Randomness

I haven't posted for the longest time, and I feel incomplete without giving a slight push to the amateur writer within me( I hope I'm not sounding pompous) . Anyway, so the reason is that I was on a holiday, a long overdue holiday and blogging wasn't a part of my vacation plan !

One thing I'm compelled to mention is, I had recently been to watch the much awaited Harry Potter flick, and was so surprised that most of the people in the theatre were adults ! I presume they must have been in my age group, who have followed the magical books through the ages, and for the simple sake of giving themselves a feeling of completeness, have to watch the movie. Nevertheless, I was still expecting lots of school children. *sigh* Sometimes I feel  books have lost their charm somewhere in the sands of time...

 This is a small poem I had penned down ages ago, when I was alone at home and the weather was at its best. Sipping a cuppa of ginger tea, the words had just flown, its nothing magnificent neither does it stick to the rhyme scheme, but its truly what I felt at that time...


 Life seems like  a painted picture,
 On a dusky evening in the slight drizzle,
 Bereft electricity, a dimly lit room,
 I can sense an autumn in full bloom(pun intended),

 Sitting at a perfect angle facing the dusty window sill,
 Greeting the cool breeze,
 Fresh ginger tea brewing inside a muddy pot,
 A new zest for the life, the windy ginger aroma has brought,

 On evenings such as these, although I'm alone,
 My world feels complete, not forlorn,
 Oh breeze, dear breeze, take me away with you,
 Spreading my canopy over the earth just as proudly as you do..

The poem underlines how nature sometimes takes away all the pain, frustration, anger in a person's heart, providing the perfect healing touch. It sometimes assures us that there are still some beautiful things in this world and you seek them from nature if you can't find it within...
The last two lines are metaphorical, its my take on how a person wishes to have an influence/impact on the whole world and make his presence felt just like the wind.

Quoting Looney Tunes....

 'That's all folks'

Book Review - The White Tiger by Arvind Adiga

  The White Tiger is a narration of the metamorphosis of a poor lad, raised in a society filled with vermin, corruption and every other social malaise into a successful entrepreneur. How this boy maneuvers his way out of the destiny that his clan is doomed to see, into one that they can only dream

of forms the crux of the tale.

  

  Balram Halwai is an adolescent high school drop out who works in a tea stall located in a small village in northern India. He is sent to the city to earn a decent salary for his greedy money squandering family where he lands himself a job as a driver. His master is an educated young man who hails from the same village as Balram. The story then, traces out his journey from being an oppressed menial to a shrewd and calculative businessman by resorting to underhand and often, gruesome means.

  

  What makes The White Tiger an interesting read is the colorful bunch of characters that one can easily relate to in urban India. Ashok, the employer, is the conventional foreign educated Indian. His father lives a life bereft of morals but wants an exemplary education for his son. Thus, on his return from the States, he falls prey to the corrupt working of the rest of his household owing to his naivety. Despite being perturbed initially, by the crooked dealings surrounding him, he ultimately gets sucked into the rut of bribery and rampant extortion. Pinky, the catholic wife is an archetypal lady who is forced into living in India, while craving for the luxurious life in America. This constant difference of opinion with her husband, who is sandwiched between being an ideal son and a henpecked husband, eventually results into their separation.

 Balram is intitially depicted as sobre boy, displaying common emotions of fear, lust, anger, ambition and remorse. He’s selfish in a way as he wants to rise beyond the barriers society has laid out for him, but doesn’t aspire the same for his older brother who has stuck with him through thick and thin, although, he feels a deep sense of pity for his fate.

 The manner in which the author conveys Balram’s mindset which is tuned to thinking that he is born to be a servant of the upper class for a lifetime and how desperation to break out of this mould forces him to take extreme measures is impressive. Arvind Adiga has depicted Balram's helplessness when falsely convicted of causing an accident as well as his innate greed for the red bag full of diamonds so effectively, that one can't help but sympathize with him regardless of his crude and unethical modus operandi.

  There are subtle references to how bribery has managed to seep into even the grass root level in India, although the intensity varies. One can easily strike a chord with the bureaucrats who won't pluck a feather without a fee as well as the smug policemen who have a mutual understanding with the rich and famous, summarizing that modern India is working on the 'you scratch my back, I scratch yours' protocol.

  The author implicitly cites how socialism or communist thinking is on the rise, wherein the proletariat is frustrated of trying to make ends meet generation after generation while the rich reap in profits. Balram's thinking is evident in his empathetic letter to the Chinese official, on how things work differently in the two contrasting economies. The White Tiger is a simple story at heart, brought to life by the myriad characters along with its sordid yet realistic narration and the dark humor accompanying life in contemporary Indian society. A fantastic read !

Building bridges with the reading habit

   Its the time of the year, when a lot of my budding engineer friends are preparing for their GRE, and

fussing over enormously long word lists, swearing sharply at its utter worthlessness. The task is herculean and the reward, well the American Dream. I frown in utter indignation when my friends

squabble and complain about what a pain it is to improve their language, for the simple reason that it

isn't.I longingly reminisce how I grew to love the English language.

  

    It was the summer of 1996, I was in standard two, whiling away another weekend in my customary

nonchalant manner. Being an inquisitive little imp, I opened my mother's cupboard when she wasn't at

home just to take a sneak peek and voila, tumbling down upon me, came out so many colorful looking

books. I hadn't been an avid reader till then and almost always scored a 2/10 in my spelling bee competitions. I don't recollect what it was that compelled me to prop open those little bundles of imagination, probably it was the joy of discovering secret gifts on a conventional dull weekend, or maybe the assorted pictures and colors that lured me into reading them, however, that was the day when my tryst with literature began.

  

    The journey started off with good ol' Enid Blyton tales like 'The Pig with Green Spots and other

stories'. I was catapulted into a world of elves, garden gnomes and a certain Miss Pickleweeble who added thrill to my mundane world. Famous Five was another experiment my mother made on me. I was so apprehensive of venturing into an unchartered territory of a book devoid of pictures, always trying to turn elusive at the prospect of reading it, until I finally rose to the challenge. Alas, I was a fan for a lifetime. I grew older and laid my hands on classics like Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, Rebecca, Great Expectations, and the like, the archaic love stories carried my dreamy mind into a different era, so different from the contemporary ones written now.

    

   All this topped with some absolutely inspiring English teachers in school only cemented my love

for the language. We had as a part of my english class a book reading session. My excursion into the

dense jungles of India with Mowgli and even my compassion for animals owing to James Herriot, all

stemmed from the storytelling lessons. I vividly recollect, the first romantic piece of fiction I wrote was in

grade six to the absolute distaste of my teacher who ridiculed me profusely. When I visited DehraDun

two years back, I felt I was reviving an old connection that began since I got affiliated to Ruskin Bond

and his novellas.My parents used to solve the daily crossword that came in the newspaper and made a tiny little diary with 'difficult words' that I revised at the end of each week. Being a teacher's pet I tried to incorporate them into my essays to make them sound a tad bit fancy and well, revel in the accolades.

   I don’t boast of being a master at the language, indeed I’m not, although I do believe in retrospect, that I learnt it the right way. I was taught to put my imagination into good use from the very beginning and explore the intricacies of different ages, stories and characters. In the rut of preparing for sundry exams, I implore to  my friends,  to not lose themselves in myriad words on the contrary, appreciate the beauty of expression and imbibe it into your existence.