The Kite Runner

NYtimes had listed this book for far more weeks than I though it should deserve, on a brief look the first time. A quick perusal in the library and I decided that it wasn't going to be all that boring afterall. The novel is actually a first person narrative of life spent in Afghanistan, followed by an immigrant experience in America. Pretty moving actually. Not the usual morbid teary tale, but one that vividly brings out the life of immigrants caught at the crossroads between prosperous past and pitiful future. What would drive an immigrant (Amir) to abandon relative peace in the US to undertake a treacherous journey back to his desolate country?. Full of guilt and haunted with betrayal, he seeks to redeem himself from the burdens of his brutal past. A tale filled with twists and unexpected turns that in the end answers all our questions, but leaves us with memories of a nation's chronicles through war, occupation and ravages of time. Definitely worth a read. It was a joy to get an insight into the exotic land of Afghanistan, of its glorious past, its queer customs, varied culture glimpses of which one might have only seen in old hindi movies.

Pic Courtesy: Amazon.com

Update # Ashok's Pic: Kids, Kites and Kabul.

My mother's daughter.

I stood there in the dark, standing with a bowl of rice flour mixed in water. Not too flowy, not to thick, just right enough for 'that' art work I had in mind. This time, I had everything right. The rice was soaked in water only long enough for the flour to grind to a smooth paste. After a few rehearsals in air, mapping imaginary lines and curves, I smiled with satisfaction at my wooden canvas that was sweeped and mopped clean, 'no grain of sand' was left unturned. It was cold and breezy outside. I remembered how my mother would hold the bowl in one hand and a small piece of a white cloth that would have been a part of my poor father's veshti only a few days back in the other. Bending down, her face completely relaxed, she'd dip the cloth in the mix and then hold it between her fingers. Sqeezing it lightly, only just right enough for the mix to flow out from the soaked cloth, her fingers would start this beautiful dance in perfect unison, curving seamlessly tracing invisible lines on concrete, occasionally dipping into the bowl to replenish their stock, but not pausing once to see if it was in proportion, if the lines diagonally criscrossing each other at the corners were aligned, if it was indeed symmetrical.

After 30 minutes of back breaking work, not to mention the hours of preparation that went into it, the 'padi-kolam' was finally taking shape. My doorway was at odd angles to the entrace and the wooden floor with pieces that ran criss-cross was making it difficult to align the lines in order. Like finishing touches to a masterpeice, I was hoping that the 'semman' would cover up all spots and make up for lines out of sync. Carefully, not disturbing the half dried kolam, I drew lines in red all around it. Finally, there I was, not the impeccable art work I had in mind, but close. I decided to take a picture of it the next morning and proudly email it to my mother saying 'I am almost there. Someday it will be better than yours'.

It rained cats and dogs that night.

I am weird.

I don't think I handle success very well. For me the battle is lost once the victory is near. So much so, I go into oblivion towards the end hoping that the euphoria will die down and that I could get back to life. The life that I know and love in uncomplicated terms, filled with mundane activities, useless trivias. I had been in a long fight with a certain issue. After prolonged, 'fighting the fire' should I say, it became apparent a few days back that I was in the clear. It was all over, mission accomplished. No more angst or moments earnestly spent imploring the celestial beings. Instead of happily attending to all the congratulatory calls, here I was, confounded how to handle the new found freedom. Did I miss out 'wallowing in pity' party?, hell no !!. I held onto life with such verve throughout, it scared the heck out of me. 'People go through worse, stop pandering to your weak soul' I would chide myself with each passing trail. Practice makes perfection they say. Each time, I would remove my 'self' from the scene a little bit in an attempt to totally disconnect with my emotional self. And over time, I gradually lost the power to feel, to emote, to express anger or sorrow as mortals best know. Now, when I am supposedly 'vulnerable', held hostage to spirits sodden with highs and lows as harmones play havoc with my system, I am lost on emotions or words that would best describe my state. I am weird.

indi Phillum

The last hindi movie I watched was 'Raincoat'. A simple likable story revolving around just two characters, almost entirely shot in one room. Reminded me of a lesson in our high school english text - was it 'Gift of the Maggie' ???. Sometimes over the weekend, I get to watch AVS (as its called in the tri-state area). Bunch of over enthusiastic ABCD's with american accented hindi talking about latest news in the indi-phillim industry. I hadn't watched it for a while, and last week I noticed that I hadn't missed much either. The movie 'Corporate' was being analyzed. I know nothing about Madhur Bhandharkar and so reserve my opinions on his film making skills. But I do know that off all the lady leads he could pick for for a bold themed movie (assuming the same from the name), he choose Bipasha Basu. 'That' speaks for itself and was all the more confirmed as I watched snippets of 'war-of-words' from the movie. The lady suffers from permanent damage in the face resulting from Botox treatments no less. Or did she mistake 'Corporate' for corporeal ??.

பேஷன் பட்ட பாடு

எனக்கு அப்போழுது பதினைந்து வயது இருக்கும்.அப்பா பாட்டியை பார்க்கவேண்டும் என ரொம்ப நாளாய் சொல்லிக் கொண்டிருந்தார். புதுசாக வாங்கின ஸ்கர்டை போடணும்னு எனக்கும் ஆசை. குட்டையான ஸ்கர்ட் [Short-Skirt], அதுவும் ஜீன்ஸ் துணியால் ஆனது, பின்னால் ஒரு ஸ்லிட் [with slit] கூட இருந்தது. அம்மாவிடம் அழுது அழிச்சாட்டியம் செய்து, போடுக்கொண்டு அப்பா முன்னால் நின்றேன். அவரோ என்னை ஏரெடுத்துக்கூடப் பார்க்காமல் "இதெல்லாம் பாட்டிக்கு பிடிக்காது, வேற எதையாவது போட்டுண்டு வாயேன்" என்று கெஞ்சாத குறையாக சொல்லியும், கடைசியில் என்னுடைய பிடிவாதமே வெண்ரது. ஒரு வழியாக முட்டி தெரியாமல் இடுப்புக்கு கீழே இழுத்து இழுத்து, ஒரு மாதிரி சமாளித்து கொண்டு போனேன். அப்பாவை சில காலம் கழித்து பார்த்ததில், பாட்டி உடனே என்னிடம் எதுவும் விசாரிக்கவில்லை. முடிந்தவரை பாட்டியிடமிருந்து 'கழுவுர மீனில் நழுவுர மீனாய்' நழுவிக்கொண்டிருந்தாலும், எனக்கு உள்ளே ஏதொ உதரல் எடுத்துக்கொண்டுதான் இருந்தது. சரியாக கிளம்பும்பொழுது என்ன நினைத்தாளோ, "இதென்ன புதுசா போட்டுண்டு இருக்க?, இப்போ இதான் பேஷனா ?" என்று இன்ணோசன்டாக ஒரு பிடி பிடித்தாள். நானும் விடாமல் சுதாரித்துக்கொண்டு, "ஆமா, புதுசு பாட்டி, அப்பாதான் வாங்கிண்டு வந்தா, உங்களுக்கு பிடிசிருக்கா?" என்று ஒரு போடு போட்டு வைத்தேன். மாட்டிக்கொண்டால் துணைக்கு ஆள் வேண்டுமே என்கிற நல்ல எண்ணம்தான். நினைத்த மாதிரியே அப்பாவைப் பார்த்து ஒரு கோபப் பார்வை வீசி விட்டு "ம்ம் இருக்கு, என்ன விலை?" எனக்கேட்டதர்க்கு, நான் 200ரோ/300ரோ, ஏதொ சொன்னேன், எவ்வளவென்று இப்பொழுது சரியாக ஞாபகம் இல்லை. ஆனால் பாட்டியிடமிருந்து அடுத்து வந்த கமென்ட்டை இந்த ஜென்மம் முழுவதும் மறப்பதர்க்கில்லை. "இவ்வளோ காசு வாங்கிண்டு, இத்தனூண்டு துணி தான் குடுத்தானா?, இதுல பின்னால கிழிஞ்சு வேர இருக்கு?, நல்லா விசாரிச்சுதான் வாங்கினியா ?" என்றாள்.