tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91706521992706077522024-02-21T10:57:30.175+05:30JABBERwocky"When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries of life disappear and life stands explained." – Mark TwainSarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-364739097093607852020-04-03T23:39:00.001+05:302020-04-03T23:40:56.691+05:30Locked down with the notes: Kalyani<div style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
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A favourite among learners, teachers and performers, and easily recognisable in both its Carnatic and Hindustani forms, Kalyani (in Carnatic), or Yaman, (in Hindustani) is a prolific raga in which every Indian who loves music must know of a song or two.</div>
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Straightforward, yet teeming with gamakas, and easy to learn but challenging to learn well, this raga is introduced in great detail to the Carnatic student through the two exquisite varnams that form an integral part o<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">f the pedagogy. Then there are those gems of kritis such as "yetavunnara", "nidhi chala sukhama" and "kamalambam bhajare".</span></div>
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Equally alluring are the numerous semi-classical compositions that carry the label "Yaman Kalyani" alluding to the Hindustani counterpart of the raga, usually because of the frequent presence of the Ni-Ri-Ga construction. A very popular piece in this form of the raga is Purandara Dasa's "Krishna nee begane baro", loved by singers and dancers alike. Here is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJvK0dox0_M" target="_blank">Hari-Les' trend-setting fusion version</a> of the song that the generation that went to college with me is unlikely to forget.</div>
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There is a profusion of film songs in the raga. Of the top of my head, I can recall the unforgettable "beeti na bitayi raina" from Parichay and the more recent "gaana mere bas ki baat nahi" from Astitva.</div>
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To conclude, a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TheuO-UXxBQ" target="_blank">masterful Jugalbandi</a> between the two towering flautists, Hariprasad Chaurasia and N. Ramani.</div>
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Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-82091650959222464012020-04-02T20:33:00.001+05:302020-04-02T20:47:28.785+05:30A raga for an auspicious day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's Rama Navami, so I will let the composition lead me to the raga of the day. The Carnatic repertory has innumerable pieces dedicated to this anthropomorphic God, mostly by his ardent devotee, Saint Tyagaraja. Here is Sikkil Gurucharan rendering the glory of Sri Rama's life story 'Rama<a href="https://youtu.be/88yjhr3Ha0s" target="_blank"> Katha Sudharasa'</a> in Madhyamavati.<br />
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Popular kritis in this raga include "palinchu kamakshi" by Syama Shastri, "Adadu asangadu" by Oothukadu and "Bhagyada Lakshmi baramma" by Purandara Dasa.<br />
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Madhyamavati is an alluring pentatonic scale that can be sung as elaborately as any sampurna raga. The lingering gamakas around the notes Ri and Ni guide the imagination to build a measured gamut of phrases. Although the cadences of the raga are too characteristically Carnatic to afford any close parallel in Hindustani music, the notes themselves closely resemble Raga Megh, which finds a place alongside Madhyamavati in jugalbandhis.<br />
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Madhyavamati is culturally associated with auspiciousness. Which is why the "mangalam" at the end of a concert is sung in this raga. Speaking of culture and turning back to the gods, this devotional piece immortalised in Yesudas' voice has become iconic in <a href="https://youtu.be/nyBZL1TxnPs" target="_blank">Ayyappa</a> worship.<br />
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Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-18209998341810611652020-04-01T17:44:00.003+05:302020-04-03T23:40:20.798+05:30Locked down with the notes: Khamas<br />
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From one of the most 'performable' pieces eager beginners learn ("Saamba shivaya nave") to the controlled mastery of a pada varna like "Mate malaya dhvaja pandya sanjate'', the splendid notes of Khamas dance their way through several kritis known to the average Carnatic connoisseur.<br />
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Preferred particularly by Thumri singers, Khamaj as it is known in the Hindustani tradition has also attracted many music directors in Indian cinema.<br />
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With its characteristic inclusion of two Nishads, its sparing use of the Rishabh and some unmistakable phrases, the raga has not surprisingly often inspired the image of a dancing Krishna or Nataraja in familiar compositions that are as appealing for their poetry as they are for the melodious music they encapsulate.<br />
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I never tire of listening to the delightful swara kalpana in Sanjay Subramanian's concise rendition of ''<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=umcR2zZeeN0" target="_blank">Santana gopalakrishnam</a>".<br />
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And as a refreshing contrast, here is a sprig from the evergreen bouquet of songs in the classic Hindi film, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5fGAhR1LcY" target="_blank">Amar Prem</a>.<br />
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And of course, the Hindu's archives give us <a href="https://www.thehindu.com/features/friday-review/music/endearing-khamas/article4746020.ece?fbclid=IwAR1F_AxRhoKGarjsaqw0nMiYUFVsaJI5n88pikzTjE3SuneUatoSW6tBOVM" target="_blank">Charulatha Mani's quick sketch</a> of the raga and its riches.Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-70083349246914312452020-03-31T18:01:00.003+05:302020-03-31T19:01:22.110+05:30Locked down with the notes: Self-help through music during the Covid 19 crisis<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am running a series of FB posts, one raga at a time. Here are the first two, posted yesterday and today.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">30th March: Hamir Kalyani</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My pick for today is Hamir Kalyani, or Kedar, as it is c<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">alled in Hindustani music. Charulatha Mani's article below makes any further comments redundant.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" data-lynx-uri="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.google.com%2Famp%2Fs%2Fwww.thehindu.com%2Fnews%2Fcities%2Fchennai%2Fchen-columns%2Fthe-joy-of-hamirkalyani%2Farticle5124087.ece%2Famp%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR1fDA-RF1LU6c-IrXKRd8QdG9HfaPcVr_9PsquRuSi8DvWZRK5nk0vqq3g&h=AT0WvOFu6swELcrp7BGgFXlUtqr_AKyrygTGkxzY6Vjw2m8wsATeTdM37858ah48EXInFtUi9GG70g4zqEJKABB7AITFeov9euEBGfQxEMDnxZtPIFGOucEDWoljEZv7XaQ0EzA7pGgXL6NmjShKfBUXZpycWtFJxSlpWRftPv8m" href="https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.thehindu.com/news/cities/chennai/chen-columns/the-joy-of-hamirkalyani/article5124087.ece/amp/?fbclid=IwAR1fDA-RF1LU6c-IrXKRd8QdG9HfaPcVr_9PsquRuSi8DvWZRK5nk0vqq3g" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://www.google.com/…/the-joy-of…/article5124087.ece/amp/</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Venkata Shaila Vihara, Parimala Ranganatham and Manamuleda are immortal classics. I still remember listening to Sreevalsan Menon rendering Swathi Thirunal's 'Gangeya Vasana' at Dombivli Fine Arts decades ago. Here he is, singing the same kriti for Doordarshan:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">https://youtu.be/Y_5dHJqoEio</span></span></div>
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Also attached are clips of a lesser known canonical composition rendered by the faultless Sanjay and one in a modern idiom presented by the trending iconoclast TMK.</div>
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<a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" data-lynx-uri="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FRtlGVle3YSM%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR2Y5laX3WJzSH6jLqIiiqNbF6X8n7xaE-74LpbqYAdzTOgFohjuM1He9y8&h=AT2dPYalJ8ZpBjdaVtTHM0lt8s-NJyu8YLH7elMBQ68i9RnLWUny3bURM39mH9WLFOewzCvlJbkfHVxpfnCv-RZW9FT7MsQL4XNgfCZWaNnY5Ti4SMrKHUCLspOLC_ohwgEHGNAVrrYz5-ByfksNWhMIwgahH6VkAd0RUn5pDHJ9" href="https://youtu.be/RtlGVle3YSM?fbclid=IwAR2Y5laX3WJzSH6jLqIiiqNbF6X8n7xaE-74LpbqYAdzTOgFohjuM1He9y8" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://youtu.be/RtlGVle3YSM</a></div>
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(Sanjay Subramanian)</div>
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<a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F5eAPDJmmKOs%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR195Eno3r0Mn6No_OdgCi8M69MSyibF1S4Uu7UeYfR3Ny9fNMeLVSskDQE&h=AT2cuV2pJIdZO_Vxvj9V6jSRfkvKtxwPPrxIcymLtr0VFocTVmA9qbfbYsPnxWXfVlpR6tceI-T4VTe485KUuJ4FES43ESjj00mzvK_ARrav-V6ocWJhLVYqQadFW3X3_4K-eQediGy6NYFSmmLNOJCzovFZHSV_8r4yuyUfvaAL" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://youtu.be/5eAPDJmmKOs</a></div>
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(TM Krishna)</div>
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<b>31st March: Shubhapantuvarali</b></div>
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Shubhapantuvarali, evoking a sad, sombre atmosphere, is considered an auspicious raga, as the prefix in the raga's name indicates. The notes map to the Todi thaat in Hindustani music. Once again, Charulatha Mani brings together a wealth of compositions in the raga, in a range of styles:</div>
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<span style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" data-lynx-uri="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.thehindu.com%2Ffeatures%2Fmetroplus%2Fa-ragas-journey-sorrowful-subhapantuvarali%2Farticle2903378.ece%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR0PGXrnvm-c-l3rcQPseSumdvQiHMKoKzIksBLTwMTkkzQdo_iRhIl3csY&h=AT17VR8JpfB87mHhdYE9cnMu8v0sVKZtR1fG3Y9khpw4DWiLqFYSdNlIk6XNpnRiz1w95uJBlUBLxHq9pqNpD7DokT4DttJPMM5YgILlv4K20Vro0A-uvAFZOfJ9t-y7oam7cx-hbt0-xBZxcFGHuicdxdqDnY5zzn2hgrDZjjiy" href="https://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/a-ragas-journey-sorrowful-subhapantuvarali/article2903378.ece?fbclid=IwAR0PGXrnvm-c-l3rcQPseSumdvQiHMKoKzIksBLTwMTkkzQdo_iRhIl3csY" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.thehindu.com/…/a-ragas-journ…/article2903378.ece</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The more famous pieces in the raga that Charulatha Mani mentions are easily accessible. </span>Tyagaraja's </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">plaintive 'Ennalu Urake' is a personal favourite, still unfortunately on my list of kritis to be learnt. The clip below is an interesting Jugalbandhi of Shubhapantuvarali with the shades of Lalit that has several matching notes and shades.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" data-lynx-uri="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DVkD47ym7gH4%26fbclid%3DIwAR1eNAhTl7WBO8_H6kqk6syoxVp3bdhTDSLEtPrXv2up4iD-REfJtUAR9_E&h=AT1ey2H9U_2FpvPMx9FlkXcDdVP7tKlbkL80sZS8dgWNbQWTmhSvnoWoRgo0TKVBiQ4hfjGs3UhDYZWhT5Me636UL9kEptksz5QpvUlVssKleUToPOFekCltKoboh3Ukuwnaq4tXl8PrehmMHBSFZH2qaOD1CFHrZ_rOzHCYB_hI" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkD47ym7gH4&fbclid=IwAR1eNAhTl7WBO8_H6kqk6syoxVp3bdhTDSLEtPrXv2up4iD-REfJtUAR9_E" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkD47ym7gH4</span></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And as an illustration of how the raga's quick association with sorrowfulness has been exploited in cinema, here is a hyperbolic sentimental piece from Malayalam cinema:</span></div>
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<a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="asynclazy" data-lynx-uri="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DOm1R-QvU6d4%26fbclid%3DIwAR2bA3rp5PZdQR6wyN254GgKJBgATK7rG7shG_fK9zFv39G9Us5UufByCvM&h=AT0UM9ow4btoDBKvaFNEYU32SKy-JK1ISQCNTsp-jIdD0iSlx55TFH6mqEh-IEia9315zvkRgOEIYAQhvj1JTTonYGWD4m7L0jGz-bdNUBlJL7aI7E3n-okeWUIlp1Ah5OSrJdmrwyoA7GzmSB5dwcQTSRJyJkYflnWjQ-rvPS7-" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Om1R-QvU6d4&fbclid=IwAR2bA3rp5PZdQR6wyN254GgKJBgATK7rG7shG_fK9zFv39G9Us5UufByCvM" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Om1R-QvU6d4</span></a></div>
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Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-92224640186118014822019-06-02T22:18:00.001+05:302019-06-02T22:18:48.573+05:30Rain IV, written in 2009<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">It rained today. The puddles formed</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">quickly, coalescing with the hungry mud.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">The droplets were big as hail.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">I went out to explore the shredded quarry</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">of my garden. A few roots gleamed here and there,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">serpents uncoiling slowly out of their hibernating homes.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">Dead leaves were coming to life among</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">the stripped stones. Moss grew green flesh</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">over the bones once again.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">I knew well this ritual of reawakening, new life</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">sprouting from old vestiges sedimented for a season.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">But the rain had reached farther this time, closing over</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">riches deep-interred by years of longing remembrance.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.84px;">The whiff of red rose caught me unawares.</span>Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-36764699212772422702018-02-25T20:29:00.003+05:302018-02-25T20:49:52.414+05:30To Strand Book Stall, and all that it has meant to me<div style="text-align: justify;">
At the age of 17, equipped with a Higher Secondary School Certificate, I decided to earn my own pocket money. My motivation: buying books, building my own little library. I scrupulously put away the small sums I made by giving tuitions. And at the coming of every new year, I would watch out for that large advertisement in red on the first page of the Times, announcing the Strand Book Fair at Sunderbai Hall in New Marine Lines. Spending a whole afternoon there and trudging back through the Azad Maiden loaded with my booty in those glossy beige-cloloured shopping bags from Strand was inexpressible happiness in those innocent days when I would wolf down one book a week. </div>
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Mr. Shanbag and his team soon became angels of joy. Strand Book Stall was never just a store: it was a place where I often made delightful discoveries, always felt rewarded with unbelievable discounts and at times bumped into an equally nutsy friend with whom I could squeal at titles and share a snack on my way back to Victoria Terminus. In those days, Strand was my only hope if I wanted a title that was hard to come by. Soon, I simply stopped bothering to approach any other bookstore, for the amazing guys at Strand never disappointed. What’s more, however difficult to procure the title may have been, they always offered their 20% discount. You can imagine what discounts meant to someone who made around Rs. 3,000 a year.</div>
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When I started teaching at Ruia, I made sure my religion of madness was rapidly disseminated among my students. Then the annual book fair became a picnic on which I would be accompanied by a few excited students. I became one of them as we navigated through the crowds browsing the rows of books in the large hall, where my relationship with my young students transformed into friendship. My trips to the store also became more frequent in these later years, for I would regularly order multiple copies of books prescribed on the B.A. syllabus, and the staff would readily oblige. </div>
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Sadly, I have forgotten when I last visitied Strand and the annual book fair. It was quite some time ago. On my last visit, the store still had its loyal visitors, but the old lustre and spirit in the air was gone. Like many other converts, I too have given in to the comfort and ease of online shopping. My home collection has branched into several cupboards and I don’t need to count every penny to invest in books anymore. But I have to admit that with this ease, that joy and sense of fulfilment that each new book brought seems to have dwindled, thanks also to the increased responsibilities of life and work.</div>
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What Strand will always mean to me is the motivation to strive for small joys, the carefree discovery of new knowledge and the desire to share that delight with those around me. And it stands for the wonderful tactile, smell-good world of books that are not just digital pages never quite real -- a world distinct from the lure of quick commerce and quicker paperless expenditure. And it means memories of the texture of a book, the colours of its covers, small bends in the mind’s infinite journeys and those pages that slowly turn yellow, shade by shade, when you are not looking.<br />
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(Strand, Mumbai's iconic bookstore at Fort, is all set to be closed down permanently. The news has led to an outpouring of sentiment among book lovers in the city.)</div>
Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-13767668215987933832016-05-29T11:35:00.000+05:302016-05-29T11:45:55.130+05:30Misogynist women: a candid postThe story is all too familiar. Years of hurt and seething resentment. Words sharpened like knives against each other. Bottled up frustrations unleashed without discretion. Uninvolved onlookers. Love dying a systematic and early death. And a lifetime of bitterness at choosing such a self-destructive path.<br />
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Welcome to the world of women against women.<br />
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It would be a cliche to say that we live in a hypocrtical society. Hypocrisy seeps deep into the personal relationships of the average Indian household. And marriages are its worst victims. Not many Indians can transcend the barrier of in-lawhood, because that would involve reviewing thoroughly how adult life changes relationships and assigning a new set of priorities to never lose sight of. It would also require that new values are accepted and old one reviewed and modified if they don't stand the test of honesty. For this we must be prepared to face the glaring contradictions between what we profess to believe and what we preach to others on the one hand and what we practice on the other. Women typically are too judgemental, too involved in each other's lives and too full of resentments and unjust affections and preferences. While the men either want to keep away from the whole business or add to the hurt of the wife who has to put up with the feeling of being second-rate all life.<br />
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That is an unfair comment full of stereotypes, but the stereotype is too powerful because it is so close to the truth. Thankfully, there are many exceptions but there are also innumerable unfortunate instances of reality to support such a conclusion. Many women never experience emancipation from these tangles, except those who are lucky enough to be in families where a healthier atmosphere persists right from the beginning. And many men don't even think the problem is serious: to them, they are figments of a woman's imagination.<br />
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The problems are most often psychological, often with a significant aspect of the financial. The first depends mostly on caution with words and honesty with actions. The latter has to be accepted as a genuine criterion whose effective management is necessary for happiness. We are usually too quick to say that money is not everything. But the people who make this remark are most likely to use it only to paint the other person into a corner with a moral responsibility they themselves avoid easily. It doesn't help to neglect the M-factor. Keep it clear. Be practical and calculative while letting your warmth guide your desires but keeping sentiment at bay while making decisions to earn, acquire or spend.<br />
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So how do we deal with marriages in Indian society? What are the pain points women experience? The first step is to take them seriously, preempt them and stop them from building up. The second is to recognise where our duties towards a person -- be it spouse, parents or children -- begin and end. And to keep those demarcations clear all our life.<br />
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(To be continued.)Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-77340321686667653422015-07-16T21:29:00.002+05:302015-07-16T21:29:19.485+05:30Amma<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
Sometimes a person's memory invades your mind at an unguarded moment. And it invades it so intensely that you are left overpowered by a sense of both loss and presence. Today I felt this inexplicable sensation for the dearest person I have lost to death: my maternal grandmother. She passed away 12 years ago, at a contented old age, and the rawness <span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">with which her memory came back to me was startling. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that she slipped away when I could not be with her and I had to deal with an emptiness I groped physically for a long time. My last memory of her -- as vivid as ever -- is of a woman suddenly weak in body with a strange glow in her eyes hungry for one last sight of her loved ones.</span></div>
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This is not the first time I have felt this sudden emotion in the years after she passed away, but it caught me unawares today after the longest gap in time. I am both shaken and gladdened by the realization that time hasn't really obliterated a dear one. If pain persists, however transfigured, there must be some permanence in life and in love.<br />
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Here are two poems I wrote in the memory of my grandmother, with the dates on which I first posted them on my blog:<br />
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FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 2008</h2>
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Amma</h3>
The day you decided to take off,<br />
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I failed to glimpse<br />the golden chariot<br />and angels’ wings.<br /><br />No gesture replied,<br />though I turned round and round<br />the house trying to clasp<br />what had seeped neatly into the past<br /><br />And then the monsoon came<br />with the winds and the watery clouds.<br /><br />I have been sure<br />these five years<br />that you were<br />on the other side.<br /><br />But last night I woke up<br />to the sound of a voice singing<br />as tuneless as ever: there was nothing<br />in it that spoke of distance.<br /><br /><h2 style="font-size: 13px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
SATURDAY, MAY 23, 2009</h2>
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Twilight </h3>
Listening to her gravelly voice rise in song,<br />
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I would wait for the sudden drop in pitch<br />or the change of tune midway.<br /><br />It is a <em>raga</em> of her own making, we would laugh.<br /><br />But surer than music-mongers meticulously nailing notes<br />to lyrics, she performed in magnificent style.<br />The very walls of the house had grown attuned to her ways.<br /><br />In youth, her fury could shake and shatter.<br />Neighbours who thought her a hapless widow<br />with children she could barely mind<br />found themselves confronting an army of bony hands<br />that set stones flying<br />towards their gilded window-panes.<br /><br />The story still startles me. What is true of her,<br />I would wonder searching her gentle features<br />lost in the winding alleys of her song, oblivious<br />to the babble of a busy young world.<br /><br />Or could this be truer, this feeble puffing<br />of lips that flap infant-like<br />as she sleeps wrapped in thin blue sheets?<br />Her limbs look tired and very old – older than the<br />snowflakes in her hair.</div>
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Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-4850896219940398122015-06-03T23:48:00.000+05:302015-10-29T20:22:51.397+05:30Flood of Fire: Impressions<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
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This morning I finished reading the third
of Amitav Ghosh's<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Ibis</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>trilogy,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Flood of Fire</i>. Although it
didn't tire me, my first response would be to say that the book disappointed.
Of course, this response may not be echoed by all: being a regular and eager
reader of Ghosh's works, I have come to expect a few things in his writing which in my opinion are characteristic of him at his best. It is
perhaps in having missed these for the most part of the narrative that my first
impulse was to say the book disappointed. As in a way the whole of the trilogy
does, in spite of its many marvelous achievements.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But let me leave that bit for a little
later. The most appreciable and outstanding part of this mammoth project -- for
that is what the <i>Ibis</i> trilogy is more
than anything else, -- is its deep, detailed and palpable critique of the
peculiar kind of hungry, zealous but utterly composed and self-assured tyranny
that came to be embodied by British colonialism. Of course it is widely
acknowledged now that this domination of a staggeringly large part of the world
by one nation was a remarkable collusion of capitalist greed, racial superiority and
military strength boosted by scientific advancement, and one which was often
articulated in terms of a religious fervor. We have all read our Edward Saids
and the numerous theorists after who have peeled off the many layers of this
grand phenomenon. But Ghosh's story brings it all out in visceral human detail,
and that of course has been the great strength of his fictional engagement with
history, something I have followed with admiration over the last couple of decades. In
fact, one could even say that there has been a steady progression and
deepening of Ghosh’s historical insight as his canvas has broadened from<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Shadow Lines</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>of personally familiar places and
occurrences to the<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Ibis</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>trilogy, whose task is ambitious to
say the least.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The parodic and slightly mythical facet of
the narrative seems to me an interesting modification of the hyperbolic style
that is recurrent in Ghosh. But I didn't quite take to those instances in the
trilogy where this is most pronounced. I prefer the Nirmal version of it,
infused with poetry, a raw lyrical quality and dreamy idealism. But here it is
more cinematic, with visions and shrines, lores and sudden dramatic escapes. It
has an important role to play in the narrative and the import (or rather the
impact) of the novels, no doubt, but this wasn't among what I could enjoy in
reading them. Of course, this is in part my own preference for an old fashioned
realism from which I seem to permit only certain kinds of deviation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Coming to <i>Flood of Fire</i> in particular, I thought that the first half of the
book was a bit of a drag. Zachary's escapades with Mrs. Burnham and the page
after page of discourse on 'onanism' researched a bit too painstakingly almost
made me wonder if some of it was just meant to add pages of titillation to the tome. The
descriptions of warfare in the second half are similarly long-drawn and
although to someone interested in details of combat these may seem
particularly striking, there seems to be a tendency to lapse into minute findings of research
here. (My own inability to reconstruct a vivid mental picture of the terrain described added to my distress in reading these pages.) Of course the full horror of the war in all its mundane everyday ugliness
had to be brought out and Ghosh does a good job of it, but fiction writing
is stretched in the process into mind-boggling lengths of detail. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As for the 'story', that disappointed me
too. It was all a bit too simplistic. Zachary' story of steady fall from
innocence, visualized in Baboo Nobo Kissan’s scheme of things as the Kaliyug, becomes sinister capitalist domination represented as tame allegory (in fact the
joining of hands between Burnham, Reid and Chan reminded me of the ending of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Animal Farm</i>). Mrs. Burnham and
Captain Mee are conveniently disposed of in a manner that certainly doesn’t
evoke pathos as Bahram’s death does at the end of <i>River of Smoke</i>. By this point in the novel, I was just
impatient to be done with the wrapping up that was happening with a rapidity
that contrasts awkwardly with the dull pace of the first half. (The ships tips
over, so to speak.) I was left with a sense of an epic that had suddenly shrunk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is the character of Neel that surprised me. Each of Ghosh’s novels has this intellectual observer-chronicler
who becomes the author’s alter ego in the narrative. I am curious to see how
this character develops in his future work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-48594751777414799322015-01-08T21:44:00.000+05:302015-01-09T02:06:59.213+05:30Spotlight: Uma Shashikant<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have never written on this blog about people I admire. Admire long-distance, that is. Mostly through their work or their writing, often both. I have resolved to write such 'spotlight' features every once in a while. Today I will write on one such person and the organisation that she leads, which is distinguished by a rare combination of exceptional clarity of purpose and method, efficient working and a market awareness that does not extend to falling prey to the temptations of expansion to the unfortunate detriment of quality.</div>
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I have been reading The Economic Times' weekly supplement, 'Wealth', for almost a year. There is no doubt that it has both increased my confidence in dealing with money and sparked off a lot of interest in the complex, dynamic system that we call the financial market. The space I await most eagerly in the paper is <a href="https://www.google.co.in/search?newwindow=1&biw=1517&bih=730&q=uma+shashikant+&oq=uma+shashikant+&gs_l=serp.3..0l5j0i22i30l5.2088638.2088638.0.2088899.1.1.0.0.0.0.152.152.0j1.1.0.msedr...0...1c.1.60.serp..0.1.151.4_Wd07QcFWU" target="_blank">Uma Shashikant</a>'s unfailingly sensible and astoundingly lucid column. This author is not just extremely reader-friendly and incredibly adept at phrasing in the simplest, most comprehensible terms every piece of financial knowledge she imparts, but is also sensitive to the investor as a human being. Which is why she seems to have this knack of putting her finger on what is financially crucial as well as personally significant for her readers in making the right decisions. Come to think of it, investments are all about our desires, our well-being and our emotions. In fact, a strain that runs through every article of Shashikant's is her tactful advice to be judicious with our emotions while making financial decisions -- something that will, eventually, only bring us health and happiness.</div>
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Uma Shashikant is the Managing Director of the Centre for Investor Education and Learning (CIEL), an organisation which, as I learnt only today, is based in Mumbai but functions largely on cloud technology with the team working from home. Again, most admirable because it is so sensible! The internet is full of praise for Shashikant as an exemplary teacher and trainer. Indeed, I have a good mind to preserve her articles for use in my language classroom as fine examples of lucid articulation.</div>
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There are two more points that have enhanced my admiration for CIEL. First, the organisation is almost an all-woman venture, with a team of exceptionally well-qualified and experienced women from the fields of finance, law, information technology and design. (<a href="http://www.ciel.co.in/pages.php?pid=1&mid=30" target="_blank">Here</a> is their page.) That makes me very proud as a woman and very hopeful about women building better lives for themselves and the society at large. And the second point is the organisation's clarity about its own goals. As Shashikant puts it unambiguously in <a href="http://www.indiainfoline.com/article/research-leader-speak/uma-shashikant-managing-director-ciel-36458576_1.html" target="_blank">this</a> interview, they do not deal with end customers and are essentially a small organisation modelled on providing intensive service rather than taking on too many projects. It is obvious that they have identified a strong market need and have placed themselves neatly as service-providers, but are not out to capture more and more space. And that is a very rare choice indeed in a world where quality is quickly compromised in favour of unrestrained expansion.</div>
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Hats off to Uma Shashikant and her team. I am sure I shall keep enjoying and benefiting from her column for a long time! For a sample of her writing, do look <a href="http://articles.economictimes.indiatimes.com/2014-12-29/news/57495091_1_home-loan-borrower-rate" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-38235370181564375242013-10-13T20:48:00.001+05:302013-10-14T19:25:00.788+05:30The Will to Die<div style="text-align: justify;">
I just googled "suicide". At the top of the page was a helpline number that simply said "Need help? In India, call XXXXXX". A desperate hand from cyberspace attempting to stop the desperate reader somewhere, somehow. Of course, the democratic search engine also lends an equally helping hand even before you finish typing the word, offering "suicide methods" as one of your search possibilities.</div>
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Wikipedia affirms that opinions on suicides are numerous and that these are influenced by "broad existential themes such as religion, honor, and the meaning of life." A blog attempting to stop the faceless googler from that one irreversible, horrifying step tells them with assurance that the decision is an impulse formed at a moment when the experience of pain exceeds the means available to cope with it. A view that most rational individuals and most mental health professionals would probably concur with.</div>
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"I can't go on, I can't bear it anymore" seems to be the most obvious reason for anyone to direct fatal violence against themselves. Almost everyone of us has felt such despair at some point or the other in life. But we pull on -- either because the actual act of violence thankfully takes much more effort and courage than the thought itself, however strong, or because we think of the numerous responsibilities and the bonds that keep us stringed to life even if it is <i>killing</i> in there. Or, like Viktor Frankl suggests, some of us still hold a strong conviction that our life has meaning, for there is a "will to meaning" in certain individuals, more powerful than pain and despair.</div>
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Inherent in the whole idea of "will" is the human capacity for, well, obstinacy. An obstinacy to the point of obsession. So we may be obsessed with power or with wealth and that at times is sufficient to drive us through life, even if it may blind us to everything else. Like possessed creatures we go about in pursuit of that which grips our minds. There is obsessive love too, of course. It seems that the obsession to live for some such thing we have convinced ourselves about is one of the only two reasons why most of us don't actually pick up that blade. (Of course, as I said above, after the picking up of the blade, there is a further deterrent in the fear factor.)</div>
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The other reason, I would say, is the ability to be securely thick-skinned and thus to carefully stay just within that dangerous line that separates commonplace existence from a tiny but cataclysmic step into disturbance and possible unhinging. We manage to stay put on the needle point, getting inured to its prick over time, knowing that a slip would mean a plunge into that unknown abyss which we are sure is unspeakably worse than this pinned existence. Here are the closing lines of an A.K. Ramanujan poem that captures this common feat in a dry tone that is particularly hard on religious nerves:<i> At the bottom, of all this bottomless/ Enterprise to keep simple the heart’s given beat,/ The only risk is heartlessness</i>. ('The Hindoo: The Only Risk')</div>
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But returning to my first point about obstinacy -- and here is my clinching couplet --, eminently capable as we are of being obstinate in creating meaning with our lives, not all of us might exactly be "giving up" in choosing to die. To those who will have either all or none, to those who will fight to their last breath to keep a relationship alive or to see their goals met, suicide might not be the result of mere despair that pushes them overboard. I have a slight objection to the general perception of suicide as an act of crumbling under pressure, a surrender to the might of pain. Obstinate creatures that we are, we also harbour within us an indomitable will to die. Our very stubbornness may prefer dying to a giving in that implies a giving up of what we lived for or believed in. Is such suicide mental illness? If so, this illness is the very quality we admire in the extraordinary -- the quality of grit and never-say-die -- that also manifests itself as a will to die.</div>
Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-73144657550475162562013-07-03T18:28:00.001+05:302013-07-03T18:33:54.464+05:30A most dangerous habit<div style="text-align: justify;">
So, what do you have to say about those who read books? Those who, that is, love reading them, are always found with them and have gathered a reputation as 'voracious readers'?</div>
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There is the regretful voice of teachers and mothers who think that internet and sms have brought doom and gloom to the future of their children who simply don't want to pick up a book. You hear conservationists campaigning for keeping the reading habit alive. If you listen to this group, you must think that reading must be a blessed preoccupation indeed. And we have read those numerous poems from Englishmen encased in nobility who have sung to the glory of books.</div>
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But think of witty women, headstrong women, women with opinions like Lizzy Bennett. Women who think, who dare to knock at the doors of universities like Virginia Woolf. Women who like to read about women like them, women who read and agree with the opinions of women and men like them -- no, I am not talking about the 'feminists' alone, though they may certainly be part of this group. </div>
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To be found with a book suddenly becomes the opposite of cooking, wiving (no, that's not the right word, is? It should be 'husbanding' -- now 'husbanding' has a pretty domestic air about it), mothering and all those cultivated, feminine things that a woman must do. If she reads in spite of them, some kind of little novel or poetry book as deemed fit for the fairer sex since the eighteenth century, reading is again a good habit, ain't it?</div>
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For the most part, however, women would like to keep their intellect and their habits intact, methinks. Women who read, like women who think and women who study and women who assert their rights are dangerous creatures.</div>
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So, would you encourage your girl child to read? </div>
Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-50272325780188245382013-06-12T19:25:00.001+05:302013-06-13T10:11:10.403+05:30The first lesson again<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Today, I learnt Swati Tirunal’s oft-heard kriti in
Mayamalavagoula, ‘Deva deva kalayaami’. The familiar intonations of the
beginner’s raga completed yet another cycle in learning music. “Anda
ga-va-attara ashakanam” said my teacher reminding me that the Ga in
Mayamalavagowla contained glimpses of three notes. Another of the realisations
that form the everyday in learning and relearning music. </div>
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Sa-Ri-Ga-Ma... and so on we are taught in that very
Mayamalavagoula <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in our very first class
on Karnatik music. Then to now is a long way indeed, as is now to the many ‘then’s
in future!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Meanwhile, George Lakoff and Mark Johnson here are telling
me how reason is not completely conscious but mostly unconscious. That it is
shaped by the body, and constrained by it. That we deal with a cognitive
unconscious. How we learn in spite of our fundamental unconsciousness of the way
we learn has always hugely intrigued me. And even as I try to consciously
understand, through speculation and science, through the bizarre language of neurons
and through the pleasure of having consciously realised what I have half-known
for years, I find myself equally interested in tapping our unconscious learning
abilities to enhance our methodologies of education as well as our creative
endeavours.<br />
<br />
To end this post, I like what Rashmee said the other day on FB: art helps digest. I would like to add, art helps rearrange. As we rearrange, add or brush off a shade, a note, an imperceptible so much here and there, much more than the shade or note, picture or tune, gets rearranged. And that could be potentially as big as the butterfly's flapping wings.</div>
Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-64505517673098577892012-12-31T14:30:00.003+05:302013-10-14T19:39:42.981+05:30The tide country, at last!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span lang="EN-IN">“The islands are the trailing threads of
India’s fabric, the ragged fringe of her sari, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ãchol </i>that follows her, half-wetted by the sea. They number in the
thousands, these islands; some are immense and some no larger than sandbars;
some have lasted through recorded history while others were washed into being
just a year or two ago... The rivers’ channels are spread across the land like
a fine mesh-net, creating a terrain where the boundaries between land and water
are always mutating, always unpredictable. Some of these channels are mighty
waterways, so wide across that one shore is invisible from the other; others
are no more than two or three kilometres long and only a few hundred metres
across. Yet, each of these channels is a ‘river’ in its own right, each
possessed of its own strangely evocative name. When these channels meet, it is
often in clusters of four, five or even six: at these confluences, the water
stretches to the far edges of the landscape and the forest dwindles into a
distant rumour of land, echoing back from the horizon.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN">Amitav Ghosh, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Hungry Tide</i> (2004)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN">This is where it began. For eight long
years, since the first time I read these paragraphs, the tide country has been
a constant, haunting image in my mind: one of my most desperate dreams, so to speak. When
Vidya and I booked a tour package to the Sundarbans via <a href="http://www.indiabeacons.com/" target="_blank">India Beacons Sojourn</a>
this September, I consciously stopped imagining, expecting, looking forward. It
was too intense, what I held within myself for this place, its creatures and its people. I was
only thinking of a week-long holiday in December, so hard-earned for both of us.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN">Kolkata was a lovely welcome and meeting a dear
online friend for the first time was already one wish granted. Shantiniketan,
an artist-town, was a perfectly planned holiday complete with many take-aways.
And then, before we knew it, we were at Science City, Kolkata on the morning of Friday, 14th of December, waiting for our
pick-up to Godhkhali from where we were to be taken to the
Sundarbans on a launch. After some initial mix-up with the directions, we joined a group of
8-10 people, pinching ourselves, at the brink of an experience that heaped
rewards on my years of waiting.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">The launch that greeted us at Godhkhali was
called <i>Purbasha</i>. Dipankar Mondol and the other members of our crew </span><span lang="EN-IN">(our ever-smiling driver Bhola and our expert cook Lala) </span><span lang="EN-IN">took us
aboard while the rest of the group that had travelled with us so far was put on
another launch. We learnt later that the group that was to come with us had
cancelled plans last minute. Surprise was the way <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonbibi" target="_blank">Bon Bibi</a> granted us our best
holiday to date. </span><span lang="EN-IN">The only travellers on our boat for two-and-a-half days, Vidya and
I found ourselves negotiating stretches of water surrounded by mangrove forests – exactly as
Amitav Ghosh describes the islands.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><i>Purbasha</i> is not just a launch, it is a
household, complete with a well-equipped kitchen and comfortable bunk-beds on
the lower deck, a neat little cubicle of a washroom and luxury encapsulated in
its simple amenities. After a couple of hours – during which time we were
served the first of our scrumptious meals on board – we reached the Sajnekhali
watch tower. Crocodiles and deer were visible in the distance. The experience
of peering through the binoculars, searching the mangrove forests and the
waters for sightings, is something I cannot describe here in words, try as I might, though I can
still hear the swish of the tides and feel that wind on my skin as I write
this.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN">The Sajnekhali and Sudhanyakhali watch towers
are well-maintained posts, the former housing a beautiful museum on the
ecology of the Sundarbans, a cluster of islands densely forested with 84
species of mangroves, only a small part (about one-fifth) of which lies in
India and the rest in Bangladesh. The rivers that criss-cross this region are now
cut off from the Ganga and it is only the Bay of Bengal’s saline water that
flows here. Everywhere as we moved on the waters we saw nets on the banks,
supposed to stop the famed Sundarban tigers from emerging out of the forests and attacking the
populated parts of the tide country. But that, of course, is no guarantee of
safety. As our guide of the third day, Sanyasi Mondol, told us, no villager
believes the tiger count given by the Forest Department (a recent census revealed the
total number to have shrunk </span><span lang="EN-IN">alarmingly</span><span lang="EN-IN">) and many fishermen risk their lives
by rowing into narrow channels with dead ends. A tiger can leap from the bank, grab you while you are on the boat and be gone silently many minutes
before your companions realise you are missing. Why, most of the victims would die of a heart attack at the mere sight of the ferocious animal, even before it has got to them! Mondol claimed that in and
around his village, some twenty people had been carried away in the past six
months. We found the statistics hard to believe, but while we were there, it
seemed too likely.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-IN">Life is far from easy around these parts. To the visitor, these islands are a beauty past compare, but would the villagers in these harsh regions, given a choice, have lived here? Poor fishermen and honey collectors risk their lives everyday even as the catch/produce they gather is exported all over the world. In parts, women walk for five to six hours on kaccha roads (banks, really) to get from one place to another. Although there are some schools here, the nearest college is in Kolkata. And medical care is almost non-existent beyond some rudimentary first aid. Tourism seems to have brought some hopes to young men, but I must add that the behaviour of the average tourist leaves much to be desired. </span><span lang="EN-IN">It was, however, encouraging that Dipankar's
brother had become a professor in a college and though he now lived away
from his home country, was avidly promoting its economy as well as
ecotourism there through the <a href="http://www.purbashaecotourism.com/index.php" target="_blank">Purbasha Helpline Society</a>. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">The first two days were spent on the launch
till 4 pm. Deer, monitor lizards, kingfishers in a jubilation of colours,
cormorants, bee eaters, pond herons and the like filled our world with the sort
of company we long for but seldom have. The thrill that a sighting brings to a
traveller in these regions is incomparable to any other joy. While it is,
doubtless, a photographer’s paradise, even to have captured the moments with
your overjoyed eyes creates a memory of a lifetime. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-IN">No, we did not see a tiger. That one ultimate
wish remained unfulfilled though we experienced the thrill -- as well as the chill -- of an
imminent glimpse on the third day as we sat on a country boat that took us
terrifyingly close to the forested banks where a tiger could have been crouching, ready
to spring on us and take its pick from amongst the group. That ride is unforgettable,
what with our boatman Sujit Bidda guiding the boat </span><span lang="EN-IN"><span lang="EN-IN">through the high
tide </span>with nothing more than a stout bamboo stick, in a display of astounding strength and control. Our company was complete with a
little Tutul (here, Rahul) and we were travelling along the banks of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marichjhanpi" target="_blank">Morichjhãpi</a> – I couldn’t
have asked for more! That village with a bloody history now lies deserted, a no man's land whose scars remain unhealed.</span><span lang="EN-IN"> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">Forest faces village across about a quarter
of a kilometre of water. Our resort stood at the edge of the inhabited
island, in the village of Dayapur, and we could have seen a tiger from our
balcony if one had chosen to emerge. </span><span lang="EN-IN">I could not help remember the episode in the novel
where Kusum’s father is killed by a tiger even as villagers watch and hear
helplessly from the other bank the sound of his neck bone cracking in the tiger's grip. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">After 4 pm on both the days, we were escorted back to the
Royal Bengal Resort. The islands have no electricity, but the tourist resorts
run on generator were yet another surprise for us. We got to see an enactment of
the Bon Bibi legend by a local women’s group on the very first evening. The
play was done laudably: the acts, the songs and dialogues (even though they
were in Bangla, a language we don't follow, the drama was good enough to keep us riveted), not to
mention the costumes, brought this jungle-lore alive before us. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">On the last day, we travelled on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Baba Vishwanath</i> – another, smaller
launch – and were taken to see the farmland and settlements in the village of Charkerighar. We walked across an
embankment, taking in the destruction wrought by the cyclone Alia, signs of which
were everywhere. Alia had flattened the human settlements completely and ripped
apart the manmade banks. The ‘farms’ in the tide country are not as one would visualise them in other parts of India. Imagine land floating on water, here rising and there sinking. Water
finds its own way into little and big inlets and reminds you in no uncertain
terms, lest you forget your school geography, that it is water that dominates
the planet and that land is a mere digression.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">Vidya has uploaded a few pictures <a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/101845265568319383185/albums/5843230868533419761?banner=pwa&authkey=CLjWivHLs5S8fQ" target="_blank">here</a>. </span></div>
Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-22138594046900640002012-05-14T20:26:00.000+05:302012-12-31T20:04:05.212+05:30The Horizon Beyond the Arabian Sea<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifwZpBi7oyFyFdFGt4vGz6K-7tvQcXEDMxiUX2CNlscRxE_l4prpUgNQZYUTjHr9otNF6RmxjO6r_mH2cZDScVYg0SHFli83jIQuvTp52PYnBrtmYpzzcJsgA6aZT3WjAa2dkkg5dhKDY/s1600/awaas1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifwZpBi7oyFyFdFGt4vGz6K-7tvQcXEDMxiUX2CNlscRxE_l4prpUgNQZYUTjHr9otNF6RmxjO6r_mH2cZDScVYg0SHFli83jIQuvTp52PYnBrtmYpzzcJsgA6aZT3WjAa2dkkg5dhKDY/s320/awaas1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sand, trees and wind</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIkq4LlHJ5r9KxXnq_VJkMvsWtJkxC8ZSS6LElyCvYOikpf1B9nhQ2hqMycIZKJG6tDRh6QcWmaE7mqVa3pXf6Z38lAbYPX6kbU44I3qyUMx23gTvN-hqU35DS5AmGDAxVUgK5DLBQJr0/s1600/awaas3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIkq4LlHJ5r9KxXnq_VJkMvsWtJkxC8ZSS6LElyCvYOikpf1B9nhQ2hqMycIZKJG6tDRh6QcWmaE7mqVa3pXf6Z38lAbYPX6kbU44I3qyUMx23gTvN-hqU35DS5AmGDAxVUgK5DLBQJr0/s320/awaas3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awaas curving into the distance</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbaOFOqZ7ZiF5SwJYJptZzHqxrsTAhePsVg5e4xu_yZglAi6kyDDl7PXL8tETMe9EN7ayB8QtaTBbNzPTZzcMTovqFj1lHA6qmluGAKn7MnokqoJlV6Ve9RPlYdwkMUOuqO4_BLNo5cw/s1600/100_3347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbaOFOqZ7ZiF5SwJYJptZzHqxrsTAhePsVg5e4xu_yZglAi6kyDDl7PXL8tETMe9EN7ayB8QtaTBbNzPTZzcMTovqFj1lHA6qmluGAKn7MnokqoJlV6Ve9RPlYdwkMUOuqO4_BLNo5cw/s320/100_3347.JPG" width="320" /></a>It is a peculiar experience to stand looking out into the sea at the Gateway of India, with the magnificent concrete jungle behind you. Head deeper into the waters in a catamaran and you see in the distance a difference in the colour of the water a few miles away -- a while sheet by a shore lined with coconut palms swaying in the wind. Mumbai and Alibaug stare at each other across the ocean and a regular stream of tourists from the city escapes to the beaches on weekends.</div>
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We decided to avoid both the weekend crowd and the popular, commercialised Alibaug proper. Thanks to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/13603029243618901031">Rushikesh</a> for recommending the other beaches along the coast and the suggestion we look for a homestay . The idea appealed to us and after some searches on the internet, we zeroed in on <a href="http://www.mygreatstay.com/hotels-resorts/Maharashtra/Alibaug/Shree_Holiday_Resorts.html">Shree Holiday Resorts</a> at Chondi, near Kihim beach. Owned by Mr. Kaustubh Raut, it is his ancestral property, a pretty courtyard full of coconut trees with his own home and a separate building with neat rooms for guests. The pleasure of living for a couple of days in this simple and clean small town home will remain a fond memory for many years.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYqa0MIueG5xYOX48Uhx5Wn7a8pCrJWzm7pR17gZOPtbCQZRydP0LJvpu8T3bbtDlzKxdYgqrqkiDx7jJYbpavyMPtIyB68sSoeQBsTbi5OMSnsisQjZruPR0tchhhwKMqrpibvPVtE6Y/s1600/100_3447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYqa0MIueG5xYOX48Uhx5Wn7a8pCrJWzm7pR17gZOPtbCQZRydP0LJvpu8T3bbtDlzKxdYgqrqkiDx7jJYbpavyMPtIyB68sSoeQBsTbi5OMSnsisQjZruPR0tchhhwKMqrpibvPVtE6Y/s320/100_3447.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
The journey by ferry was itself unique. On our way to Mandwa we decided to take the PNP catamaran at 8:10 am. It had been a while since Vidya and I had set out on one of our short trips. Our last one was Matheran back in July and we were eager to enjoy this one to the fullest before a new hectic phase full of work.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCMO_nb3CQge7a8WpMELd2U0ng0aDlj9spuMQbXQPsYTyEzznhRx9TnCGAmvzu-T8UpLjOKMqgcNi77nKD8Gy-ye463e7U3nwZ5NCGUdxRu6hGTop2CxCtH_2K7cz6SOHHrBpbUMkVx4/s1600/100_3588.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCMO_nb3CQge7a8WpMELd2U0ng0aDlj9spuMQbXQPsYTyEzznhRx9TnCGAmvzu-T8UpLjOKMqgcNi77nKD8Gy-ye463e7U3nwZ5NCGUdxRu6hGTop2CxCtH_2K7cz6SOHHrBpbUMkVx4/s320/100_3588.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp664C-usoyutLeBnE3VNpGVSrnIvyyws-qulvnFumXb3CwEBBZwdbIFcK_tsWxAKnsRf6w74sVn3cXfUNOnJY2dls6avM61JLwdl1XfgsjMEthu-f7PZco53QaGizT6NFb0PiQoXNlzM/s1600/100_3383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp664C-usoyutLeBnE3VNpGVSrnIvyyws-qulvnFumXb3CwEBBZwdbIFcK_tsWxAKnsRf6w74sVn3cXfUNOnJY2dls6avM61JLwdl1XfgsjMEthu-f7PZco53QaGizT6NFb0PiQoXNlzM/s1600/100_3383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp664C-usoyutLeBnE3VNpGVSrnIvyyws-qulvnFumXb3CwEBBZwdbIFcK_tsWxAKnsRf6w74sVn3cXfUNOnJY2dls6avM61JLwdl1XfgsjMEthu-f7PZco53QaGizT6NFb0PiQoXNlzM/s320/100_3383.JPG" width="320" /></a>The ferry reached Mandwa jetty at about 9:00 am and the connecting bus soon dropped us at Chondi. Shree Homestay is located along the main road to Alibaug which made it very convenient for us to travel to places nearby. Mr. Raut welcomed us with some delicious upma and tea for breakfast. The food we had on the two days -- "very simple food" as our host described it -- was scrumptious Maharashtrian homemade cuisine with <i>usal</i>s and <i>daal</i>s and <i>sabji</i>s like <i>paneer burji</i> and <i>gavarchi bhaji</i>. Needless to say, we relished every morsel served fresh and hot.<br />
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We spent the afternoons on the courtyard playing carrom and having a go at the glorious hammocks and swings. I felt like a child again: the place is just so lovely you cannot stop gurgling all the time.<br />
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Vrindavan -- a private park, nursery and plantation just a few feet away from our homestay -- was full of different kinds of plants. Hot as it was, we could just about roam through the grounds before returning home for lunch. But even in the sunny weather, we hungrily took in all the greenery around, the rare plants and the hills in the distance. In a mere couple of hours were in a place starkly different from Mumbai. It was a break in the true sense of the term. I kept imagining how beautiful the landscape would look when the monsoon sets in.<br />
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On the first evening we visited Kihim beach which was barely three kilometers away. Most of the auto rickshaws have no meters here, so you have to believe and give what the auto driver asks. However, the distances are quite long, and the small autos are engaged only to places that lie away from the main roads. On the whole, we found that the local people guided us quite well. Obviously, it is much more convenient to get around in your own vehicle, but I personally enjoyed immensely the opportunity to explore travelling in the local buses as well as the six-seater shared autos (which actually seat some 10 people ;) ) and vans plying from Alibaug to Saswane/Rewas, taking and dropping off passengers at various points.<br />
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Kihim was rather muddy at low tide, a little littered and more crowded than Awaas which we visited the second evening. But still it is hardly commercialised in comparison with Alibaug. We did head to Alibaug from Kihim (that would have been a good ten kilometers) and here the most exhilarating experience was the horse cart ride at dusk along the curve of the beach and right into the waters as well! We left the dear animals with a caress, carrying back the thrill of horses' hooves galloping through waves in the falling darkness, the sea fort in silhouette against the horizon.<br />
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On the morning of the second day (11th), we set out to trek up to the Kankeshwar temple. Very enthusiastically, we got up early and left by 6 am. But the town was still asleep and we had to wait for nearly 50 minutes to get an auto which dropped us beyond a railway line some distance away from the foot of the hill. By now the summer sun was already shining down upon us and, in spite of my admonishing, refused to go hide behind the hill and let us climb in peace. The climb was not difficult as treks go, but yours truly was a bit tired, what with the heat and the newly acquired rotundity. Vidya was patient as I kept stopping and disbelieving signs that announced the number of steps yet to be conquered. When we began to climb it looked as though the summit would not be very far as it was a small hill. But the peak and temple at the top were hidden from view, so that the climb was actually much longer. Nonetheless, I enjoyed every bit of it, most of all because hardly a soul was in sight. For the two of us, this was the best aspect of the trip.<br />
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After a stop at a Maruti temple with a water tank nearby, we reached the main Kankeshwar temple of Lord Shiva. After meeting all the gods, we had breakfast at a small dhaba and headed back, clicking some snaps of the landscape on our way down.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNmM3S9IlKvqVsqWZNLdcN_-gBomy0Ov-5jP0n1FS8Y_-ysSpRE8bhKg0mQVOHssEsmMzWU7AhsSpSPqbJ-_hSRlXMLc1a9EDOVKWFgWTA8vXUdrUccvtLhdnsNs9ldUIxC60nE0HIDCk/s1600/ks1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNmM3S9IlKvqVsqWZNLdcN_-gBomy0Ov-5jP0n1FS8Y_-ysSpRE8bhKg0mQVOHssEsmMzWU7AhsSpSPqbJ-_hSRlXMLc1a9EDOVKWFgWTA8vXUdrUccvtLhdnsNs9ldUIxC60nE0HIDCk/s320/ks1.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOq4wloN8VQ7hThhsfoyyreMYxwqeLYg6NS1bYOGKUnpwF5xVRPa1QmJyswTaOdHpqbTXsVdG_VwGgo7tPoktT6WafdlezjwcAYpxSlVPA7FZ_NDRCeunS1EKEa1u8ExmxmQ5NJcN4SXM/s1600/ks2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOq4wloN8VQ7hThhsfoyyreMYxwqeLYg6NS1bYOGKUnpwF5xVRPa1QmJyswTaOdHpqbTXsVdG_VwGgo7tPoktT6WafdlezjwcAYpxSlVPA7FZ_NDRCeunS1EKEa1u8ExmxmQ5NJcN4SXM/s320/ks2.JPG" width="320" /></a> The second evening had more cheer in store for us. Karmarkar Shilpalay, a small building that houses the creations of the sculptor in his own home, was another enjoyable experience. We spent an hour admiring the statues that surprised us with their life-like quality. The cow in the backyard looked so real it could have mooed right there, and the servant who sat by the gate was as convincing as a man in flesh and blood. The caretaker narrated an anecdote of how the statue was once mistaken for a man by visitors in the late evening who complained of his impertinence when he did not respond to their greeting.<br />
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Awaas beach was the perfect climax of our holiday. We walked through a lane flanked by some enviably green and dense private property on either side and suddenly emerged into a vast, vast expanse of beach. Not a single juice stall or ice-cream seller was nearby and the beach waters roared magnificently in the hour immediately after high tide. We walked on the beautiful patterns formed by the sand admiring the bend of the water into the beach and the long coast. Mumbai is a white blur of ghostly sky scrapers at a distance from here. I could just not have enough of the salubrious breeze, the colourful shells on the shore and the amazing formations of sand and water. We took in the calm, the space and the air sitting on the rocks and walked about feeling a world of peace about us.<br />
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On the morning of the 12th, we clicked a few pictures of our homestay and waited on the main road outside the resort, where the Maldar pick up vehicle arrived on schedule and took us to Mandwa jetty. The Maldar catamaran is spacious and well-kept: the upper deck has fine seating arrangement and a good roof against the sun. The journey back was a bit rough in the beginning due to the direction of the wind, but the feeling of being back on the waters was a thrill once again.<br />
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All good things must come to an end and so did this most satisfying and utterly beautiful trip, but like the best things, it brought a fresh lease of life that is sure to tide us over several months and have a place among our dearest memories.<br />
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Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-58820135652120349742011-12-24T20:04:00.006+05:302013-07-28T18:23:52.359+05:30A year of achievements1) Learning to cook for real, to experiment with cooking, to cook traditional dishes and coming to really enjoy the activity.<br />
2) Learning to keep house and coming to enjoy that too!<br />
3) Understanding a particular -- and very peculiar -- kind of mental make up which is most of the time enraptured with numbers and displays special feelings for engines. <br />
4) Coping with quizzical looks in return for looks that say "I need attention because I am sad."<br />
5) Swallowing a sleepy (make that 'sleeping') grunt in reply to "Bye, I'll miss you."<br />
6) Accepting that "haan" or "hmm" can be a logical reply to an intense expression of affection.<br />
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In short, learning to live with a member of the male species who needs to be fed regularly in large quantities and who on the whole has the personality type of an algorithm. Congratulations to me.Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-90410242252948371312011-12-20T22:30:00.002+05:302011-12-20T22:30:52.852+05:30Miles to go... before I sleep.<br />
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How many more?<br />
Strength to face, strength to rise and strength to end. I must have.Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-37960818290249765662011-08-15T17:27:00.003+05:302015-07-01T20:51:53.339+05:30Music Immortalised<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
So my blog has been lying neglected for more than a year! An MPhil and a marriage surely cannot be that awful. Yet, they, and all the attendant changes and some unexpected dips and drops in terms of mood have taken a toll on my writing. And music.</div>
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It’s been a while since I returned to Mumbai and though God alone knows where I might be a few months from now, I have been unsuccessfully trying to decide whether and how to resume music class. Besides, singing itself is just not happening. Blame the inspiration that refuses to strike. The imagination has curled up in a hospital bed and the voice just... doesn’t... <i>lift</i>.</div>
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But this blog post was meant to be about a book. I read Vikram Seth’s <i>An Equal Music</i> in Bangalore. Its intensity caught me by surprise and though the plot is sometimes downright trite (all those contrived twists and turns about Julia hiding her deafness, the unconvincing story of a quick and long separation and Julia’s sudden marriage not to mention an ending that combines a predictable climax with an open conclusion), the best in the book is devoted almost exclusively and most exquisitely to music itself. The thrill of finding the Beethoven string arrangement or choosing The Art of the Fugue for an encore admittedly cannot mean for me what it means to a reader more closely familiar with Western classical music, but it did strike a most tuneful chord.</div>
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Michael’s intimacy with his violin matches his yearning for Julia and this is a relationship described with great poignancy. The recovery of the Tononi becomes almost a recompense for the inevitable loss of Julia and saves for Michael more than a history and a profession. The book talks like only a musician can, one who almost vanishes at the moment of making music. Such being the intensity in the novel, Michael’s neurosis, though exasperating, conveys piercing sorrow even in its obstinate self-torture. The pain is also present in Julia’s sinking sense of hearing that carries away from her what matters more than anything else to her, and it is as much conspicuous in her inability to share this language with anyone in her family. Which is why the guilty passion found again but foredoomed creates an unbearable despair amidst so much beauty in the landscapes of Vienna.</div>
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Although the novel ends sentimentally, for anyone who has known despair, irretrievable loss and the drowning swell of music that heals only as much as to keep alive and revive memory, these words may mean something:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope not to grieve? It is enough, it is blessed enough, to live from day to day and hear such music – not too much or the soul could not sustain it – from time to time.</span></div>
Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-25896171225920172072010-06-23T20:54:00.014+05:302011-09-08T18:54:45.135+05:30CATS!"Narayani, inga va!" (Narayani, come here), called out my grandma when we visited her at Aurangabad. Assuming it was the maid she was addressing, I peered into the kitchen. The said Na-ra-ya-ni had four paws and a mew. Surprise. As she slurped a dishful of milk, a laughing cousin informed me that her daughter was called 'Kalyani'. The names, courtesy our dear granny of course.<br />
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Granny wasn't really an animal lover, but somehow she seemed to have taken to Mrs. Narayani and her offspring. Nevertheless, she warned us against getting too close to furs. To add emphasis to her point, she told us the story of a man in the neighbourhood whose cat one day suddenly decided to claw his face and draw blood. <br />
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When I was a toddler, I once visited Mysore with my parents. We stayed with my father's aunt, a sprightly woman in her seventies whose ancient widow's costume and shaven head teased my curiosity even as they gave her a formidable appearance. In her backyard was a litter of kittens. She would put out milk for them every morning. Now and then I would steal quick glances at them till one of them mewed at me, sending me scampering into the house. As a child I was scared of cats and terrified of dogs.<br />
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Some very weird people like cats. Like T.S. Eliot and Roger Maioli.<br />
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Must admit people think up great names for pets when they use their imagination. Tanmay is certain the decentest pet's name would be 'Newton'. Then there is Rog's imaginary future cat called 'Shmul' (never asked him where he got that name from or if he made it up) which will keep him company as he pores over tomes of hard-bound, gold-embossed books and sips steaming coffee. <br />
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My granny used to tell me when cats shut their eyes they assume the world disappears. Whoosh!Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-61874759875473196652010-06-03T13:02:00.003+05:302010-06-05T13:10:27.774+05:30To Marguerite -- Continued <b></b> <span style="color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #7f6000;"> </span></span><span style="color: #7f6000; font-size: small;"><b>Matthew Arnold</b></span></span><br />
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<blockquote>Yes! In the sea of life enisled,<br />
With echoing straits between us thrown,<br />
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,<br />
We mortal millions live alone<i>.</i>The islands feel the enclasping flow,<br />
And then their endless bounds they know. </blockquote><blockquote>But when the moon their hollows light,<br />
And they are swept by balms of spring,<br />
And in their glens, on starry nights,<br />
The nightingales divinely sing;<br />
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,<br />
Across the sounds and channels pour—</blockquote><blockquote>Oh! Then a longing like despair<br />
Is to their farthest caverns sent;<br />
For surely once, they feel, we were<br />
Parts of a single continent!<br />
Now round us spreads the watery plain—<br />
Oh might our marges meet again! </blockquote><blockquote>Who ordered that their longing’s fire<br />
Should be as soon as kindled, cooled?<br />
Who renders vain their deep desire?<br />
A God, a God their severance ruled!<br />
And bade betwixt their shores to be<br />
The unplumbed salt, estranging sea.</blockquote>Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-38838232486540092132010-06-01T17:15:00.000+05:302010-06-01T17:15:40.912+05:30Round and round I turn...<br />
will I never reach?<br />
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Why such restless wandering<br />
to reach what lies so near?Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-83243777466505099942010-05-30T19:06:00.001+05:302010-05-30T19:06:37.387+05:30"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."<br />
-- Jalaluddin RumiSarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-42703166331353850982010-05-12T14:17:00.007+05:302010-05-12T14:33:39.843+05:30"Who never spoke before his spirit moved"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDhXdzRF9RR_dFIeR24T3W8YzY5bxRk6bPE-6SkxrCKNWQNJcFzGG4XUui_21gxWmRAIrlGzx9v_6sYBpThEc4QHOORHGroBlHv2YDdiuSIXhTMdMAEyH8BvnRhWXmIt_i9866vqyj_M/s1600/ocean-temperature.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDhXdzRF9RR_dFIeR24T3W8YzY5bxRk6bPE-6SkxrCKNWQNJcFzGG4XUui_21gxWmRAIrlGzx9v_6sYBpThEc4QHOORHGroBlHv2YDdiuSIXhTMdMAEyH8BvnRhWXmIt_i9866vqyj_M/s200/ocean-temperature.jpg" width="147" /></a></div>Crises come unannounced. Do they give us a glimpse of the deep aquamarine layers within our selves or create a fleeting illusion of there being more to us than the shimmer and go of our daily existence? If it be the former, why doesn't the experience stay? The spirit moves so seldom and so subtly that it is gone before you capture it. And then it wanes and wanes into a figment of the imagination that seems all too unreal after a few days. <br />
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If the artist spoke only when his spirit moved (and in the fortunate event that paper-n-pen or mouse-n-keyboard were at hand), how plentiful would his output be? Philip Larkin's average of nine poems a year seems daunting enough, even for a poet who confessed to writing of banalities and the 'decisions of the flesh' rather than anything as intangible as the spirit. Quantity doesn't matter, one might say. But I suspect meagreness of output also reflects the poverty of these intense moments in our small lives. Else there are sparse pinpricks of diamonds among heaps of coal!<br />
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Perhaps the roots are yet too far out of my reach, perhaps this is one of those times when I manage to keep doubts at bay to believe in virtual reality. Am I being guided or teased?Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-84398821263076727742010-04-04T13:52:00.003+05:302010-04-04T14:06:04.875+05:30 "My heart leaps up when I behold/ A rainbow in the sky."<br />
-- William Wordsworth<br />
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Doubtless, the universe is immeasurably beautiful. But are we capable of apprehending this beauty? A disillusioned heart is not proof of the absence of birdsong.Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170652199270607752.post-4029165888417773432010-03-29T21:18:00.001+05:302010-10-01T21:45:55.608+05:30The moon, they say, causes tidal waves, both in the oceans and in the unknown depths of our oceanic selves.<br />
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But today the full moon, an awesome floodlight in the sky, brought peace to me at last. When I stop asking, you give of all your tender care, all the more mysterious for your fearful immensity.Sarojahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11672546030019787651noreply@blogger.com1