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? 

And now for something literally different

Part 2

Some seasons are fuzzy. But this must have been Winter, late February. The train slowly arrived in Sintra to a halt. Ahimsa didn’t really know what to expect… it had been a while since she had first been there. She alighted the train and slowly walked up the platform towards the exit.

At first she noticed the soft grey woolen jumper hanging from the shoulders, the striking blue jeans. She thought she might surprise him from behind, but as soon as she smiled about it, the upper part of his body turned, his designed profile smiled and a glint of light sparkled in his eyes, he had seen her. His smile lingered on until she got close to him and they greeted each other. She began talking about college student trivia: how were the exams coming along, etcetera and the magic was gone. 

It took her many years later to realize it, but he had also felt the magic of that first encounter. There would be others afterwards, but the one that would stick in her memory forever would be that one: the grey woolen jumper, his profile, his smile, his gleaming green eyes.

The outings in Sintra had begun in February as a sporadic event, a break from the humdrum of college life: the same people, in the same cafeteria, day after day. But the first encounter, how they actually met had happened almost a year before, in much less romantic or idyllic circumstances. Again, this Ahimsa remembers clearly, why can’t she recall meeting E.B.? Why has that memory faded into oblivion?

previous   |   still to be continued...

And now for something literally different

Part One

She couldn’t really recall the exact moment, she has, however, this feeling of being early evening. The sun was about to set and there was this orangey light on the street. He was going out and she was coming in, so they politely greeted each other at the gate. He smiled – his whole face smiled beyond politeness, there was a true kindness in that smile. Ahimsa smiled back – they were neighbors after all and they would see each other for the following next nine months or so.

This is, in fact, the first memory Ahimsa has of Georges. Then there are these faded images of talking on the steps of the house and sharing some deep philosophical thoughts. And the story telling at bed time… But I am getting ahead of myself and of Ahimsa’s own ability to recall memories, for more than places, words and images Ahimsa remembers Georges as sweet, as tender, as a great listener. She remembers the warmth of his arms around her, the gentleness of his touch, in spite the chiseled body. And the huge kindness of his smile.

Oddly enough, what had brought them together and brought about their friendship it had been his anger, rather than his sweetness and infinite patience. Of course it was all about a girl, as usual is. She just had the knack to drive him insane, to push him to the limit, to transform him. She was something else.

January and the evenings are bitterly cold, the new year has just arrived with rainy days and cool evenings. There would not be that many passersby at the streets looking at the Christmas’ lights one last time.  The airport was surprisingly warm and crowded. It was Friday, right after supper. Ahimsa’s heart was tingling with happiness and anticipation, it had been eight years since she had last seen him.

[to be continued...]

Mostly Harmless

Largo de São Carlos | Lisboa 

To my Sister, who by tirelessly encouraging me on all things literary, has introduced me to David Lodge, Kipling, H.G.Wells and Douglas Adams, amongst many others.

This has been the Summer of reading immersion. As the really short shorts and really mini mini-skirts parade in Lisboa, in its sunny, shining, foreign-accent crowded streets, I find myself travelling as well, through out England in particular and the Galaxy in general.

As my heart feels confused and my head tired of the blood pumping machine, I find it utterly important to read. It seems to do the trick. From David Lodge’s “A Man of Parts” and “Deaf Sentence”, to Nick Hornby’s “About a Boy” or back to Douglas Adams’ “The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”, all this literary fiction gives me perspective. I find myself detaching from my own problems and through an English literary filter (I have a week spot for English writers) all seems to make sense again. Oddly enough, the books that have been helping me the most are the THHGG saga ones.

David Lodge reminds me, once again, of the beauty of language, English in particular. There’s a way in which he writes these stories that not only make the story and its characters stand out, with a vigor of its own, but that also enhance the wording. It seems that the words alone encapsulate meaning and beauty, in spite of context. But there’s more, his own university professor background helps the reader understand the literary, etymological value of the words, the story behind the story, the meaning behind mere vocabulary. And I’m gone, I’m lost in this world of sensitive men of letters, who appreciate a good book as much as a well written paragraph, who are lost in love and found in writing.

Nick Hornby was a quite different experience though: London of the nineties, of grunge, of support groups, of troubled teenagers and misguided adults. From cover to cover, page to page, I wished to see how the story unfolds, how these terrifically incompatible lives come together in harmony, because of a boy. An endearing 12 year old boy, too wise and sensible for his own good. And there’s hope: incompatible does not mean impossible, it means a long work in progress. I smile.

But it’s Adams, however, in its zany approach to Life, the Universe and Everything that takes the biscuit. In its over-simplistic but very colorful language, with all the absurdity and defiant Quantum Physics, makes me realize that love it’s pretty much like flying: “The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss. Pick a nice day, [The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy] suggests, and try it. The first part is easy. All it requires is simply the ability to throw yourself forward with all your weight, and the willingness not to mind that it's going to hurt.”.

We can work it out...



or not.

People will tell you that I am feisty. People will tell you that I am argumentative. People will tell you I will question and challenge your arguments, simply because I stubbornly do not believe in dogmas. I will not deny any of these statements. I will ask a LOT of questions, mostly because I really want to understand your point of view, to understand where are you coming from, to walk on your shoes. I will welcome your views, arguments and facts, I will admit to being wrong.

You do not need to keep on talking until you cannot go on. Sometimes, because life is very short, and there is no time for fighting and fussing, it’s just better to agree to disagree.

There will be days when we cannot work it out, there will be days when I will not agree with you. And in those days, all I can wish for is that you respect my right to differ. That you respect the fact that I do not share your view. That you respect me. Being dismissive of this, to bulldoze me with facts that support and illustrate your view, to try to convince me, to win me over with numerous arguments and facts will just push me away. It’s one thing to challenge me and my views, to help me see things under a different perspective, another thing is to bombard me with data, until I’m too tired to answer back or think for myself. And then it feels like bullying, and I am hurt.

Each offensive strike will push me a step away, further and further away. I hate arguments, so when the debating is finished and it’s a matter of your view against mine, I will give up and walk away, running the risk of knowing that my love will soon be gone.

Soul Searching

http://www.gocomics.com/ziggy/2011/07/30