Two Years

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

Paulina

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

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...

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

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

“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?"

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?