Here’s a little bit of gossip

You know the difference between news and gossip, don't  you? News tells you what people did. Gossip tells you how much they enjoyed it.

― Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram.

Dear Mr. Roberts,

Yesterday, I finished reading Shantaram… for the second time. And I’ve got tell you, I enjoyed it even more than the first time around!

My fellow commuters endured nervous laughs, sighs, discreet swearing, tears and yes… waggling of the head, for a month or so, in my daily 20 minutes train ride. Oh yes, I found myself crying, weeping really, on the train, during my morning commute, when I read about Prabaker’s death. And I knew it was going to happen! But how can you not love Prabaker? How can you not be moved my Anand’s sense of honour? How can you not go “way to go Vikram!”, when Lettie finally says yes? How can you not cry with Rukhmabai, when she cuts her hair? How can you not smile when you see young Prabu? You cannot, you just can’t.

When my parents first read the book they wouldn’t stop talking about it, they’d go on for hours, on how incredible the plot was, how faithfully the Indians were depicted, how you would be transported to India in a couple of sentences. And I, of course, as all children, was skeptical… surely they were exaggerating a bit, they read it  while on their yearly vacation in Goa. But then, when I borrowed the book and finished reading… I was  more of a Shantaram-Evangelist than they were! I would be the one who wouldn’t shut up about it, I would be the one describing my favourite bits and quotes,  I would be the one to say “yaar” and “arrey”, whenever appropriate. Besides, how can a Ahimsa not love a Shantaram?

So, this second time around, I found myself Shantaram-Evangelising, once again, to the extent of giving a copy in Portuguese, as a Christmas present, to one of my dearest friends, who had to hear all about it at lunch time. When she saw me after Christmas she gave me a huge hug, before I could even say a word, and said “Is that a bear hug? Is that how Abdullah did it?”. I smiled and nodded, you see, we don’t have the expression either in Portuguese.

My copy of Shantaram is earmarked, folded, the spine is broken… it’s in worse condition now, than when it travelled all the way from India to Portugal. So I guess I have to give a new copy to my parents, I cannot let go of this one, not just yet, because as my Mother said “… when you read it, you’re right in the middle of it, you feel you are right there with them [Indian people]…”. How can I ever give that up? 

The ingredients for a fantasy novel

As I was walking down Avenida da Liberdade, right in the heart of Lisboa, I realized how romantic it looked. In spite of the boisterous designer shops, the loud kiosks that serve hot drinks and cocktails and the constant cars driving up and down, if you walk right in the middle of it, in the large and wide sidewalk, of black and white cobbled stones, all that noise is hushed down by trees.

And then you notice it: the beautiful designs in the sidewalk, the statues, the shade, the quietness. And just in case you're lost amidst this bucolic scenery, there they are: arrows. One pointing to Praça da Alegria (Square of Joy), Príncipe Real (Royal Prince, if you cynical you can also translate to Real Prince) and Rato (Mouse).

I took another look (and a picture, too!) of the signs and laughed at the thought of Lisboa having just the right ingredients for a Louis Carrol/C.S. Lewis, fantasy novel.

Namaste!

Home away from home

"Hello! Good afternooon!"
"Hello!"
"Did you miss me much?", I asked jokingly.
"But of course, we did!", she replied with a broad smile.
"Liar! How's business?"
"Good, good. We are having a couple of good months. May almost full, June all booked. How was your trip?"
"Tiresome actually, I have a bit of a headache..."
"Don't you worry about a thing! Your room is ready, here's your key. You can go upstairs straight away and rest !"
"Aaah! Thanks a million. On which side is the room?"
"On the left, overlooking the stream, of course", her smiled melted away, a bit disappointed at me.
"Of course, as usual".

I thanked once more, bidded farewell and left to my room. It was only 30 minutes later, when I finally laid down, that I realized that, for the first time in my life, I didn't have to say my name, show some ID or the hotel reservation to make the check-in. Actually I had arrived two hours before check-in time.

I smiled to myself, "so this is what it means to be a regular, feeling at home, away from home".

Namaste!

Remember, remember the 25th of May!

Source: http://www.daysoftheyear.com/days/towel-day/

A Leisurely Labor Day

The sun was shinning bright, my legs were in want of some real walking and I still had a couple of Sherlock Holmes adventures to read. I decided to go to Sintra… Oh wow! it was a bit of a shock at first: lots of people, street sellers everywhere, bumper to bumper traffic jam, an array of new shops… Sintra was far more touristy than I remembered it. I was dismayed at first, but then I soldiered on right into the centre and then took a right at the main street.

As I moved away from the centre, the tourists, the buses and the noise, I encountered the Sintra that I once knew:  absolute quietness, old houses with shady gardens, derelict buildings invaded with ivy, water streaming down the slopes, everywhere to be heard, nowhere to be seen and that fresh breeze from the hills. I walked up and down the winding roads, enjoying the completely deserted scenery: not a car,  nor a person to be seen or heard. I soaked up the sun and when I found myself at a busy junction, distributing traffic, I decided to go back. As long as the castle and the palace where in sight, I knew I wasn’t lost. It was 5 o’clock, so I decided to have a very much deserved cup of tea with some scones.

Memory served me right, and squeezed between an old building and a steep road, I found one of my favourite tea houses. You have to climb a rather narrow iron staircase and… ring on the doorbell! After a couple of minutes, this lovely red haired lady, old enough to be my mother, came to the door. Her golden spectacles hanging from the nose, her striking blue eyes and black uniform reminded me of how Mary Poppins would have looked like in her later years. I ordered the tea and scones, I sat comfortably by the large windows and enjoyed Watson’s and Holmes’ crime fighting adventures. I must have lingered on for longer than I expected, because the one thing that woke me up from my reading dreamy state was the smell of… dinner! I decided it was time to escape, before I indulged in some lavish meal. As I walked to the counter I met the waiter:

“You’re leaving?! But I was just about to take you some extra cookies, so you could stay a bit longer!”

“I’m afraid it’s about time I leave. But if you insist, I’ll take those cookies for the train ride, just in case I get peckish!”, I replied jokingly.

It was too late, I was taken seriously… While I blushed and apologized for the silly joke, the waiter presented me the bill, while the red haired lady with the golden spectacles wrapped the cookies in foil.

“Well, now… all this undeserved kindness must be rewarded. Can I give you a kiss?”, I asked at the red haired lady with the golden spectacles.

“A kiss? Why sure, dear!”, and as she said so, she gave me a very warm grandma hug, you know the kind.

Euphemism!

• a gentleman does not drive insane, drives to distraction...
• shooting one's wall out of pure boredom is not proposterous it's just that pistol practice should be distincly an open-air pastime...
• bullet holes in one's flat walls is not horrible, but rather does not improve the atmosphere nor the appearance of the room...
• and relics are all over the place, they just have a way of wandering into unlikely positions...

An anomaly which often struck me in the character of my friend Sherlock Holmes was that, although in his methods of thought he was the neatest and most methodical of mankind, and although also he affected a certain quiet primness of dress, he was none the less in his personal habits one of the most untidy men that ever drove a fellow-lodger to distraction. Not that I am in the least conventional in that respect myself. [...] But with me there is a limit, and when I find a man who keeps his cigars in coalshuttle, his tobacco in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and his unanswered correspondence transfixed by a jack-knife into the very centre of his wooden mantelpiece, then I begin to give myself virtuous airs. I have always held, too, that pistol practice should be distincly an open-air pastime; and when Holmes, in one of his queer humours, would sit in an armchair with his hair-trigger and hundred Boxer cartridges and proceed to adorn the opposite wall with a patriotic V. R. done in bullet-pocks, I felt strongly that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our room improved by it.

Our chambers were always full of chemicals and of criminal relics which had a way of wandering into unlikely positions, and of turning up in the butter-dish or in even less desirable places.

The Musgrave Ritual, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The game’s afoot!

It all began with a very well defined purpose: get decent tennis shoes. But somehow,  after having walked over 3 km, I found myself with two bags, none carrying the sought after walking equipment. In fact, I arrived home with two new shirts, which I desperately needed and… a book. So much for my utilitarian rule “no shelves, no books!”.

Having become a huge fan of BBC’s Sherlock I was eager to re-read the Holmes Adventures. I had read most of them when I was 13, and a few in the original version.  In fact,  it was my sister who lent me The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in English for the first time, and got me hooked on original versions (as opposed to translations). I remember lying on my bed and being completely immersed in Victorian London, with its fog, black coaches, smoking trains and invisible telegraph wires. Somehow the stories seemed more real, entertaining, Holmes far more quirkier and Watson more gentlemanly. Something was indeed lost in translation.

Today, as I read the mysteries again, I feel the magic once more and I realize what has been lost in translation – the Victorian speech. The interjections “The game’s afoot!”, the politeness both kind “Pray take a seat (…) I shall be happy to do anything that I can to serve you” or down right insulting “You [Lestrade] do not add imagination to your other great qualities…”. And with each sentence, reply, exclamation Holmes, Watson and Lestrade materialize.

Capital! isn’t it?

Does talent allure talent?

If it does... What are the rules of engagement?

Any thoughts?

Monday Sillyness

It's Monday.
Let's kick-off the week with some well deserved sillyness and non-sense.

If you enjoyed this cartoon, check-out David Blazek's work.

Best advice ever!

Best advice ever... well, at least, from an horoscope! 

Historia de Mayta

“¿Por qué no mentir más bien desde el principio?”
“Porque soy realista, en mis novelas trato siempre de mentir con conocimiento de causa – le explico”.

Mario Vargas Llosa, Historia de Mayta

Ladies and gentleman, I am proud to announce that the Summer of Reading Immersion is on! At the moment the score is quite good: one book and half in seven days. Why half a book? Well I did begin reading Historia de Mayta in Winter, took a break during Spring and picked it up again in sunny Cabanas.

Historia de Mayta brings us to Peru of the 50s, boiling with revolutionary groups, a blinding theoretical hunger for change, pillared on ideals and weaponry, armed leftist ideals. Based on a true story of a small outburst of revolution in rural Peru, Jauja (who knows, maybe it’s the “darkest Peru” where Paddington comes from), Llosa goes through several interviews with people who, one way or another, witnessed the events, and portrays to us Mayta, the revolutionary.

Once again, as in La Fiesta del Chivo, I’m simultaneously marveled and disgusted at the corrupt, self-centered mind of the politician. Llosa describes it superbly, insightfully, leaving the reader with a bitter taste of foregone ideals, of corruption, treason and violent persecution of whomever is against the regime. When the disappointment is more than we can take, Llosa takes us a step further recounting the interview with the man on whom Mayta was based upon. This reader’s heart sunk: a battered man, forgiven once but persecuted forever, surrendered to shanty town life of making ends meet, but saddest of all, with no memory, a living ghost of himself.

Excuse... may I suggest something?

Ziggy by Tom Wilson & Tom II

Exodus...or the End of Christmas Season!

The Nativity Scene figurines go back to the box relunctantly

This Christmas, as I invested a bit more time with the decorations, my heart sank when I had to wrap up the figurines and put them back in the box. 

But then again, Mr. Woodsman wants his place back, holding notices and postcards, a whole new adventure in a brand new year.

So Long and Thanks for All the Fish

So far, along side "The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy", the favourite of the triology of 4.
Incidentally, as I arrived home the movie was playing on TV.

Talk about Improbability Drive!

My favourite season

First and foremost, my apologies to whoever wrote and composed the song, but mostly to Ms. Andrews whose lovely voice has imprinted "My Favourite Things" on a whole generation's childhood. And I apologise too, for skipping a stanza, but there are a limited number of things I do like about this season.

Ready?

Roasted chestnuts on smoky street corners
Mapleleaf sidewalks and half-naked tree branches
Young college students in traditional robes
The tea kettle is whistling on the stove!

Orangy persimmons on the greengrocer’s stall
Opera and theatre premières pasted on walls
Eager young children on their 1st day of school
First craving for soft garments of wool!

When Winter comes, when Spring’s gone
When Summer’s sun's too hot
I simply remember
My favourite things
And long for Fall! 

And thus Autumn arrives...

(please don’t) Forget Paris…

and When Harry Met Sally , as well as other 90s romantic comedies. It’s one of my guilty pleasures, romantic comedies: from Singin’ in the Rain (romantic comedy and musical, every modern man nightmare, I guess) to French Kiss, I love the genre - the sharp dialogues, the great gestures, the happy endings. Let me tell you how much I enjoy these movies, I’ve talked so much about it and quoted it so often, that a work colleague when he went to Nice, he took a picture of “Cartier’s”, where one of the final scenes of “French Kiss” takes place. (And yes, I can quote the dialogue by heart).

I feel, however, that recent romantic comedies, funny and romantic as they are, they’re not as thought provoking as the ones I’ve mentioned. Let me explain: the comedy is in the theatricals, the circumstances surrounding the characters, sometimes the characters themselves, rather than in the writing/dialogues.

And this is what I miss of Billy Cristal’s comedies. “Forget Paris” in particular is all about story telling: this couple has an amazing love story that is narrated by their mutual friends. Each one brings (literally) something different to table (they are waiting for the couple in a restaurant) and with each view, there’s an enriching detail about the story. There’s an eager and attentive guest, new to the group of friends and the couple in question that, as the story develops, becomes hopeful/less towards the whole idea of marriage. From lover’s bliss to marriage hell and some odd events, the viewer is rooting for the “love conquers all” ending.

On sitcoms I feel the same, I miss terribly Mad About You for the same reasons. So please let’s not “Forget Paris” and let’s hope for rich, enticing dialogues and yet with a lovely “French Kiss” ending.