A Rainy Day - Part II

I hassled the auto driver into the apartment.
I saw my mother and brother at the entrance, looking around worriedly. I waved and smiled at them, touched by how concerned they were, for my safety. I shielded my head against the rain (what a silly thing to do) as I got out of the auto, rummaging in my bag for my wallet. It was then that my mother pointed out to something behind me. I expected to see a pile of hailstones collected in radiant glory as I turned around.
The Peepal tree had weakly collapsed in a magnificent heap of green on the road, blanketing our white car in a confused tangle of green and brown. I let my breath out in a low gasp.
The tree had been severed cleanly, almost as if in a sharp stroke of fury, near its roots. I noticed a deep gash on it's trunk for the first time. The tree had crashed helplessly on the road, and on our car, bringing down two little decorative palms with it. The car and the fallen palms were wrapped in their entirety.
Ripe fruits still clung to the slim branches, lost symbols of a lost life. I wondered where the bulbuls would perch now. Where the crowd of mynahs would gather to busily chatter. Where the cuckoo would coo coyly from. Where the little birds would flit restlessly now.
I stared out of my window. There was no tree, swaying its lush green reluctantly in a slow rustle, like the sound of a flying flock of birds. There was only the grey sky, staring dully back at me.
I looked down to see the tree that now lay tragic in its majesty. Green leaves, fresh from the rain, spilled around her weakened limbs, giving her pale skin a fading sign of life
Slowly the people gathered around the fallen tree, venturing around to the front to get a better view of the crushed car. They sympathized with my mother, gasped at the right places. Little kids pranced around the green, merrily, proudly, retelling stories of the fall that had jolted them out of their skin.
 Help came and cut the branches one by one. Little by little, tiny specks of white emerged from the varying shades of green. The car stumbled into view, with a cracked windshield, a dent on its head. A ragged, ravaged, rusty, radiant 800.
The car was parked away, with plans of repair work being made. It could easily be driven again, some agreed.
Others stared out of their window, their eyes only finding a memory of dancing green. The wood of the tree was hacked away. Her voice had fallen silent.

A Rainy Day - Part I

The auto swerved dangerously away from rippling pools of brown water. White froth swirled around rainbow colours that stretched thin arms to spread slowly along the road. The auto driver peered restlessly ahead of him, at the endless line of loud sounding vehicles, accelerating to stuttering stops. He turned his vehicle around a truck that suddenly jerked forward.
No, wait. Back up. Let me start earlier. For six months, I couldn't sleep...oh wait..i'm quoting an extra line now (Yes! Finally, I quote Fight Club!). Let me just start earlier.
I trudged along the road wearily, hopefully looking into every auto. The grey skies rumbled thirstily. My fingers absently fiddled with the knot that my earphones had tangled themselves into. Auto drivers shook their heads, aristocratically bored at the sound of my destination. Finally, a nice chap nodded enthusiastically which I took to be a friendly "Hop In!"
So now then, the auto driver stopped to crane his head and glare at the truck driver. His neck didn't oblige that twisted turn, so he muttered angrily and shot off on the road. He sped past cars moving in the opposite direction. It's a, what they might call, a 'clever ploy' that the auto guys use. They use a gap in the divider to get to the other side and drive in the wrong direction at top speed, forcing the passenger to bounce around the torn cushion seats, clinging to the the rusted iron rod for support. I chose to hug my bag and since the wind whipped furiously into the auto to sting my skin mercilessly, my big black bag gave me the much-required illusion of warmth.
The yellow cloth-covering over the auto pulled a little away, and let in water that steadily dripped on my head. The chill spread right to my toes. Why didn't I just shift to the right? Or to the left? Oh right....the wind and the rain would catch me right in the face. Large drops of water flew into the auto and created a little stream at the back of my seat. The smell of drain water mixed with the smell of wet mud. My senses were being numbed by the screaming in my ears, the drops that fell like needles and ugh! the smell...
The auto growled in muffled tones as it zoomed merrily away on the wrong side. Frills of brown water raised up around me as i sped past them. The unstable three-wheeler jumped to the beats of the party song and shivered in the rain.
I smiled happily. The auto guy probably thought i was crazy.  
 

Being a Tomboy

 Personally, I dislike the word Tomboy from the bottom of my heart.

How would you define a woman? Is she defined by the attention she pays to her clothes? Is she defined by her love for her footwear? Is she defined by the amount of skin she shows? Is she defined by how little of sports and technology she knows? Evidently so.

So femininity does not come from thought or behavior. The society dictates that femininity can only be skin deep. If the exterior is not puffed up in rosy pink, then a woman betrays her tribe-she is thought to possess male tendencies, hence, she is a tomboy.

So what makes a girl a tomboy? Following football, liking cars, gadgets, being informed of the latest technology, not paying too much attention to hair and make-up, laughing at corny romantic movies and books-that’s all you need gal-you’re now officially a guy.

It really beats me that a society that is technologically and scientifically quite advanced, a society that demands freedom, a society that thrives on individuality, still categorizes women. Am I complaining about the average male mind or am I talking about the dynamics of  society? I would say the latter.

I think this issue of defined labels for girls clearly outlines the position of women in society. A woman, even today, despite whatever the media and urban population proudly claim, does not and is not expected to, stand on the same even ground as men. A woman in the same position as a man, earns lesser, an Indian working woman, on an average earns one-third of an Indian working man. Only 10% of senior management positions are given to women. India also ranks pretty low on gender equality that includes pay parity as reported by the Global Gender Gap Report of 2010, as Google kindly informed me.

Femininity does not come from the ability to curl one’s hair, to get one’s face to blush a soft red, to let a breathless giggle escape from glossed lips. Femininity is a character, a way of thinking, a way of taking decisions, a way of living. It is not skin deep.

It's not all hopeless, I convince myself. I do know of people who rise above the stereotyping of women, respect their way of living and proudly call themselves feminists, however terrible that word sounds.

I realize that this post might not ring true with everyone, but it's only frustrating experiences experience that forced my hand. Now that the post is done, I suppose I'll return to being a tomboy, maybe watch Fight Club. 

The Game of Thrones- A Book Review

The Game of Thrones is a remarkable novel-a tale of fantasy where truth and lie weave in and out of  the silken brushstrokes of an artist. An artist devoted to the art, not the pleasures of the audience. George RR Martin deftly carves a world so real; you begin to yearn for a glimpse of light where fiction shines.

The game of thrones opens darkly, on a cold winter night, where a young commander leads his mutinous group of three to see the dead that lie strewn in a village-side. There then begins silent clanging of the steel-will of youth against the light of....The Others. 

But in the darkness of the night, in the land of Winterfell, in the heat of the passionate love of Ned Stark and his wife Catelyn  the reader finds warmth. Martin gives the reader a reason to smile as the young Stark lords ride with their ‘Lord Father’ and his ‘bastard son’, Jon Snow. 

The litter of Direwolves they find, gives each child a loyal and powerful companion but also leaves behind questions that stir deep beliefs of Winterfell.

A message in the night from lady Catelyn’s sister forces Ned and his wife to cleave a yawning chasm in their family, allowing Ned to ride to the King’s Landing, to be the King’s Hand and support his friend’s rule, now weary under the strains of his drunken and careless ways; spawning restlessness and treachery. The girls, Arya and Sansa, and the young boy Bran are to follow Ned, the other sons to stay behind and Jon Snow is to ride to join the brotherhood of the Night watch of the ice Wall. The divide pulls them away in a way that Catelyn had only feared in the beginning. The cracks that begin to form under the weight of the Iron Throne stretch long arms, forcing lands and loyalties to crumble.

The little twirling beard of Littlefinger, the trusting King’s smouldering rage at the Targaryen, the sharp Tyrion, the avarice of Cersei Lannister, the honorable, yet naive, Ned, the conflicts of family and duty, the spiraling tunnel of growth that children find themselves trapped in, whispers that sweep as quiet as shadow, strength that makes Arya as calm as water....the writing swims in a never-ending flow of similes that Martin allows to gush or trickle by as his will pleases.

George RR Martin stirs the dust ridden figurines of kings, warriors, queens alive with a new stroke; their ideals of honour, truth and fealty corrupted with the black of greed and vengeance. Every player of the Game of Thrones comes alive with the words that are uttered. 

But no, their thoughts are never clearly revealed. The shadow of cunning behind a warm smile, a reassuring touch, or a forged relationship can never be seen; he slips away before light can hold him in her arms. Death comes quickly. Martin does not care to spare the soft heart of the unsuspecting reader-his sword is sharp and he wields her well. Time after time, the world Martin carefully builds through words and scenes are shattered with one single touch. There is nothing the reader can rely on-no ideal, no thought, no one. Yet when the men seek vengeance and women scheme while in bed, it is honor, pride and their blood that they swear on. But, swear for whom? Why? The questions are left ominously unanswered and the sentences darkly unfinished. Martin sits atop The Wall and swings the reader from trusting dealings, cruel revelations and breathless lovemaking. Despite the riot of colour that Martin flings into the reader’s eyes repeatedly, some artistry blends them into each other, bringing the image of corrupted mankind, standing divided against an unknown power, blurring to black for the reader’s eyes.

It is not a book for the soft of heart. Notions of good, of evil, of the honor in a word well-kept, of loyalty whose price is blood, of justice whose hand is swift, fair and merciful are swept away under a barrage of arrows that treason shoots; unrelenting. The book shows man what mankind did among the splendour of Pharoas and the silver helms of Rome, and still does in the world today-for power, greed and vengeance.

The doom of treachery swirls for hours even after the book lies conquered. Thin fingers of the mist of gloom clouded my mind, before a strong dose of reality television blew them away with sharp lights, blaring sound and well-rehearsed tears.

The Game of Thrones is a hard read, but a book worth the read. But read it one must, acceptance of treason must come....why you ask? Why, because it is known, the truth in the word of men will not always last. Because the warmth of summer will not always linger. Because.... Winter is Coming

     

'Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world' Or 'Hello world'

Two titles. I couldn't decide among the two, so I used both.

Forgive the rather quaint, unimaginative and rather lame Hello World but it's just the after-effect of reading the biography of Steve Jobs talking. The two words uttered by the Mac must have really stirred minds into a dizzying frenzy. The book turned out to be a great read. What a man, Steve Jobs! (What's with smart men and apples?)

Right then, with blatant disregard to Sherlock's words, I have decided to inflict my opinions on the world.

Okay, the name Ravikumar, Aparna Ravikumar. Doesn't work too well...but the Bond routine fits better with my elvish name. The name's Pallanen, Luthien Pallanen. Although I highly doubt a wise, fair, immortal elvish maiden would be familiar with a certain Mister James Bond. But no chance of the routine working with my hobbit name, Rosie-Posie of Whitfurrows. (I really love the name generator sites. I wonder how they work)

While listening to cricket commentary, probably during India's dismal test match performance against England, I realized my name fit in quite well with the British accent. Ever noticed how there's always an 'r' at the end of an 'aa-sound' ending word? India becomes Indiar, and so Aparna becomes Aparnar (Aparna R), great, right? If I was chatting, I'd probably use a :p....so there, :p
I'm sometimes assumed to be a Bengali, maybe because of Aparna Sen. But sadly, my roots are not that easy to trace. I'm a vague hybrid of Tamil and Telugu. And no, it's not because my dad is a tamilian and mum is a Telugu or the other way round. It's just because we're Telugus whose ancestors have stayed in Tamil land for long and have merged with Tamilians. So it's hard to tell where I really belong. I can't speak pure Telugu and  I can't speak fluent Tamil. I only know a random mixture of the two. Strange, that is. Not knowing where you belong.

Where i do belong, is probably in Middle Earth. My world revolves, as you have probably guessed, around The Lord of The Rings. I won't say too much here, I think my obsession with the book can only be justified by another post. But yeah, I am passionately obsessed. I don't know if that justifies it, but, well,....i'll leave it here.

The number 42 holds a special significance. Not just because it is the answer to the Life, The Universe and Everything. Back when I was at school, a classmate of mine had quiet a fancy for the number 42. So every time the number magically materialized on the blackboard, heads would turn and find him and the class would share a chuckle. So the number is a toast to the book and my days at school.

Apart from books, I also enjoy music. I learnt Hindhusthani classical for sometime. The history of this music lights up Akbar's courtroom as Tansen's voice and enchants the thoughts of Sadarang. (Sadarang is credited  with the creation of 'khayal'. Khayal in Hindi, meaning thought. Music always manages to ignite the spark of poetry in me-here I go again...) Sadly, I can't play a single instrument. I pushed a little for violin lessons after listening to the background score of The Lord of The Rings (great work by Howard Shore) and The Game of Thrones opening music, but then lost the initial enthusiasm. But it's a fantastic sounding instrument.

Seinfeld is my all-time favorite TV show. Amazing show, really. It does get a bit repetitive, but the show, especially Kramer often had me in splits. The Simpsons, another great show. It's always sunny in Philadelphia (which some critic, rightly, called it seinfeld on a pot....or something similar....but you get the flow). Scrubs-extremely funny. Castle also provided me with my daily requirement of laughter. And I can hardly wait for Sherlock season 3 to come out!
But i can not leave Indian TV behind. There was this show called 'Astitva'. The story never fails to crack me up. Another classic show is Pavitra Rishta. Great filming and background score (note the sarcasm). The show requires in-depth analysis that can only be satisfactorily covered in another post. Fantastic serial!

Sports. I follow tennis and cricket with passion. Football, now and then. But I loved Euro 2012 and supported Spain (and Fabregas) very loyally, bouncing up and down when they scored. The final was epic and drained me of all my energy, the goals and Italy being reduced to 10-lot of whooping and jumping. I had a great time then. I think Roger Federer plays well, but I see no one who can take over from him, given that Djokovic is out of form.

Right then, I suppose that's all i can think of now. It's been random, but I sincerely hope coherent thoughts will follow. I'll be back with more on life, universe and middle earth, but till then, Namarie. (Farewell, in Elvish-spoken by Galadriel to Aragorn)