Dear Life - Alice Munro

Alice Munro builds her stories the way Jackson in her story Train renovates the barn and the farmhouse. She finds a good foundation and then repairs and builds the walls and then works on a sound ceiling. You are willingly trapped in the story, and yet you are free to go. There are no doors. At times, there is no foundation, she just waves her hands and behold, there is a house!

I just finished reading Dear Life (Penguin 2012).

The stories are snippets from, before and soon after the Second World War, and of the mid twentieth century - my favourite era.

Her characters are real- from day to day life. At times, they look like me, like you and you wonder if you had ever met her, if she had seen you inside out – from up close, close enough to know you and to write about you. 

Some of the male characters you hate but you love. Harris is the poet Greta’s longing who surprises her by reaching Union Station. Howard is the crafty architect who eats his cake, has it, and stashes some for the future too.  Uncle Jasper is the expert doctor and the imposing husband. Another doctor decides to marry the young teacher, and chickens out at the last moment to abandon her, eventually bumping into her years later on a Toronto street.

“For me, it was the same as when I left Amundsen, the train dragging me still dazed and full of disbelief.

Nothing changes really about love.” (Amundsen)

Her women are marvelous. Lilian - the supposed blackmailer, Corrie - the blackmailed, Greta - the passionate poet married to an engineer, Aunt Dawn- the repressed housewife – I love the scope of Munro’s vision. Leah, the shy girl who somehow unexpectedly transforms as the scandal maker, a villain and the temptress; and ‘my mother’ who with her two children, leaves her loving but boring husband to go to live in a trailer for an exciting life with Neal, the theatre artist who eventually abandons her with a new born baby – both are unrepentant but lonely.  Belle, the lonely farm girl, amazes you when she reveals that she has been an alumnus of Bishop Strachan School, and her father had been a reporter for The Toronto Evening Telegram and an unpublished novelist.  

And I have not talked about many others. Somehow her women emerge stronger than her male characters. Is she biased?

For four days, my house did remain unkempt, food was hurriedly cooked, shower postponed with excuses of ‘just another story and then I am going,’ and kids not yelled at for watching endless episodes of Pokemon or staying on Facebook well past their curfew time – that is what your pen does in my life, Ms Munro.

Its all about -

“She was a certain kind of woman, he a certain kind of man”.

The English Patient

The novel had been on my reading wish list for a long long time. Finally finished reading it. And I loved it - in parts. The part on bombs, while very comprehensive, frankly did not interest me. I devoured the passages about human relationships and love. Loved Kip, got intrigued by Almasy and Caravaggio, adored Hana and admired Katherine. I wanted to post many many small bits from the novel. But somehow after some time, I forgot to put markings in the novel and lost the pages. Here are a few of the selections - in random order.

****

“She had always wanted words, she loved them, grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape. Whereas I thought words bent emotions like sticks in water.” (238)

“Women want everything of a lover. And too often I would sink below the surface.  So armies disappear under sand, and there was her fear of her husband, her belief in her honour, my old desire for self-sufficiency, my disappearances, her suspicions of men, by disbelief that she loved me. The paranoia and claustrophobia of hidden love. (238)

“Death means you are in the third person.” (247)

“If I gave you my life, you would drop it. Wouldn’t you?” (145)

“- the old guy upstairs is asleep. Hana’s obsessed with him. I am obsessed with the sanity of Hana, I’m obsessed with my ‘balance,’ and Kip will probably get blown up one of these days.” (121)

“I’ll rewire him in the morning.” He puts his left hand on her shoulder. (115)

“… Could you fall in love with her if she wasn’t smarter than you? I mean, she may not be smarter than you. But isn’t it important for you to think she is smarter than you in order to fall in love? Think now. She can be obsessed by the Englishman because he knows more. We’re in a huge field when we talk to that guy. We don’t even know if he’s English. He’s probably not. You see, I think it is easier to fall in love with him than with you. Why is that? Because we want to know things, how the pieces fit. Talkers seduce, words direct us into corners. We want more than anything to grow and change. Brave new world.” (120-21)

Words, Caravaggio. They have a power. (234)

“This alcohol will probably kill me.”

“Nothing will kill you, my friend. You are pure carbon.” (109)

“You have to protect yourself from sadness. Sadness is very close to hate… if you take in someone else’s poison -  thinking you can cure them by sharing it – you will instead store it within you.” (45)

How did you hate me? She whispered. You killed almost everything in me. (257)

*****

The English Patient - Michael Ondaatje

Vintage Books Canada Edition, 1993

PooranMashi (Full Moon Night)

Jaswant Singh Kanwal is a prominent Punjabi author. Standing literally and figuratively tall among all the Punjabi writers, he has his own niche in the minds of the readers of Punjabi literature. As a teenager, I was, like all Punjabi children my age, initiated into reading the works of Nanak Singh-the father of Punjabi novel. Like Prem Chand, he talked about poverty and idealism and appealed to an impressionable mind like mine. Kanwal, according to popular notions, was a leftist and in those days, I hated everything leftist. So, I didn’t really read him. Later, I landed upon his historical fiction Toshali di Hanso, and other novels like Civil Lines, Sacch Nu Faansi and now Pooranmashi. I admit I had been missing out on a lot of my own heritage by being prejudiced about him. I am going to make up for that and will soon be trying to find all his works and read them.

Pooranmashi (Aarsi Publishers, ND, Rs.125/-) has interesting details of Punjabi culture, rustic life, communication, lifestyle, farming habits and mental makeup of people in general. In a romantic plot, Kanwal picturises the day-to-day life of Roop(its protagonist) and Channo (his ladylove) who never get to marry due to a foolish misunderstanding. They meet a couple of times in the course of years even after their respective marriages. Later Channo is widowed. Roop’s wife is in the know of the things between Roop and Channo. The three of them arrange to marry Channo’s daughter to Roop’s son. The romance between Roop and Channo thus reaches its pinnacle. Shamo, another female character does not get married to her love Dyala who dies lonely and addicted to drugs. And then there is Bachno, a woman married to a much older man. She is constantly looking for pleasure outside marriage and as a result plays havoc with the romantic lead of the novel. Interspersed with observations from the novelist himself, the novel gives an empathetic picture of poverty, needs, and compulsions alongside the rich heritage that it reflects in descriptions of marriages and marriage parties travelling by horses and bullock carts to another village and staying overnight.

I loved the Punjabi folk couplets at the beginning and ending of almost each chapter of the novel. These songs, these bolies, these tappas, coming from the endless treasure house of Punjabi folk add a flavor to it. One thing that I felt in the reading of the novel was, the generation of today will probably not relate to the feelings and emotions of the characters. That first blush, that unwilling check on your own communication with your loved one, or the one you marry, the little chaa malhar, the little nok jhok of a rustic (pendu) life-all is missing from today’s life.

The characters Kanwal has created in this novel are highly idealistic. Roop tries to convince Channo to elope with him, she doesn’t agree. Instead chooses a life of torture for her own self. Like many Punjabi wives of her day, she falls in love with her man too late. He is an army man who dies on the front soon after his wife has accepted him mentally. Roop’s wife is totally cool about his past. At least that makes her own life easy. It was kind of totally undigestible to me. But then, a writer, like the Almighty, has the licence to play with his characters as he might please.

In all, it was a great read.

Saturday Tag

Once upon a time, I was tagged by Devaki. I was required to write about characters – real or imaginary - in literature that attract me enough that I can identify with them or remember them from past to share them with you. Yes, once upon a time because it was in June. The heat in the North overtook me so badly that I absolutely forgot about it and now when I was trying to finish my long pending tasks in short days of winter, it popped up as an admonishment. Not that the graceful Devaki ever reminded me. But Bandey ko khud bhi toh sharm aati hai na ji. So here I am.

I love Anne Frank as we know her from The Diary of a Young Girl for her guts and for the very fact that she was for real, that she had the courage to bring to us the horrors of war as she and the people around her lived it. I admire her because she was innocent enough to feel blessed even during the times of trial. Another character that I love for her innocence is Tess from Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. Joan of Arc in Bernard Shaw’s Saint Joan always leaves me speechless because of her sheer faith in what she believes in, in her courage in the face of opposition by the forces that were literally and figuratively a whole lot larger than her. Her innocence in her impatience to perform while the so-called wise ones preferred to wait for her to prove the existence of the “voices” that talked to her.

Two characters that I admire despite the lack of innocence are Lady MacBeth (Macbeth-William Shakespeare) and Scarlett O’Hara from Gone with the Wind (Margaret Mitchell). Lack of innocence, yes; but not lack of courage and grit. These two female characters tried to get everything by hook or by crook. The singleness in achieving their respective aims is what gets them my admiration. However it does not mean that I approve of Madame MacBeth’s bloody decisions. But yes, a Scarlett tearing the emerald green curtains off her windows to stitch a formal gown definitely has stayed on in my mind.

A naughty demon Mephostophilis from Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus is my darling especially for turning up in the costume of a Franciscan friar in all his naughtiness and evil. This reminds me of the cute little imp Tom Sawyer from the Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain too.

Ayn Rand never fails to fascinate me with her characters like John Galt and Howard Roark who are a symbol of human power over mediocrity and Gail Wynand for being as real as he could . I admire Dominique Francon too but somehow I feel she could have done without the destructive streak-but then like my torchlight, what would the story be without a twist. Kira from We, The Living has been a wow character in my memory.

A few more characters that come back to me again and again from the past readings are Thomas Shadwell (Cos he was the king of the dunces. And we adulate kings, don’t we?) from MacFlecknoe by John Dryden, and Shylock for the sheer evil that he represents. I have always imagined the latter with long protruding canines with inbuilt straws (Yaar, to facilitate drinking of blood). And how can I forget Lucky Santangelo? I like her because she is the ideal mixture of richness, smartness and looks-Thank you Jackie Collins.

Milkha Singh, after I read his autobiography Flying Sikh-Milkha Singh in class 8th, is the earliest hero that I remember in my life. This book is in Punjabi, it contains the memories from his earliest days to the struggle he had to do to make both ends meet while also trying to realize a dream to run in the Olympics. And run he did, barefoot. Though he has no Olympic medal to his credit, he is my hero. Hero-for having a supreme survival instinct, for having made the best of all the opportunities life offered him. The one paragraph I remember the best from his autobiography is his memory of defeating death by a hair’s breadth. During the Partition riots he, an orphaned child of merely 12-13, happened to board a train to get to India. Now this compartment had some Muslims in it. It so happened that Muslim rioters also came there in search of sundry prey. An old man in his compartment hid him under his seat and saved him. We are grateful to that old man for gifting us our Milkha (treasure).

I could add more, but I think five months is a long time to do a tag. I cannot give myself another five minutes now to think.

I do not dare tag anyone now. Kis muh se tag karoon??

Torched Tiger

The situation:

The White Tiger - Shamelessly Borrowed
Eveready Torch-Rupees 70 only
Experience-Out of the World

And now, The Story:

I was in New Delhi today. Pinku mentioned she had Arvind Adiga' s novel. I started to drool. Requested her to lend it to me. Very kindly she brought it to lend me the copy. It was still daylight when I left Delhi and I started to read it while enjoying the luxury of not driving and of sitting in the backseat of the car. Travelling alone, I was not obliged to talk. I knew it would soon be dark and was conspiring inside my mind and wishing for a pen-light. Stopped at Murthal for a tea-break. Had a sandwich, and a nice masala tea and asked the Panchranga Achar guy to find me a torch to buy, but not before I had spent 150 odd bucks on achar. You see, anything to read this book. He was such a sweet guy ( was he?), went three shops away and found me this nice red torch. My driver has been wondering about the health of my brain but has also been kind enough to ignore my quirks. Mahesh called up on the way to ask where I had reached. I said I have been reading. "Reading, how? In the dark?" It had totally slipped out of my mind that he didn't know I had been reading by the torchlight. I told him and giggled. "Now I know where Rasan has inherited such stuff from." "From which side, Mahesh?" "Of course from you."

Result-6 hours, two traffic jams, countless naps, two nippo batteries in the torch and 250 out of 321 pages finished. The torch still going strong for another novel !

And now I hit the bed. Been up since 3 a.m. Last night I had slept only for 2 hours.

Normal Life!

Samskara-A Rite for A Dead Man

I finished reading this novel (Oxford, Rs 195, 138 pages) a couple of days back and have been immensely impressed with the work. This book by U.R. Anantha Murathy is in Kannada and a gripping translation by A.K. Ramanujan has brought it to the non-Kannada readers.

Written in the 60’s, it is a short novel about a figuratively and literally decaying Brahmin system represented through a Brahmin colony. It gets abandoned after a bohemian Brahmin, Naranappa dies of plague and is refused a proper cremation because he had been living with a prostitute, and had been enjoying pleasures of life and eating meat etc. The ‘leaders’ of the traditional system of religion are unable to decide about what to do to the body which decays overnight. Their dilemma arises from the fact that Naranappa had not yet been excommunicated due to his misdeeds, so he was technically still a Brahmin. They are undecided if he should be or should not be accorded a Brahmin cremation. Naranappa’s woman Chandri, ironically seeks the help of a Muslim cartman and cremates Naranappa unceremoniously because of the rising stench.

The death and later the avarice of the community leaders (men all) exposes the real selves of the so-called twice born pure segment of the society.

Samskara literally means a rite for passage or life cycle ceremony. The other meanings of this word are ‘realizing of past perceptions, preparation, making ready’ etc. The main acharya, Pranesacharya who has tried his best to earlier redeem Naranappa’s life and soul by sermonizing, finds himself in the arms of Chandri and gives in to lust because he has never known this aspect of physical pleasure. He feels that he has lost the right to judge Naranappa and accepts that he had, on purpose and to attain salvation, married an invalid woman who in the entire novel sounded more on a vegetable existence to me. He bathes her; he feeds her-almost like a child. Though he tries to attain penance by serving her, he fails miserably. She falls prey to plague and he leaves home in search of his own self, his honesty, his salvation. On the way he meets a low caste happy go lucky youth Putta who shows him the real path of life.

In all, it was a gripping read. I admit that I had been avoiding reading it because of an unattractive title but an hour long discourse on the various aspects of this novel by my esteemed Supervisor resulted in me crazily looking for this novel.

I am glad I found it and read it.

My Life-My Addictions-Pinku's Tag

The dictionary meaning of Addiction is “condition of being dependent on some substance, interest or activity.”

Pinku tagged me on telling the whole world about 5 things to what I am addicted. Hai sharmaoo, aise kaise main bataoon… Ok, ok, I will cut it out... here I am. But only five? Hell, my life depends on addictions. I survive on addictions-addictions like coffee, all sweet things, chaat papdi, gol gappa-nothing healthy. I am a bad example, told ya.

1. Talking – I am a talker by profession, by addiction and by compulsion. Cannot help talking-in the class, in the gym, in the pool, in the car, in the day, at night, to the kids, to strangers. I can talk people down, I can talk people up. I can talk on the stage, I can talk on the radio, I can even talk on the TV. I don’t remember my mom telling me when I started talking but since I did, I didn’t stop. Sometimes, Mahesh has to tell me, “Oye Chotu bass kar” and I am forced to say, “kee karan, Petrol Khatam ee nahi hunda.”

2. Internet-“What would you have done without Google, Mama?” says my daughter whenever she asks me a question and I take Googlebaba’s sharan when I don’t know the answer or when I want to be more specific. Internet to me is now my lifeline. I can do without a cellphone (my internet doesn’t depend on cellphone yet) for a lifetime, but not without internet. What did I do before internet? I don’t remember. Much to Mahesh's chagrin, I am admittedly addicted to checking my emails at least twice a day, and now addicted to checking all your blogs for new (and old) posts.

3. Reading-My mom in law often wonders why I need so many books around me. She has very benignly (rather forcefully) suggested me to donate these books to some library. I, on my part, go on buying and borrowing newer books for me and my children. Because I have grown up among books, hundreds and hundreds of books-old and new, so I cannot help but stand and sit among them for hours altogether. Somehow, I cannot digest a life without reading. I am also addicted to reading all the Sunday features of prominent English and Punjabi dailies.

4. Checking out newest gizmos-I went to the iStore the day before, and had a long dekho at the Apple lappies. The dekho was long enough to prompt Mahesh to inspire me to check out only the top-of-the-line stuff if I wanted one. How I wish for one. Narcissist that I am, I went to their biggest desktop and opened this blog there. Boy, it looked huge, wonderful and very ego-satisfying to have seen this on the big 24 inch screen. I am also eyeing Nokia N96 but I wont, I wont, I wont buy it, not for another couple of years. For now my N95 is doing really well. I have practically forgotten to carry my camera due to its 5 MP camera always in my hand ready to click.

5. Self Clicking – Whenever I have time, and a true or false impression that I am looking good, I’m almost addicted to smiling into the phone-camera and clicking myself. You check my phone image gallery and about 40 percent photos belong to me-most are self clicked. Mahesh often asks after having a look at these pics, “Did you click them yourself?” “Did you smile for yourself?” Now what to tell him?

Before finally posting it, I asked my daughter what she thought I was addicted to. She said and in the same order I repeat, “Reading, internet, papa and sanu pyar, obsession about not wasting your time.”

As a second opinion, I asked Mahesh what he thought my addictions were. Now I wish I had not asked him. He said, “You are addicted to internet, downloading and listening to music, reading books, doing stuff for kids, enjoying junk food, eating chatpata, living in AC, talking, at times being silly, and at times talking like an intellectual, brushing your teeth at night and so on and so forth (okay I know they are more of quirks but he is allowed that).

Now I spread the malady. I invite Ramanujam, Mandira, ( I know, I know I am yet to do your time wala tag, but you will do it, won't you?), DeeplyDip, Balvinder, Nova, Manish, and Nidhi/Kiran to tell us their addictions in life.

And also all the visitors to my blog are welcome to do the tag. Let me know if you wanna, it will be a pleasure to link you from here.

Edited to add:

Gandhigiri never fails. Gazal and Vinay have volunteered to do the tag.

Tag-Monsoon Showers

IHM had tagged me to this fun tag. I love doing tags, as long as I can handle them. This one asks me to take up a book closest at hand, open page 123 and write the lines six, seven and eight. The one closest at hand is Dan Brown's "Deception Point." Yes, it is the writer who gave us "The Da Vinci Code." However, he wrote "Deception Point" two years earlier to that bestseller. Anyways that is not what the tag is about. Let me not digress. Here are the lines:

Sexton felt an anger simmering. Now Tench was putting words in his mouth. He tried to counter, but Tench was already talking.
'So you're saying, Senator, for the record, that you would do away with the agency that put men on the moon?'

(Sedgwick Sexton is running in US Presidential elections, Marjorie Tench is a Senior Advisor to the President. They are in the middle of an important debate on CNN.)

The story is about a face saving device adopted by NASA during a presidential election, and the subsequent ruckus created by the higher ups resulting in multiple life-loss. Senator Sexton's USP (as he thinks) is the criticism of the overtly fund-guzzling NASA. He tries to prove that all that NASA has done is to take tax-payer's money and give nothing in return in terms of research and results. NASA is forced to vindicate its side, and it majorly misleads the sitting President who is painted very honest and upright. Incidentally he is running for a second term. This reminds me that thankfully Bush Chachu cannot have a third term. It never fails to amaze me that America, with its super omni-wisdom about the rest of the world, could be fooled into having a person of his IQ as its own President; allowing him a second term was absolutely outrageous.
The main character is Rachel Sexton, White House Intelligence Analyst and estranged daughter of the senator Sexton. She is sent by the President on a fact-finding mission. Suitably, she meets a handsome scientist at the Arctic base where she has gone to verify the authenticity of NASA's supposed discovery of an out-of-space-rock with proof of Extra-Terrestrial life. As reality dawns on her that it is a case of extreme scientific forgery involving a greater stake, she tries to make the findings known to the President. Then starts a struggle against a master plotter.
It has, in the typical style of the author, a lot of information that does tend to hang heavy at times, but which is necessary for the reader. Dan Brown is excellent at designing the plots and creating consistent characters. The leading characters are not just good looking bimbos. They are highly intelligent individuals with that edge over lesser mortals like us. It surely makes an interesting read.
Thank you IHM for tagging me on this for it has given me a chance to share one of my summer readings. As becometh a tagged, I must not let this torture stop. Hence, I tag Maverick, Gazal, MIP, Oceanic Mirages, Thought Safari, and Ramanujam. And of course, I would expect you all to tag at least 5 more unsuspecting beings.

'Nimakh' Transliterated - I

This transliteration of the book Nimakh is an attempt to address the many requests of our non-Gurmukhi reading friends to help them enjoy the unique experience of experiments done in Punjabi Haiku by Amarjit 'Sathi' Tiwana. He gave his gracious permission when I spoke to him about this. I present the first installment of the haikus from the book. Though an effort to capture the phonetic sounds of Punjabi has been made, this transliteration may still be far from perfect. So, please feel free to ask questions about any typical Punjabi word. I have tried to give in italics a few words I thought might pose problems for persons not familiar with Gurmukhi and typical Punjabi.

1. Harmandar parikarma
Maapey teikan mattha
Bacchey wekhan machhiaa’n

2. Kirat kareinda
Mailey bastar
Nirmal hatth

3. Rahi guacha bhaal
Akhaa’n banh’ke maa’n
Kheidey bacheyaa’n naal

4. Bacchey paondei khilli
Ikko wehrey khedd’n
Kuttey kukkad billi

5. Tankaa’n tey aswaar
Jango’n mudian asthiaa’n
Dhakkia’n fulla’n naal

6. Hukam karey sarkaar
Laa’o pulaa’n tey naake
Lehar na langhey paar

7. Pattjharh dhal’di sham
Score board tey siffraa’n
Khaali kheid maidaan

8. Chutti wali talli
Bacchey ghar nu challey
Jhulley peengh ikkali

9. Uchhi sakht chattaan
Treirh che uggya ghaa
Patthar andar jaan

10. Ambar nitt udaar
Magghar maah musaafri
Karey koonjaan di daar

11. Raagi karey riyaaz
Taanpurey tha’an sangat
Pakkhey di aawaz

12. Dhaley dupehra suttey
Manji uttey baapu
Manji hethaa’n kuttey

13. Mudh mudh chakkar laawey
Hatth ghadi di sooyi
Veila hatth naa awey

14. Chaayee dhund chufeirey
Gurudwaarey jandi
Bebey ‘neyrey ‘neyrey

15. Vagh reiha daryaa
Jithey paani peitla (shallow)
Othey uggeya ghaa

16. Pind che goli challey
Guru nanak di foto
Kandh tey tangi hilley

17. Harhya janda ghar (harhya – flooded)
Wicchey jaan khadaoney
Battakh balley geind

18. Mehak vihooney
Diary de wich
Sukkey full

19. Laggi ann pakaa’n
Pehli roti maa’n ne
Chidiyaan de layee rakhi

20. Dhal’hdi sham
Safeideyan de saaye
Door… pind takk

21. Sarad sanghni dhund
Vekhdeyan ee ho geya
Udd’da panchhi gumm

22. Maa’n pakaavey roti
Bacheyan wali choti
Baapu wali moti

23. Taarey tim timaondey
Ikk ikk kar ke raat nu
Airport wall aondey

24. Mela bharya poora
Roye guachi baccchi
Kuchhad wich katoora (Kuchhad – in her arms)

25. Baddlaa’n wich jahaaz
Jheel dhundh ‘cho aondi
Koonjhaa’n di awaaz

26. Ho pattey tey aswaar
Nikki bhoori keedi
Kardi nadiya paar

27. Bhaado’n challi langh
Rukkhi’en patt haryawley
Badlan laggey rang

28. Pattjhad aye
Bebey di fulkari
Dhupey suknee payee

29. Sardi layee tyari
Nikk sukk rahi sambhaal
Furti naal galehri (squirrel)

30. Bebey chakki jhoyee
Daliye andar dana
Bacheya koi koi

31. Jhaadaan wich samaadh (jhaad-bushes)
Jaye wassey pardes
Chadd pittra’n di yaad

32. Ikk dooni dooni
Bachha padhey pahadey (learns tables)
Beebi kattey pooni

33. Nighi dhupp chadhi
Icicle di weil
Tupka tupka jhadi

34. Nighi dhupp siyaal
Kar manji da ohla
Maa’n sukaavey waal

35. Raat chan’ni langhi
Pattey pattey tey payee
Tupka tupka treil (dew)

36. Chulhey wicho’n dhoo’an
Guru gharo Rehraas
Sandhya hoye vidaa

37. Pattjhad aye lathe’y (fell)
Rahiyaan pairien khadkan
Rang birangey patte’y

38. Chaddar uttey bhoondi
Baapu sutta taan’h (stretched)
Rakh sirhaney khoondi

39. Sarghi booha kholey
Dhupp chall kea a rahi
Lakh croraa’n meel

40. Chaala’n maaran
Satth che bacchey
Chappad daddu (chappad – village pond)

More in another post...

The Goddess Abides

Before her widowhood she had been a daughter and sister, wife and mother, dividing herself perforce, though willingly, for she had enjoyed each relationship and treasured her memories. Now she was living with herself and by herself as though she were a stranger, discovering new likes and dislikes, new abilities. Books, for example – she had thought of books as diversion and amusement. Now she knew they were communication between minds, her own and others, living and dead. Such communication was the source of learning and she had a thirst for learning, reviving after the busy years of her married life. (29)

“The ability to love is the secret of life. So long as one can love, really love, another human being, death waits afar off. It is only when the capacity to love ceases to exist that death follows soon. I thank you, my darling, for letting me love you. It keeps death from my door.” (29)

“Do not limit happiness; one takes it where one finds it.”

“One happiness has passed, but hold yourself ready for the next, whatever it is. If you do not see it on the horizon, then you must create it where you are. So long as you live you may find happiness if you search for it, or create it for yourself. Perhaps the search itself is happiness.” (31)

…that love had ended, stopped by death, and suddenly, for a while, there was no one to love. In the long months when she knew he must die she had wondered about love. Would it go on living after the beloved was dead? Could so strong a force continue to feed only upon memory? She knew now that it could not. The habit of love became a necessity to love and remained alive in her being, like a river dammed. Now it was flowing again, not in fullness, not inevitably, but tentatively and gently toward this man who sat facing her, his back to the sunset. (46)

“The need to love and be loved lasts until we draw our final breath and from the need comes the power. It is in you, it is in me. How can this be, you may ask. Because, my child, my dear and only One, love sustains the spirit and the spirit sustains life. Yet even if it is one-sided, the one who loves is sustained. It is sweet to be loved, but to be able to love is to possess the life force. I love you. Therefore I am strong." (47)

“It comes to us, always to be welcomed, from whatever source, at whatever time. One love does not displace another. Each love is added richness.” (66)

“Each experience of love…is a life in itself. Each has nothing to do with what has taken place before or will take place again. Love is born, it pursues its separate way, world without end, transmuted into life energy.” (77)

She understood why he had left her today and she knew that he would always come back. She had made it possible for him to return to his work. She had given him his freedom even from love, and so he would love her forever. (210)

…the only way to be loved is to be stronger than the one you love. (224)

Somehow she had come into his life at a moment when he needed to worship and he had worshiped her. What does a woman do with a man’s worship? She can destroy it by her own selfish need – or she can use it for his development and growth.
I must never let him know, she thought.
But know what?
She must never let him know that she was merely woman. She must never descend to daily need, if she wanted to keep him. No, even that was selfish. There could be no question of “keeping.” She must rise to the heights of her own. She must be quite willing to release him while she loved him – even because she loved him, for love, if it be true, seeks only the fulfillment of the beloved and this on the highest level. (241)

These are some excerpts from The Goddess Abides by Pearl S. Buck

(Methuen , London, 1972)

The introduction to the novel reads:

Pearl Buck tells a story of human love in its infinite variety. At the centre is Edith Chardman, just widowed in the prime of life (42, as I found it) as the story opens, after a long and happy marriage to a man much her senior. Into the emptiness come Edwin (72, to be precise), even older than her late husband, and Jared(24, when he meets Edith), young enough to be her son. With each there is mutual attraction, strong and vital, yet with the vast differences imposed by disparate ages. In the intense months that follow, Edith confronts complexities of love to which she had never had occasion to give the least thought. She learns how subtle are the ways in which love is to be fulfilled.

Nimakh

Nimakh literally means “small,” “little.” When I first went to Amarjit (Sathi) Tiwana’s haiku blog, I was reasonably impressed. When I started to interact with him, he offered to send me a copy of his publication NIMAKH- his book of Punjabi haiku poems.

Haiku is (perhaps) the smallest poem in the world. Having its origin in Japan; it has been adopted by poets world-wide. To me it is no less than a wonder. It is a superhuman ability to express oneself in a matter of 10 odd words and still end up saying a poem.

The poet informs in the book that Bhai Kahan Singh Nabha has defined the word Nimakh as “the time taken to blink an eye.”



I was at work when someone called up to say that he had brought Tiwana’s book for me. It was a huge surprise. I was grateful, I was happy and I was amazed that I got the book within 48 hours of saying yes to Tiwana’s offer of sending me the book. I reached home by 1 and found the book- Nimakh was really nimakh : 84 pages and only two poems on each page – lest quantity should override quality. All of 17 x 11 cm ( 4.4’’ x 6.4’’) – it was fit to be carried in my current purse. As the kids went into the swimming pool at 4.30 p.m., I dived into the book. Consuming one poem by one poem, one page by one page– I was amazed at the expression, angry at one reality depicted in one poem, pleased with another, nodding at a truth condensed in a poem, agreeing with the nostalgia in another—my response was that of a child who has been made to sit in a room full of toys. She doesn’t know which toy to handle first, which one to keep, which one to let go. I normally do not dog-ear the books I read. But the devil inside me wanted to dog ear at least 20 pages for a future reading. The book was so cute that I couldn’t muster courage to do that. So I tried keeping a little scrap of paper as a book mark to go back to that particular poem.

The most striking thing in the book after its poetry is what Navtej Bharati has to say about the poet and his muse. I wouldn’t literally translate what he has to say but the crux of his foreword is something like this.

We tend to take things around us for granted. We see things only as far as we need them; we live only as much as we need to. We refuse to see the miracles around us – miracles that happen everyday, around us, with us, in us. It is due to a “stare” (geijh in punjabi – when we get used to looking at things in a particular way). It is such poetry as Tiwana’s that breaks this geijh. It is such poetry that tells us of the Nature that is beautiful with the presence of mankind, and is beautiful sans mankind. Man is diseased with a narcisst approach. Nimakh washes our eyes to show us the world around. They tend to include us in the Great Chain of Being. We see more and we live more.

I won’t quote any of Tiwana’s poems here. You need to go to his blog and read them all by yourself to have a first hand feel of the miracle.