted water with the leftover mixed vegetables. Don’t add too much water – we just want enough so that we don’t have to drain out any water after the veggies are cooked. I threw in some garlic powder and some rosemary and thyme (I grow the rosemary and thyme. If you don’t have these, just use whatever dried herbs you have – oregano, sage, basil…). I boiled all these together covered for about 15 minutes till the squash was a bit mushy. Then I let it cool and drained out the little water that remained. Then I mixed in a handful of shredded cheese (I used a low-fat cheddar-pepper jack blend because I happened to have some, but any regular shredded cheese is fine), and a couple of pinches of red pepper flakes. In the meantime, I had thawed out my pie crust. I sprayed my pie dish with some non-stick spray and rolled out the bottom crust. I spooned in the vegetable mixture and covered it with the top crust. I slotted the top crust, sprayed it will some non-stick spray and popped it into the oven for about 30 minutes (at 350 F), and then took it out to cool. Wait for it to cool a bit before you slice it. I had a slice for dinner last night with some spicy habanero sauce. Will have some more tonight. Do try to make it – it is really delicious!

To Autumn

2008-10-30T22:50:00.003-06:00

Folowing the biting cold of the weekend, Ames has had a few days of glorious and tender warmth. But I fear that this is the last of the good weather we will have. Autumn is on its way out, and the cold winter months loom ahead. I wanted to post Keats' "To Autumn" before the end of the loveliest season of all.

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies."

~ John Keats

Click on the pictures to enlarge:

A maple tree in autumn (www.middle-fork.org)

Iowan cornfields in the fall (www.jefflawson.net)

Yet Another Step...

2008-10-28T08:56:00.002-06:00

I have to rush and am hopelessly busy, but thought I'd post a quick update... I successfully defended my dissertation proposal. This means that I can apply for internships for next year. So, I am DEFINITELY going to leave ISU nexy year (subject to being matched to an internship). Got to go, will write more later.

A Step Closer

2008-10-21T13:30:00.003-06:00

Last Friday, I finalized my dissertation proposal manuscript and gave it to my committee members. This Friday, I will present the research to them and they will either be bowled over by how wonderful it is (which is highly unlikely), axe my project and doom me to another year in Ames (which I am praying will not happen), or will tell me that it's a bit crappy but can be fixed with their suggestions (which I am hoping will happen). I got caught up with sleep and a bit of reading. Now that my mind was not occupied with thoughts about research, I felt an urge to read some more of "Clarissa". I did, and loved it - it still takes me a while to get through some passages, but is a delight to read.

Remember long ago, in one of my first posts, I said that I wanted to be like Cleopatra - a woman of infinite variety? Well, something I read in Clarissa makes me want to be something similar. It's from Anna Howe's letter to Clarissa where she relates to the eponymous heroine what her mother (Mrs. Howe) said about her:

"Miss Clarissa Harlowe is an admirable young lady: wherever she goes, she confers a favour: whomever she leaves, she fills with regret. O my Nancy, that you had a little of her sweet obligingness!"

If someone ever said that about me, I'd faint with pleasure!

Dark Circles and Bags

2008-10-14T11:43:00.002-06:00

I have been awfully busy the past two weeks - whether or not I will be able to propose my dissertation in time for applying for internships is still uncertain, but I am working away... Last week, I did not sleep two nights and slept in my office for another two nights. I think what makes it so tough for me is that I am not a naturally research-oriented person and everything seems to take me too long. Anyway, I went homes yesterday afternoon, had about 7 straight hours of sleep, and at midnight, I came back to my office and have been working away again. I just happened to catch sight of myself in a mirror - I look horrible. Haggard. And I have dark circles under my eyes! That is something I never thought I would ever see since I have dark skin to begin with! But I do have them under my eyes - dark circles and bags.

Reading Update

2008-10-06T10:05:00.002-06:00

I have stopped reading Clarissa for the moment. It is a very heavy-going book and since I am at the moment caught between proposing my dissertation and applying for internships, I find myself unable to read more than a page or two of Clarissa. I find myself gravitating towards lighter reading - so I have been working on finishing Poirot Investigates. I think I shall postpone Clarissa until next year and focus on finishing up my half-read books in the next few months. That's 27 books in all and it would still bring me over my resolution of 24 books for this year. Next year, I think I shall spend reading only one book - Clarissa. That will be quite the feat in itself - being able to finish the book that was the longest novel in English literature for over 200 years (it's not the longest anymore).

I feel so tired with all these deadlines - I wish I could just sit back, relax and read, read, read...

Sarah Palin - On Feminism and The Media

2008-09-30T18:48:00.006-06:00

I don't usually blog about my view on politics. But Sarah Palin's idiocy (purely a private opinion) is driving me so crazy that I feel I have to write about it. The woman is in the running to be the Vice President of the United States, but she is an ignorant fool as is clearly evident from her interviews. I don't understand the people who think she is ready to be VP - she can barely even answer a question about which newspapers she reads...

In an interview with Katie Couric, Sarah Palin was not able to say which newspapers or magazines she reads. When Couric presses her to answer, she goes on to say that she has read MOST or ALL of them. Remember that the US publishes more than 7500 newspapers and weeklies, and thousands more of magazines. Even I would be embarrassed to say such a thing, and I am not running for VP.

The video follows below, and here’s a transcript:

“Couric: And when it comes to establishing your worldview, I was curious what newspapers and magazines did you regularly read before you were tapped for this, to stay informed and to understand the world?
Palin: I've read most of them, again with a great appreciation for the press, for the media.
Couric: What, specifically?
Palin: Um, all of them, any of them that have been in front of me all these years.
Couric: Can you name a few?
Palin: I have a vast variety of sources where we get our news, too. Alaska isn't a foreign country, where it's kind of suggested, "Wow, how could you keep in touch with what the rest of Washington, D.C., may be thinking when you live up there in Alaska?" Believe me, Alaska is like a microcosm of America.”

Also in the Katie Couric interview, Palin gave her take on feminism… I was not able to find a video for this, but here is the transcript…

“I'm a feminist who, uh, believes in equal rights and I believe that women certainly today have every opportunity that a man has to succeed, and to try to do it all, anyway. And I'm very, very thankful that I've been brought up in a family where gender hasn't been an issue. You know, I've been expected to do everything growing up that the boys were doing. We were out chopping wood and you're out hunting and fishing and filling our freezer with good wild Alaskan game to feed our family.”

Now, I wonder why she didn’t mention that her brothers did some sewing or cooking? Also, I take offense at how she, as she talks about women and success, seems quite content with the fact that women have an equal opportunity to “try to do it all, anyway.”

Sarah Palin frustrates me. She seems to always manage to not answer questions she is asked, or to talk about something completely unrelated. She particularly likes to talk about her outdoor-sy personality and uses it at the most inappropriate times as an answer to everything – just like McCain talks about his POW experience as if that is the answer to everything. Stephen Colbert had hilarious things to say about that. But I digress…I was never a great fan of John McCain before, but his choice of VP has made me question his judgment and I am leaning towards thinking that perhaps senility is starting to set in for him!

In the words of YouTube poster LisaNova, “I became stupider having listened to that!” Here is LisaNova’s spoof of Sarah Palin’s interview with Charles Gibson – perfect portrayal of how she talks utter nonsense.

A Stranger Made Me Smile

2008-09-23T12:36:00.003-06:00

I was sitting in my office frowning at an immense batch of journal articles that I need to get through and seriously wondering if getting my Ph.D. is really worth all this work. The near future looks pretty bleak and I was feeling really down in the dumps. Someone knocked at my door and I shouted a half-hearted "Come In" - I really did not want anyone disturbing me right then. A young African American man came in with a bunch of long-stemmed white flowers and handed me one. "I just want you to know that we appreciate you", he said. I was a bit stunned, and I stammered my thanks to him. He turned to leave, and I was flabbergasted - it is not everyday a stranger walks into my office and hands me a flower with words of appreciation. I managed to pull myself out of the shock of it before he reached the door and asked him who he was and what he appreciated me for. He said he was a member of a fraternity and it was appreciation day and he had chosen to appreciate the psychologists at the counseling center for the work we did. I thanked him again and he left me smiling with delight. What a lovely, lovely thing to do!! And what a delightful and timely answer to my question about whether this will really ever be worth it!

Monday Morning Blues

2008-09-15T11:11:00.007-06:00

I am convinced that I am going to die in the near future! People say that when you are dying, scenes from your life pass before your eyes like a flashback in slow-motion. I don't know if there is any validity to this or not, but if it is true, then I am dying a very slow and protracted death right now. For several months now, I feel almost constantly nostalgic and everything I encounter seems to remind me of something else that happened to me at some point in my life.

I was walking down the street yesterday - the rains have really made the grass spring up and I flashed back to when I was younger and lived in Hyderabad - our house was the only one in several streets which had grass between our front compound wall and the street - my father tended to this grass lovingly (in the arid climes of Hyderabad), but every couple of weeks we'd have a street-person ring our bell to ask if they could dig up the grass for some food or money. Again, a few days ago I was eating some papads. And suddenly I remembered a time when I was in the 9th class. I was sick and home alone one afternoon when an old Muslim gentleman came by selling papads door-to-door. He beseeched me to buy some papads which he told me his young motherless daughter made all day and which he sold. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, and I was moved into buying two large packets of them. It was not until he left that I looked at the label which said "Mahalakshmi Pappadums, Made in Coimbatore".

Another time I was in church and I remembered how all my childhood and adolescence my parents, sister and I would set out early Sunday morning and walk in the chilly, dewy morning to our church about half a kilometer away and back. I hated Sundays because although we got to eat a more elaborate breakfast and didn't have to go to school, I didn't get to spend enough time with my parents. It was the only day I was home all day with my parents but they were always busy on Sundays - my father shopped for vegetables and meat, my mother did a massive batch of cooking and cleaning, both my parents did the week's laundry... and it seemed that my sister and I could never do anything without getting in somebody's way. By the afternoon, my parents were exhausted and would take long naps and my sister and I had to amuse ourselves very quietly. But for children (which my sister and I were) with a whole day's energy pent up, it was quite impossible to do that - I don't think I even enjoyed reading on Sundays - and that is very unusual for me. Strangely, it seemed that it was always hot on Sundays - even in the winter. Anyway I hated Sundays - and the dislike still persists. And now that I am grown up, I hate Monday mornings too...

Yet another time I was walking down a sidewalk in Ames which had a very unusual pattern of paving - little squares. And I remembered the evenings when I was a child when my mother would decide that she, my sister and I were going to walk back home from school. There were two ways of getting home - the most direct one was a busy main road - it was dusty and full of traffic. There was a Muslim cemetery on this road which always fascinated my sister and me because the gravestones looked beautifully carved and had Urdu writing on them - we did not read Urdu, so the writing could mean anything we wanted it to - we went for extremely romantic stories with touches of the Arabian nights - we were convinced that most of the people buried there had died of heartbreak or some other equally romantic reason. There also were heaps of jasmine flowers growing wild there. My sister and I were fascinated by the graves and she asserted that when our mother died, we would bury her there. Other points of interest along the way were: a mechanic's shop which had the most gorgeous assistants who never seemed to do anything but oaf around and look handsome; a castle which I believed was haunted which eventually was sold, demolished and a state-of-the-art hospital was built on the spot; a seedy restaurant which sold delicious candy for 5 paise which my mom would never let us go into; a large white wall with a seat built right into the middle of the wall - it had an ornate concrete back which I thought looked like a throne and I always pretended to be an extremely regal and imperial queen when I sat on it - no one other than me ever seemed to sit on it and I never quite understood who had built it and what purpose it served other than to function as my very own dusty and hard throne. This was an interesting road, but we always walked back home this way and it was not the one we liked best. The one we loved was the longer, windy one through the defence campus. It was a shady avenue - broad, well-kept and the only traffic on this road consisted of a few vehicles entering or exiting the defence labs. The road home was almost twice as long - maybe two kilometers and it seemed like an eternity to us children before we got home. But we loved it - the trees were beautiful and there were little benches for us to sit on. And the sidewalk was paved with beautiful tiles with tiny squares. They reminded my sister and me of the Cadbury chocolate bars and we christened the avenue - "Cadbury's Road". I always had been a child with a wild imagination and the long walk back home on a chocolate road made my already overactive imagination run riot - I'd make up stories to tell my sister on the way and imagine myself in adventures that made Indiana Jones seem like a silly little amateur. My sister and I always gave a whoop of delight when my mother announced that we were going home by Cadbury's Road. That sidewalk in Ames with the tiny white squares reminded me of those halcyon days.

I am constantly remembering. Maybe I am dying! Or maybe I am just homesick and nostalgic and miss my family. Or maybe I'm just growing old, broody and sentimental.

I Passed My Prelims!

2008-09-09T16:56:00.003-06:00

I successfully passed my written prelims! This means that I am now officially a "real" Ph.D. candidate. I have already done most of the work involved, but it really takes passing this test to make it official. Coming up in the next few weeks is my dissertation proposal. I am very very rushed for time and have no idea how I will get all this done in a month, but I hope that I can. Proposing my dissertation pronto is vital since I have to get this done in order to go on internship next year. Since I don't want to be stuck here for another year, it's nose to the grindstone now...

P.S. Update on the food from last post - I did not get to make it for my sister. I made stuff for the Onam potluck, but ended up eating leftovers or going out for meals with my sis. Maybe next time...

Weekend Menu

2008-09-03T15:21:00.013-06:00

I am not a great cook usually. I usually cook and eat whatever is the fastest and easiest - very often this means a lot of American food. However, when someone is coming to dinner or to stay, I blossom into a remarkably good cook. It's quite awful really, because I like the food I cook when I cook it for someone else. When I was younger, I never did any cooking - and consequently never really learnt to cook very well. Most of what I cook now is either intiutive or self-taught through web-surfing or cookbook browsing. Anyway, there are two kinds of food that I like best - foods that appeal to the two parts of me - the Hyderabadi/Andhra food and the Malayalee/Kerala food. My sister is coming to stay for Onam and for a few extra days. which means a LOT of Andhra/Mallu food at home (we both enjoy it). So, I was looking up recipes and thought it would be fun to post a few recipes that I plan on cooking this weekend on here.

The recipes are taken from www.wikipedia.com (Mallu) and www.sailusfood.com (Andhra).

The pics are courtsey spicychilly.blogspot.com and www.sailusfood.com. Enjoy.

KERALA MANGO PACHADI

Ingredients:
Raw/Ripe Mango - 1
Coconut-(scraped) - ½ cup
Dry chilly – 4 (fried)
Oil-1 table spoon
Mustard- ¼ teaspoon
Water- ¼ cup
Salt to taste

Preparation:
1. Peel and cut the mango into small pieces. Mix with salt.
2. Grind coconut with water and 2 dry chilies thoroughly.
3. Add the coconut-chili mixture to the mango and mix well.
4. Heat oil in a kadai; heat mustard and fry dry chili.
5. Lastly pour into the mango coconut mixture.
6. Best served with plain rice.

*************************************************************************

ANDHRA TOMATO RAVA UPMA

Ingredients:
1 1/2 cups wheat rava/sooji/semolina
1 finely sliced large onion
1 large tomato, finely chopped
3-4 slit green chillis
1″ ginger finely chopped
1 tbsp ghee or oil
1 tbsp chopped coriander leaves
3 3/4 to 4 cups water
1 tsp mustard seeds
1 tbsp bengal gram
1 tbsp black gram dal
12-15 curry leaves
Salt to taste

Preparation:
1. Heat oil, add the mustard seeds and let them splutter.
2. Sauté bengal gram, black gram and curry leaves.
3. Add and sauté sliced onions, green chillis and ginger.
4. Add and sauté chopped tomatoes on medium heat for 4 min.
5. Add salt and water and bring to a boil.
6. Add the wheat rava while stirring continuously to avoid lumps.
7. Cover with lid and let it simmer for 10-12 minutes.
8. Turn off heat. Mix well.
8. Garnish with chopped coriander leaves. Serve hot with chutney.

Sarah Palin Looks Very Familiar

2008-08-29T08:58:00.003-06:00

The news today seems full of stuff about Alaska's governor Sarah Palin. And she looks incredibly familiar. I know why: because she looks like a serious, book-ish version of Law and Order SVU's Mariska Hargitay! Here are pics:

Five Books On The Go...

2008-08-27T11:28:00.004-06:00

Is it possible to be reading five books at a time? My list says so, and someone recently asked me this. So, let me clarify -

1. "Lord Emsworth..." is a book of short stories that I borrowed from the library, but had to return before I finished it. I have been meaning for months to get it out again and finish it, but got caught up with other books.

2. "The Thin Man" was a book that I used to leave in my car to read when I had to wait in the car for some reason (apparently it happened long enough for me to read a quarter of the book), but left it in my car which my sister has been using for several months. I'll get it back from her when I see her next and finish it.

3. "Poirot Investigates" is the book in my headboard cupboard. It is a book of short detective stories and is ideal for bedtime reading because it is full of short stories that don't compel me to read on indefinitely and lose sleep. I still have about a half of the book to go.

4. "Clarissa" is my ambitious reading project for the year that was placed on temporary hold because I was studying for my Ph.D. qualifiers and was forced to read psychology journals instead of mid-eighteenth century literature. This book will shortly be resumed.

5. "The Miracle at Speedy Motors" is a book I recently borrowed from the library. This is the latest installment in Alexander McCall Smith's "No. 1 Ladies..." series, and is in huge demand. I was on the request line of this book for several months and probably will go back on a long line if I have to return it before I am finished with it. So, this book takes precedence over all others at the moment. I am done with nearly half of this delightful book, and fully expect to be done with it in a few days time.

So there it is... the reason I am reported as reading five books at one time on this blog. :-)

Is This A Zucchini?

2008-08-24T18:45:00.003-06:00

I was shopping for groceries at Wal-Mart last night. I bought some regular old vegetables - amongst them two nice eggplants (brinjals). As I was checking my groceries out, the lady at the counter fumbled with the code sheet trying to find the code for the eggplants - she seemed quite confused and after about a minute looked up and asked me: "Is this a zucchini?" I was so taken aback that someone did not know what an eggplant was that I was dumbstruck for a few seconds. Regaining my composure a few seconds later, I told her that it was an eggplant, but the horror of it stayed with me for quite some time. If a lady over forty did not know what an eggplant was (and clearly she also did not know what a zucchini was), then what kind of food was she eating? And what food was she feeding her kids? It's quite horrible to think about!

Even They Are Scared

2008-08-20T18:26:00.001-06:00

I watch CNN a few times every day. Most of the news one hears these days is scary – reports of sieges, war, terrorism, an economic depression, political controversy, the energy crisis, global warming, fundamental religious groups, drugs, crime, violence… an endless list of unsavory and scary stuff. Every once in a while, when there is a lack of generally scary news, they’ll show us the exploits of a cat who sensed the carbon-monoxide in the basement and raised the alarm or of a funny cockatoo, but on the whole the reports coming into the newsroom are not what we want to hear. Even the music on CNN mirrors this. As CNN cuts back to the newsroom from the adverts, they play a very scary soundtrack – it’s the kind of music one hears on apocalypse movies when the human race is on the brink of extinction, or the kind that plays when Frodo and his gang are fighting the forces of evil in order to save Middle Earth. The music has always seemed very very scary and also very very familiar. I found myself wondering what it reminded me of. And this morning it struck me! It’s almost identical to the music played in the “Saw” movies when they recap Jigsaw’s bizarre and sadistic schemes that lead up to the usually horrifying and gory climax. Now, when CNN executives approved of playing such music to represent themselves, maybe even they (and perhaps especially they) were scared that most of the news that accompanies the music would also be scary! I wonder how long ago it was that scary and sad news was the exception rather than the rule.

No One Said It Would Be Easy

2008-08-18T06:57:00.002-06:00

When I first decided to switch fields to psychology and get a Ph.D., I thought, "How hard can it really be?" Well, now I am finding out! I know now why it is such an achievement to get a Ph.D. I'm facing my Ph.D. qualifiers - an 8 hr exam this Friday. It's horribly unstructured - you show up and they could ask you anything - LITERALLY ANYTHING from the field of psychology. I'm studying as hard as I can, but with all my laziness and procrastination from earlier this summer, I think it might take a miracle for me to pass.

And after that I'll still have Oral Prelims, Internships applications and my Dissertation research and defense. GRRRRR. All of you who don't have to do all this - pity me, and spare me a prayer! All blog posts are on hold until after I finish the beastly exam!

Love Unspoken. Finally!! Finally!!!

2008-08-06T22:52:00.005-06:00

I am excited beyond belief! For a long time after starting my blog, I looked for a video of Jeremy Brett singing love-unspoken instead of just audio, but I could not find it anywhere - I found photo compilation tributes set to the song, but did not find an actual video. Well, thanks to YouTube recommendations, I finally without even trying found it! The video is of an old TV program with Twiggy and Jeremy Brett. It's not all "Love Unspoken", which is only from 3:30 - 6:00, but you do get to listen to some other sterling performances by the two.

Isn't he lovely????? I LOVEEEEE him. Too bad he's dead, or else I'd send him some fan mail at the very least! Enjoy!

P.S. It looks like sometimes the video embed does not work. Try this link instead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrMBdQm9P10

Needs vs. Wants

2008-07-31T16:16:00.001-06:00

Something that I used to do when I was younger to get me focused and motivated on my goals was a needs and wants list. I used to sit down, and write down everything I thought I should have subdivided neatly into two categories – what I need and what I want. This helped me get focused on what I really needed and helped me set my priorities in a way such that I first achieved/got what I needed and then focused my energies on what I wanted. For some inexplicable reason, I stopped using this wonderful system. I decided this morning to sit down again and do just that. And I came to a very interesting conclusion:

My “needs” list was minimal – and most surprising of all – it did not contain anything material! I think I need more motivation for my work, and more time; but as far as objects or tangible things, I don’t need anything! My “wants” list of course is jam-packed with materialistic things – larger home, more money, more travel… And while these things might make life more enjoyable, right this moment I do not need them. All those things can wait until I graduate and get a job. I’m pretty amazed! I racked my brains for a long time to think of something I needed, and I couldn’t. I also concluded that if I had to search so hard something that I needed, it was probably not something that I really needed anyway!

Now if only I could find that extra motivation!

P.S. I have begun reading “Clarissa”. It so happened that the ISU library has a limited edition of the complete and unabridged novels of Samuel Richardson in nineteen volumes. Of these, volumes 12-19 hold the whole of “Clarissa”. I got the first two volumes today and began reading. It’s a bit heavy going since the English of the 1700’s beautiful as it was, was also quite a bit more complex than it is today. This book has some of the longest sentences I have ever read – often conveying more than one or two thoughts. But what I thought was an absolute pity was that this copy of “Clarissa”, published exactly a century ago this year (in 1908) has never been read by anyone before. How do I know this? I found that many of the pages were uncut. (Books published long ago often did not have all the pages separated at the time of binding, and often the pages needed to be sliced apart at the fold in order to create two pages.) I was cutting pages as I was reading and I felt sorry that so wonderful a novel had gone unread by anyone at ISU for a whole century. I have a good mind to ask the library if they would sell me the books – it’ll most probably be refused of course because of stupid rules and things – it’s most incredibly exasperating! I’ve read six of the letters in this epistolary so far – and it’s absolutely delightful!

The Twenty-Fourth Book

2008-07-27T18:00:00.004-06:00

At the start of this year, I had resolved to read twenty-four books. I have already read twenty-three and have half-read two, which I shall not count. I had thought at first that since it is only the end of July, I shall easily be able to read at least five more. However, I have picked my twenty-fourth book - Samuel Richardson's "Clarissa". It was the longest novel in the English language for 200 years until "Mission Earth" was published in 1952. Following that, there were three other books published that are longer than "Clarissa", but none of them interest me - they're not the kind of fiction that I would read and enjoy. So, "Clarissa" it is!

"Clarissa" is a nine-volume epistolary, and I imagine that if I read it in its unabridged version, it will easily take me to the end of the year. So I think I shall end at my goal of twenty-four books. (Or maybe more, if I decide to take a break and read something shorter for a change - one book for five months is a bit much for anybody.) I begin as soon as the library can get it to me!

P.S. I just noticed that all my other posts this month begin with a "B". I considered calling this post "Book #24", but then thought better of it! Aren't I a rebel!!

Brideshead Revisited - Remade

2008-07-23T00:30:00.006-06:00

It is 11:41 PM. I think I am going to be sick. I was watching that idiot Glen Beck – I hate him! But that is not what makes me feel sick. As the segment cut to the adverts, I was folding my laundry. On the telly, a movie preview ad was playing and I caught a very British voice saying, “… announce my daughter’s engagement to Mr. Rex Mortram”. I felt dizzy and had to sit down. They have remade “Brideshead Revisited”. I hate them – whoever it is who have done that. I knew that the movie was being considered for production, but I was not prepared for it to be ready and hitting Theatres this Friday! One of my favorite books remade into a piece of utter crap – less than three hours with all the relevant bits ruthlessly chopped off! Apparently, there is no screen time focused on religion, they have eliminated the story of Sebastian and Charles’ relationship, and of Sebastian’s relationship with his family. This new “Brideshead…” is about Charles and Julia! I hate them. I feel sick.

I have been astonished at people’s reactions to the book and it’s 1981 flawless production. It seems that this book brings out in people fears of their own insecurities. An atheist person of my acquaintance who struggled with his relationship with the Catholic Church believed that this book was an expose of the cruel grip that religion has on people – of Lord Marchmain’s acceptance of communion before his death, this person said – “Religion did not let him go in the end. It kept its cruel claws in, even at the very end.” Evelyn Waugh did not mean that – and he wrote as much. The point of the book is not to portray Catholicism in a negative light at all – after all Evelyn Waugh was a Catholic convert and a staunch and fervent follower of the Catholic Church – he would hardly have denounced it. I showed what Waugh had to say about this to this person, but somehow, he did not see it at all. Yet another acquaintance of mine – who has not even read the book or watched the mini-series labours under the misapprehension that this book is entirely about gay men. That astonished me at first – and then made me laugh. It made sense of course – this man has some serious internalized homophobia.

Why does this beautiful book appear so twisted to people? It isn’t twisted – it is complex, clever and amazing. And it is being butchered ruthlessly for the screen. I know I shall go and watch it if only to get angry and rant more about it! I do feel very very sick!

P.S. I have decided to add to the orinal post and say a bit more about the 1981 mini-series. It was a masterpiece - with a star-studded cast (though many were not really stars at the time) - Sir Laurence Olivier, Sir John Geilgud, Jeremy Irons, Anthony Andrews, Claire Bloom and Nickolas Grace (inimitably playing Anthony Blanche). You can check out the IMDB page HERE.

Beautiful Fantasies

2008-07-15T11:57:00.007-06:00

Being a Ph.D. student, or indeed any kind of full-time student, has several disadvantages – one is more often than not poor, bogged down with school work and lives an exceedingly dull life. Is it any wonder then that wild Spring break vacations and copious amounts of drink and drugs are associated with students? After all, students all over the world have tried in vain to either liven up their lives by going over the top in sensory pleasure, or dull their senses to the commonplaceness of it all by indulging in mind-numbing activities. The opiate of every student is different – it is wild partying for many, or videogames, or obsessing over physical appearance, or dungeons and dragons, or ... The list is endless. For me it is books, movies, telly and the internet.

And what do I get from all these sources? The lives of others – characters who don’t really exist, celebrities who exist but live more fun lives in my fantasies than they do in real life, people I have never met and probably will never meet, fellow-bloggers who anonymously allow me the pleasure of reading their minds, online flirtations affording my banal life some spicy diversion… There really is something very child-like and innocent about the way I weave my fantasies in and out of the millions of other lives which will never really ever intersect mine. Just this morning, I invented a make-believe romance with Ben Badra - an actor I saw in a movie the other day. It was something out of Shakespeare, with touches of an Eastman color Hindi movie. Byron’s poetry was spouted liberally, and it prominently featured incurable wasting diseases and other similar tragic circumstances of epic proportions. It did have a happy ending – my dreams always do.

Having an over-active imagination is a wonderful gift, but I also often wonder if it is not my most painful curse. I am never ever going to meet Ben Badra, let alone find out we are compatible or fall in love. And I am sure he knows nothing of Byron and has probably never read Shakespeare. I also hope he never is plagued by the horrific diseases I nursed him back to health from. One day I am going to have a rude awakening from this world of make-believe romance and goodness. Most men and women aren’t heroes, and no one is completely good. The idea of romance for the next person is probably dramatically different from my unoriginal ideas that have been unashamedly plagiarized from books and television. One day I shall wake up and be completely grown-up and laugh bitterly at these ridiculous ideas. All innocent hope will be lost and I will never again dream of Ben Badra. And that will be worse than anything else. But I bet it will come someday – utter, complete disillusionment. But until then, Ben Badra is crazy about me!

Breakfast In Bed

2008-07-11T13:01:00.002-06:00

I have never had breakfast in bed before. The very idea of having my breakfast in bed conjures up fantastic images of me as a rather colonial memsahib lazing in a colossal curtained bed until past ten in the morning, being woken by the rays of the sun filtering in through the blinds that have been drawn apart by a very subservient maid who then presents me with a huge tray full of steaming tea, a full English breakfast, the morning mail, the day’s newspaper and a solitary rosebud in a charming little blue bud-vase. Needless to say I have never experienced such luxury, nor do I think I ever will. I might be treated to some such pleasure by a handsome man as a romantic gesture, but that hasn’t happened yet. In any case, there is something very comforting as well as exciting about having one’s breakfast in bed, and I should very much like to have my breakfast in bed every single day. And since that does not show any indication of happening on its own, I decided to make it happen!

I woke up around 9-ish today (being a student has the sole advantage of affording one summers off, and consequently being able to rise late). I got up and made myself some breakfast, and then on a whim, pulled out a wicker tray that I barely ever use. I laid it out and took it to bed. It wasn’t exactly perfect – I had to be my own maid. There weren’t any filtered sunrays, but there was a shaded bedside lamp. There were no curtains, and my twin-bed can hardly be called colossal. I am vegetarian, so a full English breakfast is out of the question, and I had tea and toast with a couple of Marie biscuits on a paper doily, pineapple chunks from a can, and a multivitamin. My morning mail consisted solely of bills and pre-approved credit card offers that I had not felt tempted to open last night. The day’s newspaper was substituted by three-day old news in the form of Wednesday’s free paper. And the solitary rosebud in a blue bud-vase was represented on my tray by daisies I plucked from the garden and a sprig of rosemary sitting together in a tall shot-glass.

Food tastes wonderful when eaten in such a delightful fashion. And the three-day old news seemed vitally important and exciting. I even read some of the fine print on my bills! It was silly and ridiculous, but I was always one for make-believe. When we were children, I would draw elaborate treasure maps for my sister and me, and we picnicked on the terrace pretending to be fine ladies with flowery parasols. A little bit of make-believe is tremendously entertaining. Afterwards, I had to dust off bread crumbs from my duvet; but don’t you know - it was fun!

Berries From The Park

2008-07-02T13:39:00.002-06:00

The little park close to my apartment has over the past year afforded me many joys. It’s too small for a running track, the children’s play area is tiny and unused and it has only one bench in it. Needless to say, it isn’t frequented too often by too many people. But to a reclusive person like me, it is a sweet haven of relaxation amid nature’s beauty. I often go walking there, go there to sit under a tree and read, or get a small take-away snack to eat on the bench in the shade. And every time I have to go to the grocery store, I try and walk though it. In the last post I wrote about picking berries off the tree and eating them. As I walked through the park today, I thought I should pick some and bring them home to enjoy as a dessert. And so I did. I thought I ought to take pics to post them here too. You can also see the book I am currently reading. A bowl of berries and Agatha Christie… pure magic. :-)

A bowl of berries at Hy-Vee - $3.00
A bowl of berries picked in the park - $0.00
A bowl of free berries for dessert and a lovely read to go with it – PRICELESS

I’m No Longer A Teetotaler

2008-06-30T00:09:00.006-06:00

One of life’s little luxuries in my otherwise frugal and very often banal existence as a graduate student is my weekly consumption of a bottle of vino. For some inexplicable reason (I have various fantastic theories about this), I got out of the habit for about five months and fell back on the ever popular H2O interspersed with the occasional iced tea or lemonade. A few events happened which brought a dramatic conclusion to my life as a teetotaler.

Firstly, a couple of months ago, I received a beautiful gift – a crystal wine stopper that I have been dying to use. And then, a couple of weeks ago, I drank a couple of glasses of a beautiful Chilean red at a friend’s. A few days after that, I had a chance to enjoy a bottle of Robert Mondavi Pinot Noir – a bottle of which I had purchased before the dark wine-less months, and which I took to a party with me. And I experienced the joy once again of what it felt like to sip on a glass of wine from a sparkling goblet. Around the same time, I picked up a copy of John Mortimer’s “The Penge Bungalow Murders”, a Horace Rumpole novel. Readers of the Rumpole series will testify that on almost every other page, the celebrated barrister extols the virtues of that greatest of wines – Pommeroy’s plonk, on which Rumpole in his sagacity bestows the much nicer, but equally hilarious name of “Vintage Château Thames Embankment”. I’m halfway through the book, and the repeated mention of the good old bottle had the effect of propelling me in the direction of the nearest grocery store.

I wanted to try something I hadn’t tried before. And of course, I had to pick something that wouldn’t break the bank. Also, I resolved not to drink any more Californian wines – I may be too poor to travel to distant countries, but I can vicariously experience far-off lands through their bottled product. I still have a bottle of Mögen David Concord Red, which is unmistakably Californian, but that cannot be helped I suppose. Anyway, after about 15 minutes of lazy browsing, I picked out two wines:

• Georges Dubæuf, Red Beaujolais Wine, 2005 (France)
• Sommerau Castle, Riesling, 2006 (Germany)

The French wine was a steal since it was marked down from $11.49 to $5.49. And the Riesling was only $7.50.

My local Hy-Vee does not have a very wide selection of imported wines – at least not a wide selection of what I would buy and drink. There are some foreign wines that I will not drink because of their names. I refuse to drink at any price wines with names such as “Monkey Bay”, “Funky Llama”, and “Fat Bastard” (No, I am not making these names up). I’d much rather drink a horrible wine called Château something. Yes, I am a wine snob… sue me! Maybe I should try a real liquor store for a wider selection.

As I walked back home, I walked through the park. A mulberry tree was laden with ripe berries – no one seemed to want them. So, I stood under the tree, my wines in one hand, and with my other hand, I plucked and ate the sweet berries… Isn’t life beautiful?

Check out my awesome new wine-stopper. :-)

Mystery and Romance

2008-06-28T11:14:00.006-06:00

I came upon a most magnificent realization yesterday. I was reading a book of short stories by Dame Agatha Christie. They were detective stories that did not include her great set of detectives. Rather, they were tales of ordinary people who get enmeshed in the most extraordinary circumstances. However, reading her stories you would hardly think that the circumstances were extraordinary at all. In fact, it appears that danger, mystery and mayhem abounded on every street corner in her day, and that any unsuspecting passer-by could at any moment get embroiled in a spine-chilling murder or kidnapping. I also notice that every single one of those stories includes a rather klutzy young man who is often clueless about almost everything, but is called to exude machismo, charm and courage at the sight of a ravishingly beautiful damsel who is almost always extremely clever, but also extremely mixed up in some form of sinister trouble. Anyway, ten pages later, all is gas and gaiters again – the mystery is most satisfactorily solved with all the villains (usually jewel thieves, mysterious foreign spies or wicked relatives eager to usurp noble titles) securely handed over to the capable denizens of Scotland Yard, and our klutzy, clueless hero inevitably proposes to the gorgeous and grateful heroine.

That’s when the realization hit me – what one needs to do in order to find one’s soulmate is not to go in search of him, but rather to embark on a journey filled with danger, drama and scandal with a fair measure of good, old-fashioned crime thrown in. Sooner or later, usually on a train or in a tea-shop, one is bound to run into one’s dreamy hero. A few murders, a variety of poisons (cyanide, strychnine and arsenic are usually the best), some secret documents, a case of stolen diamonds, and half-a-dozen butlers are also extremely conducive to expediting matters in the romance department. You might think I am poking fun at one of my favorite authors, but that is not so – romance and danger go hand in hand in all famous detective fiction – Tommy and Tuppence Beresford came together joining forces against the 'Secret Adversary' in the Jane Finn mystery, had Harriet Vane never been accused of poisoning her fiancé, she and Lord Peter Wimsey would never have got together for an exciting domestic and detective partnership, both Dr. Watson and Captain Hastings would still be old bachelors had Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot never solved mysteries that plagued the fair ladies who were eventually to become the Mistresses Watson and Hastings. And Miss. Marple and Mr. Parker Pyne are also constantly called on to deliver their clients out of danger and into the arms of their waiting beloveds.

It is settled then – I plan on embarking on a most perilous journey forthwith. Know of any mysteries that need solving?

Flavorful and Spicy Feta Preserves

2008-06-27T10:16:00.010-06:00

Despite the terrible midwest floods, and the generally bad weather these past weeks, Mother Nature has been kind to Ames and my plants - especially my herbs. Earlier this year, I planted mint, oregano, marjoram, rosemary and thyme. They are flourishing and fragrant right now. I have been liberally using them on pizzas, pitas, omelettes, and in curries and soups. I plan on bringing the herbs in for the winter, but I don’t think they’ll yield much during the cold months, so I will soon start picking them to dry and keep for using during the bleak Iowan winter.

Since the herbs were growing faster than I could use them up, I decided to use the excess herbs to make a Marinated Feta creation inspired by Jamie Oliver. So, I plucked a LOT of the herbs and dried them for two days – it’s surprising how much they shrink when they dry – I now completely sympathize with exorbitant dry-herb prices. And in 15 minutes yesterday, I whipped together a delightful bottle of spicy marinated feta cheese. It has to marinate for two weeks after which I will be able to use it – on toast, pitas, Greek salads, as a snack – anything.

It's delightfully easy to make it. Here's how:

INGREDIENTS
Green Herbs – any combination – a handful.
Feta Cheese – 1 pound
Dried Red Peppers - 4 or 5
Extra Virgin Olive Oil – as required

METHOD
1. Dry your herbs near any heat source. I placed them in my oven for two days. I used a handful – but they shrank to about three large pinchfuls, which was perfect.
2. Chop up the dried red peppers.
3. Spread the dried herbs and the chopped red peppers on a flat surface (I used my cutting board)
4. Break the feta cheese into large chunks. Lay these chunks on the spice-mix and roll around to coat the cheese well with the spices.
5. Pack the feta chunks tightly into a bottle. Throw any remaining herbs/pepper flakes into the bottle as well.
6. Pour olive oil into the bottle to cover completely – the tighter you pack the feta, the less oil you will use.
7. Let the feta, spices and oil marinate for two weeks to let the flavors infuse the oil and the cheese.

Once the mixture has marinated enough, you can refrigerate it. After you refrigerate the whole thing, the olive oil will thicken, and spreads delightfully, so in addition to the tasty marinated feta itself, you can use the flavored olive oil as a spread on toast etc. Enjoy!

P.S. On a completely different note, I watched The Kite Runner last night - based on Khaled Hosseini's 2003 book. I've been meaning to read the book, but decided to pick up the movie instead. It was an absolutely delightful movie. I highly recommend it. It has been a long time since I saw a movie so poingnant and beautiful. ~A.

Free Redbox DVD Rental!

2008-06-24T19:46:00.000-06:00

Hello All,

Here's a promotional code you can use to rent a redbox DVD FREE!! The code is not valid for much longer, so the sooner you use it up, the better:

EGIZER5

Enjoy!

The First Day of Summer

2008-06-20T12:19:00.002-06:00

Today is the first day of summer this year. (Many of you have probably already noticed, this on the news or on Google.com). I thought I'd commemorate the occasion with a snippet of a poem...

"I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me.
O! what sweet company!" ~ William Blake

Smart Dialogue and Bad Writing

2008-06-17T15:29:00.001-06:00

Why is it that all the cops on TV crime shows are always constantly trading clever and witty banter? You’d think that the whole lot of them never talked like normal human beings. Although the likeliness of hearing such amusing and interesting conversation is practically zero, the actors on these shows make it sound remarkably realistic and natural. Chrissy more than anyone else – he makes it sound like he throws witty repartees at every person he comes across. No wonder I love cop/crime shows.

Someone who cannot make dialogue sound real is Anderson Cooper. I was watching a report of Cooper travelling through Africa in search of the root of several diseases that originate in Africa. Along with breathtakingly beautiful pictures of Africa, Cooper sent in pages of his diary – moderately good attempts at sounding poetic and artistic, but they sounded very very phony. Cooper is a reporter who excels at reporting facts not creative writing and IMHO he should stick to that. However, the pictures were lovely!

The Busiest Summer Ever

2008-06-10T01:21:00.009-06:00

It's happened again - I got busy and started to neglect the blog. If my blog were a regular diary of things that happen to me, I would post more often. However, I usually tend to have something to say about something before I post - my posts are usually about something or other. Occasionally, I'll have updates on here. This is an update post.

I have been more busy this summer than I have ever before been - with the possible exception of the time when I was studying for my engineering entrance exams, and even then the exams usually were held in May or June freeing up the second half of summer. This summer on the other hand has been and will continue to be exceptionally busy. Here is a list of things that I have on my plate this summer -

1. Teaching: I'm teaching a class M-F. Teaching every single day is taxing. Add on to that the fact that I have never taught this class before and need to prep as I go along. Thankfully I am teaching only for one month which ends this Friday!
2. Prelims: My Ph.D. qualifying exams are in August. If I fail, I don't get my Ph.D. And I need to cover EVERYTHING that has ever been contributed to the field of Psychology. Okay, maybe not everything - but at least everything in the past two years, and every major research article before that. This adds up to hundreds of articles and so thousands of hours. Sadly, prep in this area hasn't begun yet. I am waiting till I finish teaching before I even think of tackling this one.
3. Dissertation Proposal: If I don't want to be stuck in Ames for another year, I need to propose my dissertation by late September. I haven't even got my committee formed yet. And I need to do an exhaustive literature review. I also need to have the whole thing written and ready to go by the time the new semester begins in the Fall. The upside of this is that I am using a pre-collected dataset. The downside is that the dataset is messed up and I need to spend some time figuring it out. No prep in this area yet either.
4. Work: I need to survive - in today's non-hunter-gatherer terms this means I have to pay for food, shelter and cell phone. Being on a nine-month contract, I don't automatically get paid in the summer. Summer funding is very competitive and I have been lucky to get a 1-month teaching position and a 1 month research/administrative position. The teaching is almost at its end, but I still need to work an additional month at the counseling center - and this will eat into my prep time for prelims and dissertation. However, the upside to this is that I can set my own hours and so probably will end up haunting the counseling center hallways in the middle of the night.
5. Hobbies/Relaxation: With all the above going on, if I did not spend some time unwinding, I'd probably end up having a nervous breakdown. Relaxation for me includes telly, gardening, browsing the internet and reading. And these also demand that of which I have very little - precious, precious time!

There it is - the busiest summer ever. Hopefully - if I pass prelims, successfully propose my dissertation and get an internship, this will be my last full summer in Ames. A year after that, I shall be in full-time employment. It shall be the end of my student life, the end of research, the end of teaching, the end of working way past 5pm, the end of having to give up life's little joys for lack of time, money and other resources, the end of enforced frugality and the end of a lot of other unpleasant things. Oh, sweet, lovely thought!!

P.S. I now belong to the Counseling Psychology program Ranked #1 in the nation. (Check the link out: It's the FSP index indicating that Iowa State is ranked #1 among the Counseling Psychology programs. It's under "Social and Behavioral Sciences", and then under "Counseling Psychology".) I am part of an extremely competitive program. I have done exceptionally well within this program - I have had my pick of the assistantships and practicum opportunities, I have an unbelievably high amount of counseling experience for a student at my level. All this hard work I am doing must be worth it eventually. I pray to God every day that this will eventually lead to a brilliant internship and a plum job!

Launching my Blog-Enterprise

2008-05-07T11:31:00.004-06:00

It’s that time of year again – the summer. And summer for a graduate student means low funds. 9-month contracts don’t go very well with 12-month bills. Now, the only thing apart from psychology that I know I am any good at is writing. It might not be spellbinding or spectacular, but I’m sure it’s definitely worth a glance at the very least. So, I’ve decided to market my blog. I am considering Google AdSense, PayPerPost and SocialSpark as possible ways of drawing income by doing what I like to do best – jabber on about myself.

What this means in terms of my blog is that ad links will start appearing on the sides of my blog. I will also do some sponsored reviews. And I’ll offer other blogging readers of mine incentives to review my blog on their blogs. It sounds complicated as I write about it, but I’m told it’s terribly simple. But overall, things won’t change much. If you are a regular reader of my blog, please keep an eye out for the changes and give me feedback about it. I’d like to earn some spare cash, but not at the cost of morphing my baby blog into something it is just not. TIA!

P.S. - Update on my grand money-making plans. Pay Per Post snubbed my blog in a record 2 hours. They said I had to have at least 10 posts in 30 days in order to be eligible. Now, I might reapply again when I get up enough steam to do that, but until then, I'm shelving this money-making-off-the-blog idea. Don't really know if I am happy or sad about this.

Free Money

2008-05-05T15:30:00.005-06:00

Who doesn't love free money? A friend referred me for Revolution Money Exchange - it's an alternative to PayPal. And if you sign up before May 15th, you get a sign-in bonus of $25. Now, the fun part is this - you don't actually have to use the account - you can just directly transfer your money to your bank account and keep it!!! So, you get $25 for a 2-minute sign up. It's absolutely amazing... I love free money! Also, if you sign-up, your referrer gets a bonus too. So if you like free money, sign up soon (by May 15th). Here's the link:

Alexander McCall Smith

2008-04-21T22:21:00.006-06:00

I met him! This evening. After a whole month's waiting. I was in a Borders bookstore on the magnificent mile in Chicago last month, when I saw a sign advertising that Prof. McCall Smith was visiting. Right away I was terribly excited. Ever since I picked up a copy of the "No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency" five years ago in Kansas City my graduating semester, I have been a fan of Prof. McCall Smith's simple, beautiful and soulful writing. With my temporary and completely unintended renunciation of books upon my arrival in Iowa, I did not read much more of his work until last year, when I read several volumes of his books. Most of the books I have read this year were written by him. Anyway, I had made up my mind that I would drive to Chicago if I had to in order to meet him. I checked online to see his schedule, and saw that he quite conveniently was coming to Des Moines! That was nearly a month ago. And I finally met him today.

It was at the Hoyt Sherman Place Theater. He walked onto stage and started off his talk with a hilarious joke. His voice was deeper than I imagined it to be, and with a curious accent that did not seem to originate from anywhere. I had thought that I would detect a pronounced African or English accent, but although there were hints of the latter, it wasn't terribly apparent. I sat back and enjoyed his fifty minute long, witty speech. After that he was interviewed by one of the Des Moines Public Library board members. Her pronunciation was atrocious! She pronounced Botswana - "BAATSWANA". Alright, most Americans don't really pronounce the "O" in words - "Hot" is pronounced "Haat", "Tom is pronounced "Taam" and other such stuff... but to call Botswana "Baatswana" is as bad as calling Iraq "Eye-rack", and Kenya "Keen-yah". She also pronounced Mma. Ramotswe, "Mamma Ramotswe". I felt a sense of outrage! But poor Prof. McCall Smith seemed to be taking it all in his stride.

And now comes the interesting bit (to me at least). Feeling rather angry and upset at the interviewer, I got out a bit early to queue up for the book signing. And I was out so early, I was the first in line. I had brought along my copy of "The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom", and waited for the writer to come out. He did a bit later. He touched my shoulder as he walked past me to the center table and said, "Come, let's get your book signed." He shook my hand and asked me my name. He seemed a tad surprised at the book I had brought along, although I cannot think why. Anyway, I asked him if there would be any more Prof. von Igelfeld books, and he said that there would be. I was ecstatic. I told him that I thought his talk had been enormously entertaining and he sweetly thanked me for coming. He then signed my book - "For Asha, with warmest wishes, Alexander McCall Smith". And he shook my hand a second time, thanked me for coming and said he hoped I would enjoy the books to come. I was in a daze. It was the first time I had shaken hands with one of my "current sweethearts".

I drove from there to Ankeny to dine with Robin - in half a daze. So many firsts - first author-autographed book. First time meeting one of my favorite authors. First time (and probably will be the only time) meeting Alexander McCall Smith. Life is good. Check the quote section for a short excerpt from one of the Prof. von Igelfeld books.

Wanderlust (2nd Edition)

2008-04-09T16:55:00.001-06:00

Alright, here is the update that is about two weeks overdue. Over spring break and the week after I went on a long, long road trip. Only the first week was planned. The second week’s travel was completely unplanned. Over these two weeks, I travelled to the largest cities in seven states. Here is what my two weeks looked like: Ames – Minneapolis – Chicago – Ames – Kansas City – Omaha – Sioux City – Sioux Falls – Fargo – Minneapolis – Ames. Now that is the granddaddy of road trips in my book. So, lots of driving, lots of new places, meeting interesting new people. Every now and then I’d feel like I was on an adventure. I met some people I might never have met, and visited some places that I don’t think I would ever visit unless I decided to do this trip. I learnt a lot about myself these past two weeks. Or rather, I discovered a lot of new things about myself and the way I relate to others that I hope will eventually lead to me learning a lot about myself. All in all it was an interesting two week holiday. And one that was hard to return from. Pampering myself for two weeks has burnt a hole in my bank balance. I also had loads of work piled up. But, what better way to spend time and money than on myself! When I began writing this post, I thought I would say a lot more. As I read it now, I don’t think I have said nearly as much as I intended to. Maybe I’ll be able to say it all better after some time has passed.

On another note, Omana Auntie underwent a massive heart surgery the week after spring break. And after nearly two weeks in hospital, she is back home and nicely recovering. All is well at home. All is well at work. I am at peace.

Wanderlust

2008-03-31T12:27:00.002-06:00

I've done a fair bit of travelling these past two weeks. Although I titled this post "Wanderlust", I must point out that I initially resisted the idea and the wanderlust in this case was contributed almost in its entirety by my travelling companion. Had he not been as excited about embarking on an unplanned road trip, I might have just stayed home. I will modify this post by and by and write more about my road trip when I am done catching up with two weeks worth of work that has piled up.

The reason I decided to post before the post was ready is because I have some exciting news to share. Exciting to me at least! Alexander McCall Smith is coming to Iowa! He is the author of eight of the eleven books I have read this year. I'm a huge fan of his and think that he is an absolutely brilliant writer! Although he is best known for his "No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency" series of books (which I love and am an avid reader of), I believe that his best work is the "Prof. von Igelfeld" books which have to be amongst the funniest ever written. Mr. Smith is scheduled to attend an evening reception, give a lecture and do some book signing at the Des Moines Public Library. And I will have my very own signed copy of "The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom". Isn't life a wonderful thing?

Out of Office

2008-03-14T11:32:00.003-06:00

Hello All,

I'll be out for two whole delightful weeks - a protracted Spring Break. I have barely been posting anyway, but now shall not for a much longer time. When I return, I promise to write a LOT. This has proven (so far at least) to be a consummate annus mirabilis. And I do want to share it all with you.

Love,
~Asha.

Too Busy Reading

2008-02-27T17:18:00.002-06:00

My reading goal for this year was twenty-four books – doubling last year’s resolution. That’s two books a month. However, I have got carried away and have read nine books already this year. I just finished reading “No Country for Old Men”, which I began the day before yesterday. Very interesting book. I can’t wait to see the movie. In fact, it was the fact that “No Country…” won the Oscar that made me go and check the book out. I have been reading every spare minute I get (as well as procrastinating in other matters). But I love every moment of it! However, not all my reading is as enthusiastic as it should be. “Lord Emsworth…” which I began last September still holds four unread short stories, and I am finding myself resisting reading “The White Company” because I cannot reconcile myself to any Conan Doyle that does not very prominently feature Sherlock Holmes. (That, and the fact that it is incredibly heavy-going).

Interestingly, I find myself getting more restive and restless these days. I wonder if that is because the banality of my everyday existence fades in front of the excitement of the lives of the people in the books I read. It’s possible. There is also lots of other stuff going on. I’ll post about it by and by. Right now, I’m off to another book. :-)

St. Valentine’s Day

2008-02-14T12:27:00.002-06:00

Exactly a year ago, on St. Valentine’s Day 2007, I was filled with a warm, exciting, carefree feeling of love. Love for myself, for the people around me, for nature, for everything I could think of… It had been a glorious day, and sitting in my lovely office as I waited for my next client to arrive, I thought about what life had brought me and what it might still have in store for me. For a few months before that day, I had been struggling with intense sadness and despair. But on Valentine’s morning I felt delightfully exhilarant. I had just returned from visiting my sister for her birthday, and was looking forward to a delightful four weeks of work before spring break when Nisha and I planned on taking another lovely trip somewhere. I felt immensely happy, and had a deep sense of joy and liberation.

When I was a child, I tried my hand at developing pen-friendships with people in faraway lands. I had hoped to share my life, my thoughts and my feelings with someone I did not know. I never did make any lasting pen-friends, but the urge to share my life still lurked somewhere in my heart. I wanted a witness to my life. I wanted someone to see what I saw and feel what I felt. I wanted someone to share my dreams, someone to watch me cry and watch me laugh. Not to console me, and not to live life with me, but just to watch – and view my life through my eyes. And I decided that whether there was someone to watch or not, I would share. That was how my baby blog was born.

For the most part, in bursts and spurts, it has chronicled my life. In several ways it has helped me through the process of healing from hurt, and given me a forum to rant and to celebrate with people known and unknown. I am twenty-eight years old, and never before in my entire life have I been able to look back on a year and remember as much about my life as I have done this past year, and as vividly. More even that the years when I journalled in my diary. I have accomplished so much this year.

This year marked my second Masters, my move out of Gateway Hills, the death of my first car, the purchase of my second, my first practicum outside the university, the making of a few cherished friends, extensive travel, the resurrection of my paper -journal, individual supervision, my first few semesters of group psychotherapy, the first semester when I did not take any classes, my taking up reading again, surviving a near-fatal accident, Martin Scorsese winning the Oscar, The Way of All Flesh, joy, sorrow, infatuations, nostalgia, pain and healing. And you dear Reader, have been witness to it all. Come, welcome another year with me.

P.S. I am aware that that last bit was very melodramatic, but I just could not resist.

Kamasutra

2008-01-20T12:47:00.002-06:00

In one of Mira Nair’s films (I forget which), the female protagonist is bemused by the fact that most men think she is exotic and wonderful because they think being from India, she must be well versed in the art of Kamasutra-style love-making. And indeed the view of the general populace about Vatsyayana’s Kamasutra is that it is a detailed manual of sexual gymnastics. It was also my view until I began reading it. It was with hopes of great proportions that I began reading the Kamasutra. With virginal trepidation and guilty glee, I cracked open the slim volume (the original version, not the interpretive one), hoping to be transported mentally into a world of Ellora cave sculptures. Imagine my surprise then when I saw that these aforementioned sexual gymnastics form only a small fraction of the book! The Kamasutra is really much more a treatise on the code and ethics of courting and love-making than on the actual method by which people make love. Some of it is mildly erotic, and several chunks of it make sense in a vague way, but most of it is absolute rubbish.

For example, Vatsyayana lists numerous reasons why a man should seduce another man’s wife. All are stupid reasons, but this one takes the cake: “so that you can make her fall in love with you, kill her husband, and thus indirectly gain access to his wealth.” Here is another example: when a man wants to seduce a woman, but is unable to make his advances because of the presence of others, Vatsyayana recommends procuring a child and proceeding to kiss and fondle the child in the lady’s presence thus indirectly transferring the affection to the lady. Also, most of the Kamasutra appears to be based on deception of others. It is recommended that husbands deceive their wives and sleep with other women (whom also it is recommended that he seduce by deceit by doing things like faking illness so she would come and visit him), it is recommended that courtesans fake poverty to milk money out of their benefactors, that kings invite the wives of common man to the palace under some pretext and then proceed to seduce them... the list of deceptions is never ending. And, as you might expect, the Kamasutra is written entirely from the viewpoint of a man, and is about how man can derive pleasure from woman. The wife, as expected is supposed to be virtuous, unless she happens to be seduced by a more worthy man. Courtesans for some reason have been given full license to enjoy carnal pleasure as much as men do. The book is enormously confusing, but the most confusing thing of all to me is why it has become a byword for exotic sensual delights. That’s a mystery I never hope to be able to solve.

The Critic

2008-01-09T23:56:00.000-06:00

My first blog post this year… I feel compelled to post updates, but too much has happened and I can’t even if I tried to. School starts on Monday, and I am not looking forward to the end of my holiday. But other things are going well. I have already completed my first book this year, am almost done with two others, and have read a few pages of a fourth. I’m doubling last year’s resolution, and hope to read at least two books every month. I also have resurrected several of last year’s resolutions, none of which I will attain, so there really is no point in discussing them here. But I do hope I can post on this blog less sporadically than before. We’ll see…

I’m grinning as I write this – my blog now has an outspoken critic. This critic likened my blog to a teen magazine, said it was girly, and I think he might have implied that it was a tad silly and naïve, although I am sure he will deny that he implied anything of the sort. Now, silliness, naiveté, and frilly girliness are all things that I vehemently disapprove of and look down upon like a terrible snob. I’m always telling people that I hate such stuff, my beloved sister can’t persuade me to watch a chick-flick if she begged me for a month, and I like to believe that I am something like a liberated version of Jane Austen’s Anne Elliot with a wonderfully exaggerated intellect. And when the critic offered me this estimation of my blog, I staggered back in shock. I protested that it was nothing of the sort. “Teenage girl-like indeed! Anything but!” I objected. I considered adding an aggressive “Humph!” to bring home the extent of my disapproval of his opinion, but decided against it. Much as I dislike silliness, I think I find churlishness more objectionable. The wise critic smiled, “Who else would have a ‘current sweetheart’ section”, he asked “like a teen girl’s magazine?”

My witty comebacks froze on my lips. I flushed, and then saw. He was right. It was like the conversion on the road to Damascus! The astute critic had brought home in a few simple words something that I had failed to see. And it wasn’t just the “current sweetheart” section - it was also the blog posts, most of which as he rightly pointed out were testaments to the existence of a romantic in me which (he thinks) is beautifully feminine. And you have to admit that when someone puts it like that, it is very complimentary. And I rise to meet all such compliments with grateful alacrity. :-)

The Miracle

2007-12-28T21:20:00.001-06:00

Last Saturday, Nisha and I went to Minneapolis to spend the day with her friends at MOA. We woke up and set off early in order to avoid the predicted snowstorm. About 18 miles into Minnesota, a few miles past Albert Lea on Interstate-35, I began to feel the strong wind and wanted to slow down. I did, and simultaneously moved to the right lane. There was a truck about a hundred feet ahead of me, and a few cars the same distance behind me. As I shifted lanes, I felt the car sway… a little at first, and then suddenly… I lost control. I pressed down on the brake and tried in vain to maneuver the steering wheel as I helplessly watched my front windshield blur as the car swung dangerously back and forth between lanes a few times before suddenly careening off the road and into the median. I think I must have ceased to breathe for what seemed like a very long time before the car suddenly stopped.

A quick look showed me that Nisha was fine, and I felt no pain myself. It did not seem like we had struck anything. How pitiable it is, as I think about it now, that my very next thought was: ”Dear God! How much is this going to cost me?” As the car flew off the road, I remember seeing the truck ahead of me, and a post in the median. I was sure I would hit one of the two, but I hadn’t. It is nothing short of a miracle that there was no damage to anyone or anything. How the car managed to not hit anything God alone knows! I got out of the car… and walked around it, there wasn’t any body damage - we just were stuck in a foot of snow. In the 17F cold, Nisha and I tried digging the car out. But eventually we sobered up and called roadside assistance. I was scared out of my wits the half hour we were in the median that another vehicle would spin off the road and hit our stationary car and that we would not be able to do anything about it. I even made Nisha get out and sit in the back of the car. She tried to protest, but I would have my way! Anyway, no such catastrophe occurred. We went to Minneapolis and returned without any further untoward happening. Thank God!

The Sweet Smell of Success

2007-12-19T14:32:00.000-06:00

I have finally, finally done it! Two and a half years after I first began it, I have today completed my Master's thesis. I defended this morning. My committee recommended a few minor changes for the thesis and a multitude of suggestions for the proposed journal article. So barring some routine paperwork, I am in possession of my second Master's degree!!!! Today ends my three-week long run of marathon night-and-day manuscript-writing sessions, and is the consummation of a semester's worth of nights working away at statistical analyses. Success comes at last!

Amat victoria curam!

Le Preux Chevalier

2007-12-08T18:00:00.001-06:00

Who says chivalry is dead? Yesterday, as I was exiting one of the university buildings, a man opened a door for me. I smiled my acknowledgement to him, and he quietly said, "Thank you, Miss." To my amazement, he wasn't going through those doors at all - he walked down a second flight of stairs a couple of paces ahead of me. "Ah!" I thought, "He is leaving the building, just as I am". Reaching the outer doors before me, he swung them open for me. As I passed him, I paused, smiled, and thanked him. A second time, he smiled and said, "Thank you, Miss." Stepping out into the cold air, I half-turned to nod my goodbye to him, but watched in astonishment as he smiled and turned back into the building. I blushed. He had opened two doors for me though he had to go through neither. In being so chivalrous and calling me "Miss", he had made me feel incredibly young and girly. And all evening, the thought of him made me smile and blush again.

I haven't been doing anything that even borders on fun lately. I have finished reading the Kenneth Williams Diaries, and have been feverishly working on my manuscript. My thesis dominates my life now. But I happened to come across an interesting item that I thought I would like to share here. It is about George de Hevesy who won the 1943 Nobel Prize for Chemistry for developing the tracer method. "When Germany invaded Denmark during the second World War, he dissolved the gold Nobel Prizes of Max von Laue and James Franck into aqua regia to prevent the Nazis from stealing them. He placed the resulting solution on a shelf in his laboratory at the Niels Bohr Institute. It was subsequently ignored by the invading Nazis who thought the jar — one of perhaps hundreds on the shelving — contained common chemicals. After the war, de Hevesy returned to find the solution undisturbed and precipitated the gold out of the acid, and returned it to the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. The Nobel Society then recast the two Nobel Prizes using the original gold."

Snugness

2007-12-02T14:35:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was the first time this winter season when it snowed all day. No matter how much I try to deny the fact, winter has really begun. I resisted going out all day yesterday, though I had so much to do at school, just because it was snowing and I did not want to be outside. Instead, I spent almost the whole day lazing around, watching the classic mystery videos: Lord Peter Wimsey, Poirot, A Most Mysterious Murder, Campion… I was all bundled up wearing the soft and warm lavender colored socks that my friends Anand and Aarti gave me last Christmas; and wrapped up in a pretty olive-green throw that my sister gave me when I moved this summer. I sat half-sunk in my huge, comfy wing back chair, my feet resting on the hideous but comfortable mustard-colored ottoman that doesn’t really fit the rest of my apartment. Scattered around me in close proximity, so I wouldn’t have to even get up, were the TV and DVD remote controls, a box of tissues, several plush cushions, the phone, and numerous other exemplars of luxurious, indulgent, hedonism. On the piano stool (which became a makeshift table for the day), lay a half-open, half-read volume of the complete works of Conan Doyle. Balanced atop this was a cup of hot drink. I alternated all day between drinking mulled apple cider, and Brooke Bond Red Label. I had lit scented candles all over the apartment and soon my senses swam in the autumnal fragrances of apple, cinnamon, vanilla and hazelnut. All I needed now was a crackling fire, and a warm hearth, but one can’t have everything. I was supremely happy… who wouldn’t be? And I willfully pushed all thoughts about the impending doom (thesis defense) from my mind.

If I had lots and lots of money, I would give up work and relive yesterday all over again, every day. But unfortunately that day is not yet come. Today I had to come to school to get on with research. I was greeted when I got out by the sight of a snowed-in car. There had been a good quantity of sleet yesterday, and the road was icy. I was engaged in de-crusting the ice off my car and digging the wheels out, when my neighbor and his friend (whose giant four-wheel drive truck and come undone in about two seconds, and who persisted in smirking at my neighbor and me like a benevolent father would at the scrapes of silly children) came by and helped me. I always have luck in having wonderful young men help me dig out my cars (re: my post The Sweet Shovelers from last winter). Anyway, we eventually got my car out and onto the icy treads in the middle of the road, and I was able to drive to school. Oh! Would that it were yesterday again!

Exhaustion

2007-11-21T02:53:00.001-06:00

I meant to take this week off, but it looks as though I won't have a long enough holiday. About a week and a half ago, I set my master's defense date: the 12th of December. I am working day and night... harder than I have ever done to get my manuscript comepleted in time... it looks as though it might not be. But I am trying. I haven't slept for longer than five hours in a whole week now, and my fingers are tired of typing... my eyes are tired of looking at statistical outputs for significant relationships... my faculties are tired of working... I am exhausted. :(

On Being Claustral

2007-11-12T13:24:00.000-06:00

On Friday night, a friend and I went out to the bars. The object of the expedition being overtly to have fun, and covertly to stake out the scene associated most commonly with society, or the meeting of individuals, with an intention of taking stock of the possible entertainment or felicity that such company might bring. I am not a bar-goer. When I do once in a blue moon go, I have exactly the same reaction to the experience that I did the time before. One of complete apathy, and of instant boredom. Oh, I am content enough in the company of the persons I go there with. But a quick survey of what surrounds me reveals time and time again, only one thing: bars are filled not only with smoke, but also with a load of stupid, idiotic people. The fact that I live in a college town possibly only exacerbates such a situation, because the people in the Ames bars tend to be possessed of all the arrogance of youth, and none of the worldly experience which serves to temper said arrogance. All I am reduced to doing at venues such as these is to making a few desultory remarks and to trying as hard as I can to appear engaged. I would gladly focus on the person I am there with, but focusing on anything beyond a two foot radius is pure torture! I daresay that all this might make me appear incredibly pompous, but there it is... I can't help how I feel!

What makes it such a terrible pity is that the few people I would dearly love to meet in such bars are unrecognizably lost in the massive crowd of intellectual vacuums that surround them. What is an even greater pity is that since such public stomping grounds are virtually the only avenues where people get to meet other people, I have been forced into choosing a claustral life. The ablative of accompaniment is well-nigh absent from my life as it is today. I don't regret it... no. Au contraire, I revel in it. I am amused... and I quote bits of one of my favorite poems by Dyer, which I should probably adopt as an anthem…

“My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such present joys therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss
That earth affords or grows by kind:
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave…

Content I live, this is my stay;
I seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
Lo, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring…” ~Sir Edward Dyer.

Ledges

2007-11-06T10:51:00.001-06:00

On Friday, which is technically the day that I put aside for research, but which often ends up being my “off-day”, I woke up earlier than usual, and by 10 o’clock I was done with all the chores I had to do and was faced with the prospect – research or something more pleasurable? I opted for more pleasurable. I haven’t been out in nature much over the past month; mostly because it has been too cold. So, I decided to drive to Ledges State Park – in another month, the roads and trails at the park will be closed. There is a one-minute drive through the park where the ledges rise almost vertically off the ground from the road that is absolutely breathtaking! It makes the 20 minute drive there worth it! So off I went, taking Lord Emsworth with me. The park seemed practically deserted. A pity - because it was such a lovely, mild day. As I reached the last half-mile of the drive, I looked up to admire the rise of the bluffs, and the beautiful trees, yellowing, reddening and starting to grow bare rising vertically with the cliffs. I also noticed the railings on the upper sandstone ledges and was besieged by an urge, almost a yearning, to climb up to them. And I did… I climbed the steps leading to the upper ledges, and when I got there, I was out of breath and dizzy. I sat down for a bit to recover my breath, and then walked horizontally across the cliff. The valley looked beautiful, and I was glad I had gone. There is something very humbling about the fact that these were created by glacial meltwater tens of thousands of years ago. I like canyons, bluffs, cliffs, valleys, gorges – anything that has to do with heights and water. I want one day to walk on the Scandinavian and New Zealand fjords – pure delight! I took pictures on my cell phone… will probably post them someday. I also settled on a bench up there and read some Wodehouse. Now isn’t that the perfect Friday afternoon? Beats research any day!

The Beginning

2007-10-31T13:15:00.000-06:00

"Some day I shall rise and leave my friends
And seek you again through the world's far ends,
You whom I found so fair
(Touch of your hands and smell of your hair!),
My only god in the days that were.
My eager feet shall find you again,
Though the sullen years and the mark of pain
Have changed you wholly; for I shall know
(How could I forget having loved you so?),
In the sad half-light of evening,
The face that was all my sunrising.
So then at the ends of the earth I'll stand
And hold you fiercely by either hand,
And seeing your age and ashen hair
I'll curse the thing that once you were,
Because it is changed and pale and old
(Lips that were scarlet, hair that was gold!),
And I loved you before you were old and wise,
When the flame of youth was strong in your eyes,
-- And my heart is sick with memories." ~ Rupert Brooke.

This is quite the most beautiful poem I have read all of the last month. I read it last night in the ancient book of poems I bought from The Dusty Bookshelf. Do people write like this anymore? Forget writing... do people even think like this anymore? What I consider to be true romance seems to be an anachronism today. Even romantic movies are intolerably melodramatic and embrace a vulgar sort of humor. Self-expression and art is angry and violent... self-obsessed. It is stark, not mellow. The crystal spring is forgotten. The nightingales never sing anymore in any poetry. I am an anachronism too. "-- And my heart is sick with memories."

Recounting

2007-10-30T11:34:00.001-06:00

I have started to keep a diary again. When I was much younger, I kept a diary very religiously. I must have begun when I was in the 6th or 7th class when I read Anne Frank’s “The Diary of a Young Girl”. Influenced by Frank, I was terribly eager to begin chronicling the events of my own life and Mummy gave me a resin-bound LIC diary so I could start writing. And though my very first diary was wrought with printed quotations from famous freedom fighters, and sepia LIC adverts were manifold in its pages, I thought it was the most beautiful and precious book in the world. It held a record of my thoughts and the manifestoes of my plans for my life when I grew up. An adolescent diary is something sacred. It holds secrets that adults might scoff at or dismiss as childishness, but to the adolescent writer, those very secrets are the planks with which is built the drawbridge that helps her cross the moat of teenage into the seemingly perfect lands and castles of an independent adulthood. Daddy still has my first few LIC diaries packed along with other relics of the same early adolescence, in a cardboard box which lies gathering dust on one of the top shelves of the back bedroom in Hyderabad. I like to open the box when I visit home, and read my cherished diaries. The pathos of those simple chronicles is quite overwhelming and evokes memories and emotions so raw that it sometimes is difficult for me to believe that so many years have passed since I wrote them.

My diary-keeping after the first few years was very sporadic and underwent a great metamorphosis. By the time I went off to Kasaragod to college, I started writing only when I felt terribly sad, or terribly inspired and poetic. For the four years I spent in Kasaragod, I journalled only in one book. It is a very melodramatic volume. In it are the stories of homesickness, lovesickness, impassioned letters to imaginary lovers, desperate rantings against the futility of my life, confessions about crushes, poems I had written, scraps of poetry or prose that touched my heart, spiritual exploration, novenas, pictures of myself and other such things that seemed to arise from the union of a Gothic heroine and a tragic Shakespearian hero. This was also the time when I first began writing to Yvon, my phantasmal alter-ego. Everything I wrote was a confession to him. I still have that diary with me. I rarely ever reread it now, but it saddens me when I do.

After I came to the US, my diary writing grew more and more abstract and intellectual. It also grew increasingly sporadic. By the time I arrived in Ames, it was practically non-existent. This blog of mine is an extension of my diaries, but it isn’t quite the same thing. I began reading “The Kenneth Williams Diaries” a couple of weeks ago, and was struck by how open and honest his diaries were – just like my first childish ones were. He chronicles not thoughts, but events. And it is a refreshing change. Inspired once again, I started on Sunday to keep a new diary. It tells the tale of who I am and what I do. It is remarkably candid. When I read it ten years from now, I wonder what I shall feel…

Project Blueberry Scone

2007-10-22T12:11:00.000-06:00

Last night, I discovered a rather exiguous packet of blueberries languishing in my freezer. (I am not at all sure that frozen blueberries can languish. Still…). In the summer, my instinct would be to whip out a banana, some yogurt and ice, and frappe it all into a smoothie. But it was cold outside last night, and I did not want my insides to be cold as well. It took only a moment before I decided that I wanted to bake blueberry scones. Now, I am a famous baker. I like anything that is baked, or part-baked, so long as it is not too sugary – pies, pastry, vegetables, puffs, cakes, trifles, tarts, cookies, pizza, casseroles, pasticcio… If it can be popped into the oven, I will do it! But I have never experimented with scones before. I think the fact that my erstwhile scone consumption has been only at Starbucks and similarly overpriced coffee shops has prevented me from trying to bake them thus far. What hope had I of competing with Mr. Starbucks???

But in any case, I assured myself that I could do it, and out came the flour. I had no butter, so I used some light margarine trying desperately not to be deterred by the rather ominous label on the packet: “Not recommended for baking or frying”. I wasn’t sure if it was baking powder or baking soda that I needed to add, so I popped in a little of each. I added some sugar, though nearly not as much as I ought to have done. In went an egg, some milk and the blueberries. Now I am sensible enough to know that for making scones, the dough needs to be pliable, like it would be for making a chapatti. But unfortunately what I had was a large sticky mess! Also, the blueberries had insisted on lending their indomitable hue the gooey mixture. So, I ended up with large blue blobs on my baking sheet instead of beautiful triangular pieces of dough. I knew then that my scones would not be perfect.

After about fifteen minutes of baking, I discovered that my project had yielded eight wonderfully fluffy part-muffin, part-biscuit, part-bagel like objects. They also were enormous, so I cut each one in half. They weren’t the perfect scones at all! I have concluded that next time I need graham flour, fewer blueberries, more sugar, real butter and maybe a dash of nutmeg. Be that as it may, I now have a week’s worth of “blueberry breakfast things” in my fridge. I had the first installment this morning with tea. It was delicious. :)

Here are some pictures:

Drunk???

2007-10-16T01:35:00.000-06:00

A friend of mine sent me an offline message: “Why do you get drunk and announce it to the whole world?” I assume he is referring to my post, Nachtgold. Contrast this with another friend who consults me on what wine he ought to pair with what food, and tells me that he thinks it is brilliant that I am an authority on wine (FYI- I am not! He just thinks I am because I know a bit more about wine than he does). Another friend actually called me “a woman of culture”, not purely based on my knowledge of wines… other things as well, and I was most immensely flattered. What a world of conflicting messages we live in! But in any case, I was thinking as I wondered how to respond to this person: what do I say to someone who doesn't understand drinking which is not extreme? That drinking can be a means of exquisite pleasure and not merely a method of entering rather expediently into oblivion? That women might drink too and enjoy it, and that alcohol isn't an accessory that only helps enhance and display machismo? That temperance is possible when one raises a glass to one's mouth? In the end, I decided not to justify, since I had no need to. I merely told Jacob that I did not get "drunk", I enjoyed a glass of wine with dinner, that I wasn't apologetic or ashamed and that I had no need to be.

Anyone who knows me, knows fairly well enough that provoking me in any such way only leads to rebellion. Ergo, I have decided to start a new section on my blog called "Wine of the Week". I consume about a bottle of wine a week, about a glass of it every alternate day. My preference tends to be for full-bodied sweet wines, but I will take recommendations if anyone has any. I intend to describe the wine I am currently drinking and post my opinion of it. Please do not go by the comments I post - I don't know as much about wine and wine drinking as I would like to, and am hardly a wine connoisseur. Also, since I am only an impoverished grad student, the wines I showcase will tend to be representative of the "cheap" or "clearance" aisles. I might splurge once in a while and decide to treat myself, but that will probably be the exception and not the rule. So, enjoy vicariously through me!

A Boring Sunday Afternoon

2007-10-15T21:48:00.001-06:00

I wrote this Sunday afternoon, and thought I’d post it today:

It is raining. And cold. And very reminiscent of the fist lines of Jane Eyre, one of my favorite Victorian romances. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. …The cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question.” I long to be out of doors, but the rain prevents it. Much as I love the sensations of the rain: watching the glittering raindrops, listening to the pitter-patter sound, and smelling the newly wet earth, it does have the infernal disadvantage of preventing any outdoor activity. There isn’t much outdoor activity going on in Ames over the weekend, but I should have liked to take a walk or go for a drive and be able to look on nature’s beauties unhindered by the grey shroud of rain and mist.

I have nothing very special going on this weekend. I usually have something going on… but all my friends seem to be very preoccupied this weekend. I went to a talk and book reading by an Indian author, Kaveri Nambisan. The lady is terribly multi-talented and is a rural surgeon as well as being an author. Truth be told, I was dreading the affair and wished most sincerely that I could get out of it. But she happens to be a relative of a friend, and Jose uncle, who has read some of her books, was most enthusiastic in campaigning for her. So out of loyalty to these dear friends I agreed to go. I was fully prepared for a boring afternoon listening to an author I had never read and never intended to. But I was very pleasantly surprised at the simplicity of the lady, and her completely unassuming presentation. I actually enjoyed myself immensely, and was glad that I had decided to go. So much for the silly assumptions I make!

But once I came back home wet and cold, there wasn’t much else to do other than read and watch telly. I don’t venture out half as often as I would like to, but I simply cannot understand why I feel the compelling urge to burst out onto nature’s glories when doing so simply isn’t a very feasible option. I am bored out of my wits. I wonder if things might have been different had I lived in a larger city. I expect the rain would have made things most awfully dirty, rather than pretty as it does Ames; but there might have been the advantage of having more things to do, and more people to do it with. But I shall strive and be the optimist. And watch some more telly…

Open Wednesdays

2007-10-11T14:28:00.000-06:00

I have been neglecting my darling blog, and myself too, these past few weeks. Once mid-semester rolls around, things tend to get hectic. I was grading... and finishing up research. Things to do... things to do...

In any case, I have two interesting updates re: me to report. Firstly, I have FINALLY finished every last scrap of statistical analysis that I need to do for my thesis. I am resolved never again to do any Structural Equation Modeling, which is a relief in a way, but also a terrible pity because I think I have become fairly proficient with it now. In any case, it is a very bothersome statistical procedure and I am glad to be rid of it. Now I will write my paper, make my tables and defend it in November. On less thing to worry about on Wednesday mornings. YAHOOO!!!! The second update is that last night I finally finished co-facilitating my first ever group of individuals with Borderline Personality Disorder. I will continue to do my two Thursday BPD groups, but the end of the STEPPS group means that my Wednesday evenings will be free too. Twenty weeks of harrowingly long Wednesdays are ended in the same week! It is absolute bliss. :-)

My sister sent me a link to this rather cute website.
Check it out. My song is Anita Ward's "Ring My Bell". I had never heard of it before. Personally, I think it is a rather silly song. But I shall never forget it now.

The Resolution

2007-10-02T09:48:00.000-06:00

For the first time in several years, I have held on to and achieved a New Year's resolution. Though I know very well that I am lazy and not disposed at all to adhere to any resolutions I have ever made (shape up, act more lady-like, keep in touch with friends, make new friends, learn a new language, learn to play an instrument... the list is endless), I persist every New Year's Eve in creating a long list of virtues I must adopt, talents I must polish, tasks I must accomplish and so on. Year after year I have tried in earnest to stick to these resolutions, and year after year I have found myself wanting in the will-power and drive it takes to take any of these resolutions to fruition.

True to form, this New Year's Eve I sat down and resolved to be the epitome of perfection. The subtle and charming woman I have always wanted to be. The woman whose intelligence shines forth with such brilliance that the rest of the world looks incredibly like a confrerie of idiots. The supermodel. The kind, giving, unassuming Madonna. The woman of infinite variety. Charming plans all, but ones that I had no hope of ever living to see come true. One resolution that I made, that I have been making for the last ten years without fail, and without doubt of absolute failure was that I would read at least one book a month... twelve books in the whole year. This was one resolution that I always bitterly regretted having to give up because reading is one of the greatest pleasures of my life. I just had not gotten around to reading as much either because I was too busy or because I was too lazy, and very probably both.

I set out this year, like the rest of the decade resolving to read, and not doubting that I would not. On New Year's Day, I began the year's reading with Kamala Das' My Story. And I haven't stopped. I haven't read nearly as much as I would have liked to, but I have crossed the target I set for myself. I've read thirteen books this year and am simultaneously reading two more. I hope to get at least seventeen done by New Year's Eve this year. It might not seem much to anyone else, but to me this is momentous. 'Tis the set of the soul, that determines the goal...

"One ship sails East,
And another West,
By the self-same winds that blow,
Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales,
That tells the way we go.

Like the winds of the sea
Are the waves of time,
As we journey along through life,
Tis the set of the soul,
That determines the goal,
And not the calm or the strife."

~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Back from Minneapolis

2007-09-24T17:12:00.000-06:00

Over the last weekend, I went to visit friends in Minneapolis. It was a full, fun weekend. Saturday was the most amazing day of all. We slept in late, and left the apartment only at 1:00pm, but between then and midnight, we managed to experience, and even indulge in as many fun activities as it is humanly possible. We even agreed that it seemed more like a weekday than the weekend. Aarti and Anand ought to be event-planners. They'd give anyone a bang for their buck and manage to pack in as much punch in a day of fun than most mortals experience in a week-long vacation.

We also watched two movies, quite diametrically the opposite of each other. Ratatouille was a delightful movie and I was enraptured by it. Add to that the fact that we watched it in a quaint little theater that was quite unique and done up in a very retro style. It was a scrumptious experience altogether. The other one was Ram Gopal Varma's Darling. I wasn't expecting anything even approaching cinéma vérité, but this movie managed to make me lower my standards of what I think a bad movie might be by at least about two score points. Consequently, we had to watch the movie in three installments. We simply hadn't the energy to take it all in in one sitting. The saving grace of the whole experience was the three of us being sarcastic and wry and witty about our criticisms of it.

All in all, I had great fun. Aarti, I know you'll check in on my blog sometime. Thanks a bunch to both of you for helping me have so much fun!

Pavarotti

2007-09-18T23:03:00.000-06:00

Luciano Pavarotti is dead. He died twelve days ago on September the 6th. I love Pavarotti. However, you can tell how little I have been following news about him, or any news in general, by how many days after he died I came to know about it. I actually happened to read about it not even in a newspaper, but on someone else's blog (Thank you Mr. Skidmore). But in any case, I loved him and I am rather sorry that he is dead.

I love the opera, but being very ignorant about it, I immerse myself only in the auditory pleasure I feel while listening to it. I know nothing about the intricate technicalities that people who know more than I pay attention to. I have heard people expound on how Pavarotti, despite having a wonderful voice, is rubbish. It makes no sense to me. I enjoy listening to Pavarotti, and that is enough for me. His rendition of Schubert's "Ave Maria" made #1 on my "Top Ten Songs I Would Listen To While I Am Pregnant" list several posts ago. I post a video of it here in memory of this wonderfully gifted man.

Ninety-Two

2007-09-10T16:24:00.001-06:00

I have been cataloging the non-academic books I own. I have discovered that I have ninety-two novels and six books of verse. I actually possess more books than these, but am going to exchange them for store credit at the second hand store. Leaving the books of poetry aside, ninety-two books! I had no idea I owned so many! They don’t look nearly as numerous as they sit on my bookshelves. None of the books I own, excepting War and Peace, are abridged. And indeed, I don’t think I would ever be able to read an unabridged version of that tome. I have read nearly half the books I own in their unabridged entirety, thirty-four to be precise, and am in the process of reading a thirty-fifth - Silas Marner. I also have read several (thirteen) when I was younger in their abridged versions, buying the unabridged versions as an adult hoping to read them in all their glory. And I am yet to read about another half (forty-four) of the books I own.

The last category was the one that surprised me the most. When I was younger, I had a desire to own only those books that I had read and reveled in. Consequently, I never read the books I owned, I only kept them as mementoes of the parts of my identity that had been shaped by them. But now, I think I am insatiable in my conquest of editions of literary work, my purse permitting of course. In any case, eight more books to go before I score a century! My hundredth would have to be especially special.

P. S. Interesting bit of history: This day in the year 1875, the very first newspaper cartoon slip was published! My favorite bit of the newspaper really, following close at the heels of the crossword, jumble and the sudoku puzzles.

Nachtgold

2007-09-10T09:40:00.000-06:00

I spent most of the weekend in a semi-intoxicated state. I have discovered a delightful new wine: “Nachtgold”. It is the very first ice-wine that I have ever tasted. I bought it mainly because
the bottle looked pretty and because the description of it on the display case sounded exotic. I was with people when I bought it, and they all admired the prettiness of the bottle. I could barely wait for it to chill before I opened the bottle, and was all impatience until I finally did on Friday night. And as I sipped it, I realized it was the sweetest wine I have ever tasted. Reading the description at the store, I had expected a bouquet of orange blossom, but as I sipped it, it seemed more reminiscent of peaches or figs. Technically, once a bottle of wine is opened, it starts to sour. I could not afford to have such a delicious wine doomed to such a pitiable state. But neither could I drink the whole bottle at one sitting, or I might have passed out! So, spacing myself out, I drank the entire contents of the bottle over the whole weekend, hence my state of semi-intoxication for the last two days.

I think I might have developed an affinity for ice-wines now. I want to try as many of them that are out there. Here is a description of Nachtgold from the Eiswein website:

In the darkness of the early morning hours, when the night frost has taken the temperature in the vineyards down to below 19°F (hard freeze), work starts on picking and crushing the frozen grapes. The water inside the grape skins has been frozen to ice so that the grape juice is concentrated to a golden-colored liquid, often called "Nachtgold" or "gold of the night".

September Begins

2007-09-04T14:21:00.000-06:00

I am back from a long, beautiful weekend spent with my sister. Four days, and so much done. And indeed so much more to do. When, oh when will I have time enough to do everything that needs to get done?

I took my car on his (I have decided that my car is a boy) maiden voyage out of Iowa. He held up beautifully and we drove all the way to Kansas, where my sister and I decided to embark on an impromptu visit to Colorado, and then he carried us there and back, and then me back home. In any case, I am glad he isn't spitting and sputtering and running up huge mechanic's bills for me.

Nisha and I had a lovely time. We decided on the spur of the moment to go to Denver, and changed our minds halfway there and decided to go to Colorado Springs instead. We did a bunch of wonderful things that I would love to write about, but I haven't the time or energy to. We did visit the "Garden of the Gods", and the "Cave of the Winds", of which we took a lantern tour with no electricity and actual kerosene lanterns stuck in metal buckets, and our guide told us ghost stories, and so on. We wanted to also go to "Pike's Peak", but were late and the road up there had closed for the day. But, on the whole, it was a thrilling experience.

Once I get used to being around my sister, it always is rather difficult to get un-used to it. We fight sometimes (it's all her fault), but are best of friends too. And she hero-worships me, and that helps a great deal. Today she won an award for being a wonderful listener and an ideal employee. I'm posting her certificate here. :) CLICK

I have finally finished reading The Way of All Flesh. The book could quite easily pass for my biography and chronicle of thoughts. I am the Salieri to Butler's Mozart. Except not jealous at all... but rather admiring. So I think a better analogy would be that I am the Mike Jackson to Butler's Psmith. No, that isn't it either. In any case I am Ernest Pontifex! I thought that the end of the book was very rushed, but it managed to capture the essence of my belief. Nothing else seemed to matter.

While in Manhattan, I went again to The Dusty Bookshelf and this time discovered a beautiful leather bound edition of The Oxford Book of English Verse. It was quite a find, and I plunged right in. I even persuaded Nisha who hates reading poetry to read me some while I was driving. I discovered a new love poem in it. It was written by Thomas Moore who also wrote one of my other favorites: "Believe Me... " I think this poem is beautiful!!!

"Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart?
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'd be, 'mid the horrors of this,
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, - or perish there too!"

~ Thomas Moore

I Am Nobody

2007-08-29T20:41:00.000-06:00

A friend of mine who seems to be rather amused at how private a person I am, sent me one of Emily Dickinson's poems that he thought fits me. I was amused at first that he would think me as reclusive as the narrator of the poem appears to be. But on reflection, I think my friend was right. I am nobody. Who are you?

"I am nobody. Who are you?
Are you nobody too?
Then there's a pair of us.
Don't tell - they'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody,
How public - like a frog -
To tell your name the livelong June
To an admiring bog." ~Emily Dickinson

P.S. Am off to Kansas for the long weekend. :-)

New Car - Finally!

2007-08-26T02:18:00.000-06:00

I have at long last purchased a new car. In fact, the purchase was made some days ago, but I am only just posting it because I have only just finished all the required paperwork and documentation, got my registration plates, and the rest of the whole rigmarole.

After spending three tedious months of a car-free life, which was often very inconvenient, I have finally become the proud owner of a rather hardy, beautiful red 2002 Nissan Altima. I regret to say that it wasn't really love at first sight for me. The car is neither flashy nor handsome, and does not scream "sexy stallion". It looks and behaves very much like a faithful, dependable, strong, "sturdy steed". But the more I ride it, the more my love for it grows. And, I am finally mobile again. :-)

It Rains...

2007-08-23T11:47:00.000-06:00

At 8:50 this morning, I left home to walk to the bus stop, where I would board a bus which would take me to campus to do my work for the day. It had rained a lot last night, and I expected the sky to be clear of clouds, the sun to be shining and the humidity to rise. But I was very pleasantly surprised to see that the weather was actually far more clement than I had expected it to be. It was what most people call a "dreary, gloomy day". But those are the days I love the most. My idea of fabulous weather is a cloudy, cold-ish, wet and windy day. Iowa does not very often have such beautiful weather. And when it does happen, it does not last long. It didn't today, and the sun is shining bright now, but this morning was glorious. I seriously considered calling in sick and taking the morning off to walk through the wet grass and feel the wind on my face.

Years ago, when I still lived at home in Hyderabad, if you got up really really early in the morning during the Monsoon, you could experience weather very similar to the weather this morning in Ames. It would have to be before six o'clock in the morning, before the sunlight has started to directly fall on the earth. I rarely got up that early, but when I did, I would sneak off to the terrace, which for some reason, my mother did not encourage. I think she might have been afraid that I would catch a chill, and she preferred me to drink my hot cup of Horlicks and get down to the business of ploughing through my books, for she is a great believer in the power of early morning study. But as often as I could in the months of July and early August, I would sneak off to the terrace. I would walk barefoot on the damp concrete, and imagine I was treading on damp sand on some faraway seashore. Here and there on the terrace where there were tiny depressions, water from the night's rain would collect, and I would splash my feet in this water, feeling how cold it was. Since our terrace was much more open then, and not surrounded by larger buildings, the wind used to move freely, and I used to close my eyes and walk around the terrace relishing the blowing of the gentle breeze on my damp feet. I would let my hair out and let the wind blow in it and feel it also on my arms and my cheeks.

And I always stopped to look at the four tall Ashoka trees that the people who lived across the street from us had growing in their front yard. I love Ashoka trees... there is something romantic about them. I think it might be the memory of my childhood... there were so many of them growing on my school premises, alongside the silvery-green Eucalyptus, the enormous, rooty Banyans, the completely foul prickly Ber shrubs and a lone giant of a Mango tree that never ever in my memory yielded any mangoes. I felt bonded to my neighbors' Ashoka trees. I would also circle the terrace stopping religiously every time to smell the curry-leaf tree that daddy had tended since its infancy, to look at the Tulsi growing in Raju uncle's backyard, see if the roses had bloomed in the backyard of the mean-spirited lady who lived behind our house, and to survey the asbestos that roofed the little preschool that stood behind our house, because some little scamps always managed to throw things high enough to land on the roof... it was a water-bottle sometimes, or a damp origami airplane, or a flower, some half-eaten fruit, or a handkerchief... it was different each time, and grippingly interesting to me. I would stay then for another twenty minutes or so before the sun really rose and the day showed all indications of bending to his will and growing hot. Then I would return reluctantly to my cup of Horlicks and my books.

There is an age right at the onset of adolescence when every such tangible sensation seems hopelessly and completely absolute. When one is a child, one feels and learns so much, but it is done, I think, in the spirit of learning about the world. As a young adolescent, one experiences the same things, but feels anew because one does so in the spirit of rediscovering a new, budding, lovely person within oneself. It is during such a beautiful era in my life that I woke to the pleasures of wet, windy, cloudy mornings. And I believe that it is because I experienced such mornings in such tremendously absolute glory, that I still long and yearn for weather like that. I think I could be an old old woman, and I would still feel young, and fresh and joyful on mornings such as these. That is such a delicious thought!

I remember a poem by Longfellow that tells of rainy days, in quite a different context, but nevertheless calls them dreary.

"The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary."

But I think such a day is beautiful!

School Has Begun

2007-08-20T09:25:00.000-06:00

It is Monday morning, 10:26am. The Fall semester of 2007 has begin. I already am too exhausted and ticked off to even write about it. I look out of the window, and the campus seems to be overflowing with students, many of whom hold little maps in their hands and are busy trying to navigate their course through central campus. I envy them their enthusiasm and excitement, but am also irritated at them for the same reasons and my inability to understand how I don't seem to be experiencing any of that joy. I'm rather crabby this morning!

However, I had an extremely excellent weekend. The annual Iowa Malayalee Onam celebration was this Saturday. It was fun, and the dinner afterward is always smashing. But all that aside, I feel like I am growing stagnant. I don't mean to, it is just happening. I sound so cynical... I blame it on the starting of the semester. But all life death does end and each day dies with sleep. So maybe I'll wake up tomorrow, and be grinning like the Cheshire cat. We'll just have to wait and see.

A Half-Year Ago...

2007-08-16T16:16:00.000-06:00

My baby is six months old!!!! I began this blog on Valentines' Day this year. I meant to have posted a congratulatory message to myself on its half-year anniversary, but have been too caught up with other things to do so. Since it is only a message to myself, I can forgive myself for the belatedness of it, and all is well. I have two other blogs, which did not make it past their infancy. One of them have two posts, which I still believe are my most beautiful. The other has about five. But my baby blog has 48 posts, and I intend to keep writing. It has a happy name, and a doting creator. It shall survive, and indeed thrive!!!

Another gruesome semester has begun. It doesn't start until Monday really, but I have either been getting trained or training others 8-4 every day since last Thursday, and have a pretty good feel of what the semester is going to be like. I can't decide if I am happy or sad, but thankfully those are not the only two emotions that I am able to experience. I am sure that what I feel is going to hover between those two extremes. But I am very very optimistic, and I am sure that it will be a wonderfully enjoyable semester.

This past week I attended two training workshops. One on seeing clients with substance abuse issues, and the other one on clients struggling with eating disorders. I must say that though I had anticipated these to be intense, deep issues, I was not prepared for how intense and sad they would be. One activity especially cut right through me and I couldn't stop sobbing (yes... sobbing, not just crying tears). Those of you who know me know that I rarely weep. It was so very powerful an activity that I amazed myself by being almost unable to participate in the discussion afterwards. I learnt a lot about myself even though I don't think I have either substance abuse or eating disorder issues. That is what I love about this profession... I get paid to understand and learn about myself. What other job will give you that? I must remember this when I am angry about how long my thesis is taking to get completed.

I haven't been reading much because I am too busy to do so. But I have been making a little time to read a few poems when I can. I bought a book of Yeats' poetry at a garage sale, and am working my way through it now. I read a sweet little poem in it the other day. It's called To a Child Dancing in the Wind.

"Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water’s roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool’s triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?" ~ Yeats

The poem is reminiscent of my sweet, carefree childhood, and indeed of all the monstrous horrors of the onset of adulthood. I feel like that now, you know. Not entirely carefree... I think by the time you enter teenage, that blind faith in life is lost. But there are flashes in time when everyone returns to a more innocent place. I return there sometimes... it cannot be controlled; and you cannot will yourself to return. It happens suddenly, and just as soon is past. But when it does, I want to dance in the wind too!

Mandana Jones

2007-08-12T21:46:00.000-06:00

I have started to watch a new series: Bad Girls. It is exactly like watching Oz: except the prison is located in the UK, the characters have British accents, it is a women’s prison, and everyone is catty, not violent. Oz, was of course a much better produced show, most characters were better developed and the whole thing had a much more finished feel. But just like there was incredible chemistry on Oz between Toby and my Chrissy, this show has a sideline love story between one of the prisoners Nikki, and the wing governor Helen, played brilliantly by Mandana Jones and Simone Lahbib. A beautiful, sweet, terribly heart wrenching love story. Unfortunately, only the first series of this show is available in the US. It’s a terrible pity because there are six more seasons which I have no idea when I will get to watch.

But today’s post is about Mandana Jones who plays Nikki - the beautiful, strong prisoner with a heart of gold, and unshakable loyalty to those she loves. Mandana Jones’ character Nikki is possibly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen on the screen. While my Chrissy’s love on Oz was laced with cruelty, hers is love that is nothing but beautiful. Here’s a picture of Nikki looking at Helen lovingly.

I’ve joined her fan following. She’s also going to be my first female blog sweetheart. :-) She is beautiful!! See her here in a video from YouTube.

Flattered and Outraged

2007-08-07T12:57:00.000-06:00

I don't know whether to be flattered or enraged. Somebody has claimed my blog as their homepage on their profile. Click here to view the profile.

He or she has not directly claimed that the blog is his or hers though it seems like the obvious implication. Neither has he or she asked me for my permission, which is what my first instinct would be to do. I don't even know if this infringes any copyright laws. It most probably doesn't. My first reaction was shock and disbelief laced with anger. On second thoughts, I was quite flattered. If someone wants to claim my blog as their homepage, they must think it rather good. I am still swinging back and forth between these two extremes. So if you are this person, "How dare you??? And thank you very much!"

Two Weeks

2007-08-04T18:18:00.000-06:00

I can tell that this is going to be a painfully long post. I have to catch up for the past few weeks when I have been either busy or away. I went to help Nisha move apartments and settle in. School starts in two weeks’ time, and starting next week, I have a million demands on my time. I have decided not to see individual clients next semester, and will probably know two weeks into the semester that this was a miserably stupid decision, but it will be too late by then. It breaks my heart to think that I have actually decided this. My clients are a huge chunk of the reason why I am happy. But my mind is made up. This will give me more time to work on my infernal thesis. In a week’s time, Ames will be filled to the brim with new blood. All the young collegiates will start filing in. When my friends Anand and Aarti visited me last year the weekend before classes started, we happened to drive through Welch Avenue at 2:00am. They were still reeling from the shock of seeing the sheer number of people out on the street days later (or so they told me). In any case, there will be tens of thousands of people returning to town in a week’s time. That should be fun. Ames looks miserably deserted at the moment.

And sad news: I am completely and utterly broke!!!! A whole summer of no pay, compounded by moving and traveling costs, has left me on the verge of bankruptcy. But nil desperandum!!! I am learning to husband my resources very very carefully. I was amazed at the amount of supplies I had in my pantry. I have resolved to eat at home for a whole month. And since my wholehearted horror for engaging in anything culinary probably lays the biggest claim on my purse, this should see me through to the end of September. I actually am a very good cook (modestly blush), I just am lazy. Also, no more travel for the next month. Come October, I hope my coffers will start filling again.

While I was in Manhattan, Nisha who knows how much I love books, took me to a second-hand bookstore rather endearingly christened “The Dusty Bookshelf”. I, cannot begin to describe what an absolutely amazing experience the place was. I of course was charmed, and confined myself to the classic literature and poetry sections which spanned all of four shelves in an aisle and a half, but which nevertheless afforded me about five or six hours of absolute delight. I was particularly fascinated by the really old books, some of which were printed in the early 1900’s. Nisha, who would much rather have spent the time shopping at the mall, in her usual selfless way resigned herself to being satisfied in my happiness and resolved to help me choose my books. In a few minutes time, she had deciphered that my preference seemed to be for the older books, and she proceeded to interrupt my blissful browsing with recommendations of tattered hardcovers that she called “pre-historic books”. She kept this up for over an hour, because it clearly amused her to see me try to stifle my impatience, when I finally lost my composure, and calling her a complete and utter nuisance packed her off to her beloved crime and fantasy section with a strict decree that she not return to disturb me unless she wished to be lynched.

In any case, I ended up buying five beautiful pre-owned books, two of which are of particular note. One was a beautiful copy of FitzGerald’s “Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam”, which was put out circa 1920 (the internet gave varying dates: 1910 – 1934, the book gives no date). It is a very ornate book, with mounted pictures and gilt designs all over, in salmon and gold hardcover with a gold and black dust jacket. The book looks valuable. I checked up on it, and different sources on the internet price it varying between $22 and $650, both of which are more than I paid for it, so I am happy. But I plan on keeping, and not selling it. I’ll take pictures of it and upload them when I get the chance. The second book is a collection of the works of Rupert Brooke. The book was published in 1915, the year Brooke died in the Aegean on his way to Gallipoli. There was a small note-card, yellowed with age, placed in the book written beautifully in black ink. It read, “Hope Brooke is still your favorite. ~ John.” I have built beautiful fantasies surrounding the note, none of which are probably even remotely true. But it adds to the romance of the whole thing. Reading poetry from a book that is almost a hundred years old is more touching and beautiful than reading the same verses from a mass market paperback. The books also smell divine – old and musty. I told Nisha that the books smelt like our old library at school. She smelt them and agreed. The old library will have to be a topic for another day, save to say that there were two aisles at the very back of the library which were my own personal domain, and indeed I never saw anyone else other than the librarian even venture in that direction. These two aisles held books that I loved to read. And they were very ancient, and smelt and felt exactly like all old books do, like my copy of Brooke does.

Now to a more philosophical line of thought: I strongly believe that when one reads a book, one projects oneself onto the book. One lives through the hero or heroine, mentally speaks the dialogues, imagines the ambience of the scenes, feels everything that the characters feel. One turns the book into a very vivid and personal experience. This, in my opinion, is why people who read a book and then watch a film adaptation of the book, often find the visual lacking – because it is someone’s else’s imagination, someone else’s experience. But I digress – people project themselves onto the book. And every person has one or a few books which define his own being – authors who think, feel and believe what the person himself does. For me until now, these books have been the Katy trilogy (the boon of my childhood), and Rebecca (my adolescent fantasy). And now, I can say with absolute certainty and without a shadow of doubt, that even more than these dear books, the book that defines my adult thought and set of beliefs is Samuel Butler’s “The Way of All Flesh”. Mr. Butler is me! Me, a few centuries ago. I think everything he thinks. I believe everything he believes. If I were to write an epistle on what I think a life should and should not be, it would look like a rather shameless copy of his beautiful novel. He even jokes in the wry, sarcastic way that I think is hilarious. I haven’t finished reading the book yet, but I know that this is what I am. Even if this makes me sound like a rather soi-disant Mr. Butler, I still revel in the stinging insult. There is so much more I want to say, but this post is long enough, and I will do so later.

The Little Tippler

2007-07-26T10:55:00.000-06:00

Though I was very happy when I wrote my last blog post, I noticed that for the remainder of the day I remained restive and vaguely melancholy. At night, hoping to raise my spirits, I began reading some of Emily Dickinson's poetry again. I also read the book's foreword about the reclusive poet and her life. I learnt something I never knew. All of Dickinson's work, save seven anonymous verses, were published only posthumously. There is indication in some of her later poems of the recognition of this as a fact, and indeed resignation to it. I cannot begin to imagine how she must have felt. So much for my restlessness!!!

But I continue in the vein of sanguinity...

"I taste a liquor never brewed
From tankards scooped in Pearl
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air-am I
And Debauchee of Dew
Reeling-thro endless summer days
From inns of Molten Blue.

When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door
When butterflies-renounce their "drams"
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats
And saints-to windows run
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the Sun." ~ Emily Dickinson.

Oh Frabjous Day!

2007-07-25T09:25:00.000-06:00

I find more and more, as I write these blog posts of mine, that they stray from what should be their sole purpose, namely to chronicle the incidents that I am fated to experience and enunciate the thoughts that chance upon my mind, almost exclusively into the realm of limning my literary absorptions, and my experience of them. Every time I sit down to type one of these blog updates, I find myself trying to imagine how I could concisely convey what I feel, and the manner in which I feel it. I have tried at times to describe in detail such feelings, and failing miserably at doing so, comforted myself in the thought that my blog is after all an account that I keep for my sake alone, and while it is gratifying to know that people read it, however strong the desire to describe to my reader the precise emotion I feel when I write, what remains paramount is that I am able to say exactly what I want to say regardless of whether it makes any sense to anyone else or not. When I read today the posts I wrote a few months ago, I am struck by how many tiny, but moving sensations are awoken in me at the remembrance of an incident I described which might seem commonplace to a chance reader, but which are not without a multitude of arcane memories for me. And when I do so, I am overcome by a very confounding, and almost paralyzing sense of wanting to grab hold of the first passer-by I come across, sit him down and not caring how many months or years of torment it takes, to make him understand exactly how I felt, and how I continue to feel every second of every day. I feel so agonizingly alive and animated, that I cannot bear the notion that I will live my life out, and not be able to profess in any way remotely capable of making anyone ever understand how much I feel, and how acutely I feel it.

This, as you might have guessed is one such attempt. And reading what I have just typed, I realize the unqualified and absolute futility of it. Which brings me back to the matter of writing about what I read: upon further deliberation, it seems to me that the reason I enjoy works of literature so much is that I feel, to however limited an extent, what the writer felt as he wrote. And the reason I write about them so often in my blog is because I want to experience the delight of saying: "I know how you felt!", even if I never experience recompense. I perceive in the books I read fragments of the very same animation that I feel, but am not able to express. I read, and walk with the writer. I read, and sense with my mind, what the writer sensed with his faculties. I do not flatter myself that I do so in any way that is more or less different from that which others do. Mr. Butler, through his wonderfully satirical alter ego, Edward Overton, describes the foolish and pompous presumption of Mr. George Pontifex that he, when in the presence of works of artistic genius, was clever enough to realize his limited capabilities, and feel in its entirety the humility which seemed properly due the masters. Perhaps, for all my scoffing at the absurdity and snobbish ostentatiousness of Mr. Pontifex, I am no different, no better than him. I do feel humbled when I read the books I read. Every time I read a book, I am exhilarated, but the sense of inadequacy grows. I am never resentful, but rather like the starry-eyed schoolboy du Maurier described who regards his prefect with a fawning admiration, I too admire, and realize that I am incapable of something of such sheer magnitude. No one a few centuries later will read me, and feel what I feel. No one even today will feel what I feel unless I fuse our two selves in one. Those are perhaps lofty goals. But failing those possibly unattainable goals, no one will even know how much I feel what I feel every single day. I feel happy. And I quote Lewis Carroll, who so much more than me, and without having to write as much as I just did, was able to just say: “Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

Quick Updates

2007-07-20T17:20:00.000-06:00

I was as good as my word... I got a very very comfy lawn chair that's cushioned and spreads back, almost like a pool chair. I'm done reading "Bachelors Anonymous". Instead of reading "Under the Greenwood Tree", I watched a TV version, which was probably not quite as good. I think I'll replace that on my list with "Captains Courageous". Nisha is here to stay for a week before we both go back to Manhattan to move her into her new apartment. OA, Nisha and I went garage sale shopping this morning, and Nisha went overboard and bought a lot of stuff. I bought another book, and the lawn chair, of course! Still no sign of any good car anywhere on the horizon. Life will be easier with N here... she's so terribly maternal that I can forget about any household chores that I need to do for the next couple of weeks while I am with her.

Adrenaline

2007-07-19T13:50:00.000-06:00

I had the opportunity yesterday to be like Uma Thurman on "Pulp Fiction". I had a shot of adrenaline. It wasn't as glamorous as in the movie, and I didn't get shot in my heart, but rather unglamorously on my left arm. I have suddenly and very inexplicably developed an allergy to something. I broke out in hives all over and have for the past two days been in a state of extreme discomfiture. I finally decided to go to the doctor. She decided to give me a shot of adrenaline, and follow up later with a shot of Benadryl. I knew already that adrenaline would make me jittery and nervous, but I think I underestimated how much. My knees went shaky. So did my hands, legs and even my voice. I tried to tell myself that this was very psychosomatic, and that I was feeling the jitters only because I knew that is what it was supposed to make me do. But even trying as hard as I could, I couldn't stop being nervous. I felt very very silly, but remembering "Pulp Fiction", also felt very very glamorous.

I read some poetry last night. I was in the mood for nature poetry, so I read Emily Dickinson who writes a lot of it. One poem struck me as being very beautiful. This is summer, and the poem was about autumn, but I thought I'd post it here anyway:

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.

So I wore a trinket to bed last night - a brown bracelet. Felt very silly wearing a bracelet to bed, but it was beautiful, and in the moment.

P.S. Update about reading: I am halfway through "Bachelors Anonymous". It being one of Wodehouse's later books, was not as great as his earlier work, but very enjoyable all the same. Today I shopped for second hand books. Picked up four classic paperbacks for a dollar!! What a steal!

"Read" on McDuff

2007-07-17T13:43:00.000-06:00

I have made up my mind to read one book a week. Now how long I will be able to faithfully stick to my resolution remains to be seen, but for the past couple of days I have been blissfully happy lost in "The Mysterious Mr. Quin". I was at the Public Library today and walked past a shelf of books when I saw out of the corner of my eye, Ballantyne's "The Coral Island". I spent years of my childhood reading that book again and again and again, and being wonderfully happy. So I have decided to continue to be happy and read read read....

In order to keep things interesting, I have decided to create a multi-genre list, (which in my case ought to be called multi-author list because most of what I read really falls under only one of four different genres: Wodehouse, Bronte-esque, late 18th - early 20th century crime, and drama of the same era), and stick to it. Here is my July reading list:

* Bachelors Anonymous - Wodehouse
* The Tailor of Panama - le Carre
* Under the Greenwood Tree - Hardy

Wish me luck!

The Room

2007-07-16T23:02:00.000-06:00

This post has all the appearances of being influenced by my reading Christie yesterday. I don’t think it entirely is. But you, my dear readers, are of course entitled to draw any conclusions that you choose to.

I was feeling sick-ish last night, and went to bed early. And I had a singularly odd and terrifying dream. I woke from it with a start at exactly 11:19pm. The dream made no sense to me, and it remained unfinished. It had all the elements of a nightmare: a strange, dark room, a scary passageway, a mysterious man pursuing me, racing heartbeat etc., etc. But what was the strangest about the dream was the room that I finally ran into in order to hide from the man. Contrary to all expectations that one associates with a hiding place, this was a large, bright, cheerful room with a huge comfortable bed and giant glass windows. It had curtains not on the windows, but on one wall, covering it in its entirety. On the floor was a clump of elegant, paper shopping bags full of clothes. There also was a bunch of odd keys that seemed to fit nowhere. There was something very familiar about this room. I have a strong feeling that I have in my waking hours, been in that room before.

I awoke with a start, and the first thing that struck me was the wondering thought about when or where I had seen that room before. I propped myself up in the bed and sat in the darkness for a long time. I looked through to my living room and could see shadows of my bamboo plants magnified against the moonlight filtering in through the blinds. I sat and thought about it for a long time. The only way I could describe it was this – it was (or is) the most “comfortable” room I have ever experienced in a dream or in reality. It also had an extraordinarily calming effect on me; as though it were the only place I ever would be safe. But I was not satisfied. I got up, got myself out of bed, sat myself down at the kitchen table, and drew the layout of the mysterious room, the dark room, and the forbidding passageway through which the man followed me. I have looked at the figure long and hard, but I still cannot place where this singular room was.

The room was remarkable not just in its comfort, but also in several other ways which I could detail, but wouldn’t make any sense unless I explained my dream as well. I will not, here or now. But I will hold on to the map that I drew. I sometimes dream in pairs, and sometimes with several years between the halves. Maybe I will finish the dream someday. I hope so, because if I ever uncover where that room is, I will make my way to it and never leave.

He Reminds Me of Timmy

2007-07-15T14:36:00.000-06:00

I know who he reminds me of. He reminds me of Timmy. He looks nothing like him, but he has the same air of oppressed earnestness, the same restrained manner, and the same streak of misunderstood, suppressed idealism that shines forth from behind a wary, skeptical exterior. I am in love again - this time with William Hurt. I saw him last month in “Mr. Brooks”, and knew that there was something strange about him that appealed to me. I racked my brain trying to decipher what it was, but couldn’t. I knew it was love, but I couldn’t place at first what it is about him I was in love with. And then I went on a spree of watching his movies until I finally figured it out. He reminds me of Timmy.

I am sick. I have a terrible, terrible cold. I hate having to deal with the common cold. I am congested, have a hoarse voice, and know that the cold is only going to worsen before it gets any better. And that is not a prospect that I am thrilled about. This morning, I woke up early, took a shower and since my guest was not up yet, settled back in bed with a book: Agatha Christie’s “The Mysterious Mr. Quin”. It is a collection of twelve short stories of twelve inscrutable cases solved completely through conversations between the observant Mr. Satterthwaite and the mysterious Mr.Quin. No searching for clues, no questioning of suspects, not even venturing away from their comfortable armchairs. And yet, they solve what seem to be baffling cases in such a believable manner. If I could meet anyone from times past, the two people I should like to meet the most would be Christie and Doyle. I was exhausted after reading three short stories, and slept again for a few hours. I was so happy as I closed my eyes. When I know for a fact that I am happiest when I read, why in the world do I even attempt to do anything else with my spare time??? Tomorrow I shall buy a lawn chair and install myself in the backyard under the shade of the elm. Balmy summer evenings are after all meant to be spent drinking cold iced tea, and treating myself to a ride in the frugal chariot!