Well…well. It has been a while since I picked up a comic book. The guffawing over Tintin much to the chagrin of the mother who was trying to get a quiet afternoon rattling with the noisy Singer machine, while the rain pounded at the window and the wind whooshed menacingly, is tucked away in the recesses of a past.
Tintins were great. The Thompson and Thomson, Professor Calculus and of course the Captain (“BLISTERING BARNACLES” – I’ve forgotten his name, Harold ? Haddock! Yes!). The point is, I haven’t lost myself in the comic book world for a long time. A friend of mine lent me his book “Persepolis” and I must thank him for it.
The complexity of generations of bumbling in Iranian history, so well presented through the endearing voice of Marjane Satrapi had me lost in the book.
If one is looking to get a glimpse of Iranian culture, this isn’t the book. But to get a perspective of turmoil and how human beings find a way of adapting – this is a good book. Stark contrasting images, the humour and of course the appalling mystery of what humans perpertrate on one another in the name of ruling are etched into my memory.
The book had my eyes stinging in the final page (Caution: my tear ducts are very loosely controlled. I cried for Finding Nemo and Shrek!) But I loved Persepolis and am waiting to read her remaining works.
Here’s wishing more peace and happiness to everybody on Diwali.
Most people know I have the patience of a hen sitting on a reluctant egg to hatch with creative projects. In fact, it is documented legend – I have cut off sleeves, necks and diameter from projects in my youth. Aah – youth. The enthusiasm of youth and the euphoria of new wool would cause me to make statements such as: “I am going to knit a full hand sweater for my father”
The father beamed, the mother held judgement. Once the armies saluted the effort, I would start on the ambitious sweater. I liked knitting, I just thought my father was rather large for a teenager to knit a full hand sweater for. As time went by, the sweater would grow…..quite slowly, since there were more pressing demands on my time, such as thinking about nothing. (It is surprising how many hours of youth has been spent in this fulfilling occupation!)
The sweater would slowly and steadily morph into a half sleeve sweater for then then short and lanky brother. I am not sure about the psychological scars one gets from wearing sweaters knitted by elder sisters as a hobby, but the brother bore them well. I am not sure he would take kindly to them now, but then, he was a star. He was so intent on getting out there and playing that he wore anything.
This time, our creative pursuits were Diwali oriented. The daughter and I played with Rangoli this time around.
Then as though playing with the powders weren’t enough, we had to mess around with the pulses. I actually stepped out and bought Masoor Dal for the Diyas. Now, I have 2 pounds of masoor dal with no recipes to boot. But, the rangoli looked good.
Happy Diwali all of you! And please point me to recipes using 2 pounds of masoor dal, while you are at it!
I try to slumber through without a post. But the tantalizing world just wouldn’t allow me to go on about the important task of twiddling and spinning my pen on the desk. I mean the Dorothys** of the world have to call and discuss something. Forget the Dorothys, I say. I have discovered the joys of spinning a pen, and nothing is going to distract me from my noble pursuit today.
See how it spins?!
Then, there is the important twitter about Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize. What is that all about? Let the man breathe, let him take his dog for a spin. You can’t straddle a fellow with responsibility like this. Now, he has to go about talking to Taslama Bin Laddoo Boondi about peace, because he won the Peace Prize! I mean, when can he do his job as a President?
The man, for better or for worse, I can’t say which, proved to be an excellent orator. Now, grocers want him making speeches on organic produce, islands want him making a discourse on the prudent use of tidal waves. Add to that the strain of making the Peace speeches, what’s the speech writer to do?
I like to imagine that in the past, there were drawings to see the most strenuous jobs in the White House. The chef competed with the Chief Gardener, who competed with the Building Security. In this draw, I would have to vote for Speech Writer. He is already nose down into writing the finest speeches, and now, he is clobbered with peace?
Ah well…spin the pens on your desk for inspiration I say. It is a tough world with tough demands. Mental faculties have to be preserved. I mean: What’s a Bloke to do for some Peace? Win the Nobel Peace Prize of course.
Let there be Peace!
** For you sticklers, Dorothy is a figment of my imagination, with whom I have interacted in my dreams, if ever.
Rahul Gandhi is quoted as being open minded about caste. Laudable and all that. But given the opportunities the man had, if he HAD placed importance on caste – shame on Education! (See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rahul_Gandhi)
If you breeze over the comments, you will find folks asking for reservations to be removed too. The point is not that, comments such as “In the future, when you become Prime Minister” concern me. It is not “In the future, if you become Prime Minister”, it is “when you become Prime Minister” like a royal passage of right.
People have to work hard to get to their state of being, in order to be responsible to themselves and to society. This sort of entitlement in a democracy is trying; because we are still stating that birth is better than talent.
Have you heard the shocking news of the suicide bomber who marginally achieved his target? He was supposed to kill the Deputy something minister for Saudi Arabia. He became a victim to his own ass. attempt, but failed
This man, had the “stuff” tucked neatly away in his ass – that’s right! Up his anal cavity! It managed to destroy him, but not the shocked Deputy something minister for Saudi Arabia.
The last time somebody said liquids are hazardous, airports made people regurgiate their saliva when thirsty. No liquids allowed beyond check point. Fair enough. Rather thirsty than an entry in the obituary was the general consensus. I have blogged on this particular phenomenon here:
Now, if people start carrying *dash* up their *dash*, what are the measures to be taken? The mind boggles. As it is, we take off jackets, shoes, purses and are allowed our personal intimates for decency during the process. But, if the most personal of spots is the culprit, what would the regulation be?
1) Show evidence of having gone Potty atleast 5 minutes prior to check-in? What do people with chronic constipation have to do? (What? We have to cover all angles, don’t we?)
2) Remove the g-lines?
3) Sit on a hot spot during the check-in process. The seat would alternate with heat and coldness alike.
4) Make you lie face down through the baggage checker scan.
Do come up with your own speculations! I am eager to see the ideas lurking out there!
I am brimming with pride. I am now a gardener par excellence. See the fruits of labour in our little patch? It could be argued (with merit of course!) that I did nothing towards the venture other than provide a square foot of land in the garden.
However, my links to the greatest feats of gardening are close. I had a friend in School, whose parents won the Annual Best Garden of the Year award in the Nilgiris Flower Show for many years in a row. I have walked in that garden and admired the roses. I am an authority when it comes to admiring flowers. Like art patrons are essential to Art, folks like me are essential to gardeners, what?!
If plants could move, I have no doubts that they would have happily fled my backyard in search of wetter pastures. In fact, I firmly believe that the untimely showers which wreck a day in the park for some are because my plants yearned for water.
I am not an insensitive person- far from it, just forgetful. If I heard the grumbling, I would have been on top of the case, watered them to floods and generally nursed them till they yearned to be left alone. As it turns out, these lovely trees and plants are remarkably quiet. So, I have gone for days, letting an apricot wilt away wistfully, while the pines in the backyard nearby shed their dew on this tree to keep it from shutting down. I know a phenomenal amount about insects in plants (that is to say, I can see them sometimes, but don’t know what to do beyond that)
For this tomato though, the seed was planted by the youngest, and the water fountains were turned on the by the eldest in the household. I am the proud presenter of the rich tomato – completely organic, since I know nothing of sprays or fertilizers.