tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-192819272024-03-07T19:23:08.156+05:30Sue's TalesYou read whose tales? Sue's tales.Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-39895362867804125712017-05-18T21:19:00.001+05:302017-05-18T21:21:09.765+05:30Review: The Palace of Assassins by Aditya Iyengar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Re-tellings of Indian myths are steadily gaining popularity in Indian writing in English. While there are plenty of people who object to the new writing on grounds of the storylines being implausible/devoid of accurate period detail/not fitting in with the accepted version(s) of the myths already in existence -- it is also true that these books are selling to another, avid market. There is an interest in grounding the myths in our times, or referencing parts of modern life or even just showing the ancient heroes as regular flawed modern heroes and anti-heroes.<br />
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The Palace of Assassins is Aditya Iyengar’s second novel based on the events of the Mahabharat. While his first book -- The Thirteenth Day -- examined the war through the eyes of Yudhishthira, this is the story of Ashwatthama the mighty soldier and son of Drona. Ashwatthama is the only survivor of the Kaurava leaders after the war, and his shameful killing of the Pandava children has condemned him to an eternal curse from Krishna. He is doomed to immortal life as a leper.<br />
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The novel starts from here, when Ashwatthama wakes up in the desert, cursed and in pain. It follows his rescue by the widow Kasturi and his attempts to come to terms with his fate. Surviving soldiers from the Kaurava army invite him to join their plot to revenge themselves on the Pandavas by massacring the Pandava lineage. The story moves fast and is fairly well plotted though some of the details can raise a reader's eyebrow. The occasional Americanism too, can jar slightly, though I admit this is a very subjective concern.<br />
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This is a quick holiday read. I read the book from start to finish over two aeroplane journeys in one day and it was gripping enough for me to go through security etc reading the book from my free hand. If you enjoy myths and fantasy (as I do), you might want to get this one.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Disclaimer: This book was sent to me for review.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-32468820538249025262017-05-15T12:01:00.002+05:302017-05-18T20:55:36.889+05:30Review: Current Show by Perumal Murugan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
P. Murugan came into the national spotlight a couple of years ago when he came under attack for blasphemy for his novel Madhurobhagan. In protest, he publicly announced that he was giving up writing novels altogether. A highly decorated Tamil scholar, teacher and writer, he has written several novels as well as collections of poetry, short stories and non-fiction.<br />
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Current Show is a translation of his Tamil novel 'Nizhal Muttram' and is one of a series of translations of Murugan's work by Penguin Random House, aimed at readers who don't read Tamil. It is a powerful, gripping story of several young boys who live and work at a cinema hall in a small town in Tamil Nadu. The prose is raw, powerful and evocative. It is peppered with curt, coarse language that has one automatically translating the lines into vernacular in one's head. Sathi, the protagonist, has run away from his leper father, trying to leave the taint of untouchability and beggary behind him. He hopes to somehow make a life for himself in the alleys behind the cinema hall, selling 'colour soda' to the patrons of the theatre and doing odd jobs for people in between shows. The story is presented in a series of quick cinematic 'shots' as it were, rapidly creating a story of the days of these boys. They live in a world of filth and squalor and are exploited as cheap labour. They eat badly and escape into ganja-fuelled stupor in the evenings. And yet, despite their fights and seeming hostility towards one another, they band together as a group, reaching out for each other for solidarity during their waking hours and comfort when they sleep.<br />
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A word on the translation: The novel is translated by feminist historian and publisher V Geetha of Tara Books, who has also translated several other works by Murugan. She has deftly created a manuscript that reads fluidly in a language that it was not written in. It's not an easy job but she has done it remarkably well.<br />
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An interesting piece on Perumal Murugan's writing <a href="http://www.caravanmagazine.in/reviews-essays/boats-against-current">here</a> at The Caravan.<br />
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Disclaimer: This book was sent to me for review.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-20229191220199239222014-04-08T23:31:00.000+05:302014-04-08T23:31:25.885+05:30[CSAAM April 2014]<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h1 align="center" style="margin-top: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Child Sexual Abuse – </span></h1>
<h1 align="center" style="margin-top: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">the Invisible Demon
around Us<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">When Jaya Menon*’s
daughter, then 12, ran around their apartment complexes in Hyderabad with the
various gangs of children, Jaya made it a point to call out to her from the
windows every half an hour. Her daughter was told to stick to the group and
come home for her mother’s permission before entering any flat. Even if it was
only to drink water or collect a friend, Jaya’s daughter was to stand outside
in the hallway. Now an adult, Jaya’s daughter doesn’t have very clear memories
of these strict rules but she does remember that her mother or some trusted
adult was never more than a shout away. Unobtrusive, but always present.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">What Jaya
feared was what many mothers fear – Child Sexual Abuse (CSA). She had been
abused herself by a male family member when she was nine, and didn’t get much
support when she tried to tell her mother about it. The memories had lingered
and coloured her outlook on life. As her daughter grew, she tried to balance
her desire to allow her child the independence she wanted with the protection
that Jaya knew she needed. Other adults found Jaya’s behaviour overprotective
but her husband Amit* who knew her story, supported and encouraged her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Last May, when
Aamir Khan featured CSA on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Satyameva
Jayate</i>, the episode proved to be a vindication of sorts for Jaya and many
other survivors like her. Shut up as a child, she saw on national television a
renowned celebrity acknowledge and discuss what she went through. The show
began with a nation-wide study by the Ministry of Women & Child Development,
Government of India, that concluded that 53% of study’s 12447 respondents, aged
5-24 years, had faced some form of sexual abuse. Jaya was nowhere close to
being alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">What
Is Child Sexual Abuse?<o:p></o:p></span></h2>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Broadly
speaking, child sexual abuse is recognized as emotional, psychological and/or
sexual exploitation of a child by an adult. It comes in many forms, from
forcing a child to perform sexual acts under duress to exposing a child to
pornography. It can emotionally and physically scar children for life,
compromise their mental and physical wellbeing as adults and in severe cases,
impede them from leading well-adjusted lives as responsible members of society.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">As concerned
parents let us separate fact from fiction in some common misconceptions about
child sexual abuse:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: maroon; font-family: "Times New Roman";">Misconception #1<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">CSA only occurs
in lower class, uneducated or broken households. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Studies the
world over show that CSA can occur in any kind of a home. A child from a single
parent family is not necessarily more at risk than a child in a joint household
filled with adults. A child who is taught rules of basic safety and whose guardians
are obviously and openly keeping a close eye on his/her well-being, is likely
to be safer than more neglected children. Abusers prey on children they can
bribe or browbeat into keeping quiet about abuse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: maroon; font-family: "Times New Roman";">Misconception #2<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListCxSpLast" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Our
children can only be harmed or abused by strangers.</span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">An unsettling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">half</i> of
the abused children studied by the </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ministry of Women & Child Development</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> reported that their abusers were people they knew, usually a
close family member but also often a trusted outsider such as a family friend,
household help, tuition teacher etc. The devastation of this abuse of power can
be incalculable. Sheela Malkani*, 36, a successful work-from-home professional,
not only went through years of therapy (with full family support) to help her
cope with the after effects of her sexual abuse as a child, but continues to
regress into deep depression when forced to be in contact with her abuser at
family occasions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: maroon; font-family: "Times New Roman";">Misconception #3<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoListCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">CSA
only happens to girls.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Child sexual abuse is called so because it can happen to a
child of either sex. In fact, the study by the Ministry of Women & Child
Development noted that approximately 53% of the boys interviewed reported
sexual abuse, shattering the myth that only girls are susceptible to abuse and
should be protected. Lending open support to this understanding is Harish Iyer,
an Equal Rights Activist and vocal supporter of child rights, who has often
spoken about the sexual abuse he faced as a seven year-old. His story became
inspiration for a character in director Onir’s landmark 2011 film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Am</i> that talked about CSA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: maroon; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Misconception #4<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Children don’t
need to know about sex.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Shuktara Lal, a
drama therapy professional who has worked with survivors of abuse, begs to
differ. She emphasises that “It’s only when we start sex education that we can
help our children understand what sex is all about. And it’s only then that we
can honestly explain sexual abuse to them and tell them what they need to be
careful about and, if they do experience something abusive, who they should go
to immediately.” Sex education can be as basic as teaching a toddler to
correctly identify and name body parts or as detailed as explaining pregnancy
and intercourse to older children. There is no set age to have this conversation
but it is best to discuss this with your child before they acquire incorrect
information from elsewhere – such as an abuser.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<h2 style="margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Signs
of CSA<o:p></o:p></span></h2>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Writing about
her own abuse in the New York Times this April, Indian journalist and author
Nilanjana S Roy noted that “the chief violation [is that] abusers did not ask
us for permission to use our bodies as they pleased.” This sense of defilement
runs deep in abused children, as adult survivors such as Harish Iyer and
Cindrella Prakash know only too well. Like Iyer, Prakash has also appeared on
radio and TV shows (including <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Satyameva
Jayate</i>), online chats and interviews to talk about the importance of
recognizing, understanding and addressing child sexual abuse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Child sexual abuse is usually (though not
always) indicated by inexplicable injuries, rashes and infections in a child –
in the genital regions or elsewhere. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Other signs of possible abuse are overly
sexual behaviour by young children, moods swings or depression, sudden terror
of familiar faces or strangers, alcohol or drug abuse, problems at school etc.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<h2 style="margin-top: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">A
Mother’s Role<o:p></o:p></span></h2>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">CSA is the
invisible demon that sits on many a mother’s shoulder. Fears of CSA have
otherwise indulgent mothers refuse permission for class trips, sleepovers, even
birthday parties and play dates. It is the unnamed fear that pervades
parenting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even mothers
who claim not to know or care about CSA, because “it doesn’t happen in decent,
educated families like ours” nevertheless follow the ‘rules’ of protection –
insisting that a child be home before dark, that children stick together in
groups etc. It is a subject that is widely considered taboo or indecent in
India but… truth be told, we have all had our share of such ‘uncles’ – the ones
who kiss young girls when drunk, or insist on the children sitting on their
laps though the child is clearly uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rohini*,
blogger and mother of an 8 year old boy and a 4 year old girl, knows that she
cannot protect her children from every danger there is, but she believes in
arming herself and them as best she can. Although her mother finds her worries
“paranoid” Rohini takes pains to educate herself on possible abusive
situations, sifting through mainly online information, and has discussed safety
and possible reactions with both her son and daughter. The way she sees it,
safety education is vital “so they know right from wrong and are equipped to
say no, call for help and confide in their parents if something were to happen
to them. I think suffering abuse in a shameful silence can be far more harmful
to a kid's psyche and self-esteem than the actual abuse.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is important
that parents start teaching their children as early as possible where they
should and should not be touched, that if they feel uncomfortable they are
allowed to say “no”, loudly and repeatedly, that if a child comes to complain
of any kind of uncomfortable incident, whether abusive or not, he/she will
receive trust and support. We often urge our children to make physical contact
such as handshakes or kisses but a friendly “Namaste” or “Hi” or even a smile
is perfectly acceptable too. A forced physical gesture confuses a child’s
innate sense of boundary. Younger children, especially ones who aren’t yet
talking, should be bathed, cleaned or changed by you at least once every day,
no matter how trusted your support system. Older children must be made to
understand that internet usage is a privilege and comes with safety rules.
Teach yourself and your children about online predators. Gowri Shetty* does not
allow her teenaged sons to pass on personal information (phone numbers,
addresses etc.) except in person and checks their Facebook accounts regularly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Lastly, it is important that parents retain a sense of
perspective. Discussing danger with children is far more important than
refusing them permission to engage with the world, whether online or off. Since
we cannot guard over our children all their lives, the best gift we can make
them to is to teach themselves to keep themselves safe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">IN A NUTSHELL</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">How to keep your children
safe:<br /><ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><b><span lang="EN-US">Discuss
safe touch/unsafe touch.</span></b></li>
<li><b><span lang="EN-US">Listen
to your children.</span></b></li>
<li><b><span lang="EN-US">Teach
your child to protest.</span></b></li>
<li><b><span lang="EN-US">Do
not insist on physical contact.</span></b></li>
<li><b><span lang="EN-US">Check
your child.</span></b></li>
<li><b><span lang="EN-US">Reassure
your child.</span></b></li>
<li><b><span lang="EN-US">Monitor
internet usage.</span></b></li>
<li><b><span lang="EN-US">Draw
information boundaries.</span></b></li>
<li><b><span lang="EN-US">Spend
time online with your child.</span></b></li>
<li><b>Don’t
be paranoid.</b></li>
</ul>
</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /><i>This article of mine appeared in </i>Mother's World<i> magazine last September. I'm re-posting it here as a part of CSAAM 2014.<br /></i>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.csaawarenessmonth.com/"><img alt="" class="size-medium wp-image-894 aligncenter" height="300" src="
http://csaawarenessmonth.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/logo-csa2013.jpg?w=285" title="logo" width="285" /></a></div>
</a></div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-36639037578891433912013-08-09T01:54:00.001+05:302013-08-09T01:54:04.939+05:30Fear and Loathing in Bombay Then and Now<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Read & Reflect Column #2</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>The Quarantine Papers</i> by Kalpish Ratna</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Paediatric surgeon, columnist and novelist Kalpana
Swaminathan has made a name for herself in Indian literary circles today with her
engrossing mystery novels featuring female detective ‘Last Resort Lalli’. She
has also written unusual children’s fiction such as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ordinary Mr Pai</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gavial
Avial</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She is equally prolific as half the person behind ‘Kalpish
Ratna’, the pseudonym used by her and her surgeon and writer colleague Ishrat
Syed, for articles, columns and eight books written together. Their common
interests, history and medicine, come together, compellingly, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Quarantine Papers</i>. Published in
2010, this is a mystery novel set against two historic events in Bombay – the
riots of 1993 and the plague of 1896.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt;">
‘The Plague Inspectors broke into
homes, summarily removed anybody they found having a fever… The quarantine was
ingenious. It even dealt with Bombay’s railways and roads. Plague passes were
issued for people who wanted to go from Bandra to Mahim… Inspectors were
stationed along the causeway. In you boarded the train at Bandra, the carriage
doors were locked shut till you reached Grant Road or Mahalakshmi. There you
were jumped by the Plague Inspectors, and whisked away to a hospital or a
Segregation Camp. They learnt and perfected it here, the British. It would be
their model for the Concentration Camps in South Africa that Alfred Milner
would establish two years later during the Boer War. This was Queen Victoria’s
Diamond Jubilee! Hitler was just a copycat. It all sounds sane at this remove,
but imagine it happening to you!’</div>
</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The book is set on a somewhat flimsy premise of a secret
pact made by four men that must be honoured by their families down the ages;
flimsier still is the story of the protagonist Ratan who lives two lives – one
his own in 1993 and one of his grandfather a century before. His grandfather’s
memories and experiences of communal tension are sparked into urgent action
when Bombay breaks out into riots and communal violence following the
destruction of the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya. Ratan slips in and out of history
as he tries to make sense of inexplicable bits of knowledge and a sense of
tragedy that must be averted. As a laboratory technician he finds himself
working on victims of communal violence; however, his medical knowledge and
skills belong to the doctor his grandfather was. He struggles to come to terms
with what these flashbacks are trying to tell him even as his modern-day
surroundings fill him with anger and despair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The book works despite its undeniable flaws because of its
evocative storytelling. Bombay of 1993 comes alive, with its fear and
disbelief, as does the Bombay of 1896 wracked by disease and consequences such
as evacuation, segregation and travel restrictions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A short description of the bubonic plague in Bombay may be
found here: http://www.iias.nl/iiasn/25/regions/25SA1.html</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-75276397466993490692013-08-07T01:51:00.000+05:302013-08-09T01:55:50.372+05:30Other People’s Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Note: I write a monthly column called Read & Reflect for <a href="http://www.indianweekender.co.nz/">Indian Weekender</a></i> <i>these days. I will be posting the pieces here after they are published in New Zealand.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Read & Reflect Column #1</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Another Man’s Wife</i> by Manjul Bajaj</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having read Manjul Bajaj’s first book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Come, Before Evening Falls</i> with deep appreciation only a year ago,
I approached her second offering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Another
Man’s Wife</i> with high expectations. The latter, a collection of short
stories, did not disappoint. Her strengths remain the same: strong characterisation,
detailed depiction of period detail and cultural context, and finely nuanced
storytelling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first story, ‘Ripe Mangoes’, is a stellar example of all
this. A young Kathak dancer, married for convenience to her father’s creditor,
yet tries to hold on to all that is dear to her. She leaves behind her family
orchards, her lover and her old life in Murshidabad and moves to “a grey
matchbox of a home” in Calcutta where she looks after her three growing
children. A home where she installs a tutor for her sons, the man she has loved
most of her life. A life which is now threatened by her adolescent daughter who
is unable to bear the weight of her mother’s adultery.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The motif of blurring lines is central to ‘Crossed Borders’
where old crimes follow an immigrant gardener around all his life. As an old
man he think he has finally achieved the anonymity needed for a peaceful
existence but a yellowed newspaper clipping lands him in the hands of his
employer, a vengeful ex-wife looking for somebody to murder her husband’s new
love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘The Birthmark’
is a more fanciful, less satisfying tale. Discussing the female infanticide
rampant in the Doab areas, it pits a mother-in-law prepared to keep her
bloodline ‘pure’ against the Bihari tribal worker her younger son married.
Pregnant with a girl, the daughter-in-law refuses an abortion and her
mother-in-law finds herself resorting to scheming against this “strange dark
witch” who is teaching her son to accept a girlchild. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cory Fernandez, in her story ‘Me and Sammy Fernandez’,
offers a setting which is almost filmy in its extravagance: an aspiring music
journalist falls in love with the son of a celebrated Goan singer. Rejecting
the demands of her own Parsi background she enters into a relationship that
turns abusive. Intimate Partner Violence (IPV) is described in disturbing
detail as Cory struggles to reconcile her conscience, work and family with her
rapidly souring marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
final straw comes when she discovers the truth behind the death of her husband’s
singer mother Amethyst, the idol of Cory’s youth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The young village boy who dreamt of ‘Marrying Nusrat’, of
giving the young NGO worker the stability and love she did not find in her
marriage finds his path rockier than planned. Nusrat came from “some do-gooder
agency” in Lucknow to organise the chikan workers of the village into a
co-operative. In the process she opened the eyes of many of the villagers to the
world outside the village and herself received unconditional love and support
from them in her time of need. This story provides an eye-opening account of
the lives and hopes of the men and women who provide the exquisitely
hand-embroidered that are sold in ‘Indian’ shops everywhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my favourite stories in the book is ‘Underneath a
Moonlit Sky’, about two couples who meet while honeymooning in Kashmir. Against
the backdrop of the violence that destroyed Kashmiri tourism in the 1990s the
Kashmiri husband and wife struggle to keep their love and marriage alive; in
Madras the ex-honeymooners have their own troubles with childlessness and demanding
relatives. Each year Rohini sends a little photo-postcard to Kashmir,
unconsciously creating mementoes of happier times as well as of guilt and
despair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The eponymous ‘Another Man’s Wife’ is possibly the highlight
of the collection. Kuheli and Devji grow up together in an adivasi village in
Gujarat. They plan their lives together, forseeing a future of children,
farming, togetherness. The building of a dam disrupts their lives, flooding
their villages and making them penniless refugees overnight. Their struggle for
survival is further complicated by the government official who wishes to make
Kuheli his mistress. The resulting strain on their marriage is almost more than
the bonds can bear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Manjul Bajaj’s poetry and blog posts can be found online at </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 236.65pt;">
http://manjulbajaj.blogspot.in/
and</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 236.65pt;">
http://www.youtube.com/user/ManjulBajaj</div>
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-30508726113186263912011-10-18T10:00:00.000+05:302011-10-18T23:51:15.459+05:30Bijoya<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The days after Durga Pujo bring with them a peculiar mood of introspection. After the madness and the subversion of night and day, the overeating and the excitement of the lights and the crowds, the sudden peace and absence of festivities make people break out in strange ways. <br>
</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/10/bijoya.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-17023882260862291212011-10-14T01:20:00.000+05:302011-10-18T23:51:29.501+05:30Apologies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We just moved to a new home and this week the three of us are travelling. I didn't mean for there to be a break in the Lake Gardens Tales but there has been one since I've hardly had any chance to be at a computer. Episodes will resume as soon as possible. A huge sorry to those who've been clicking in and been disappointed. (I know the feeling!)</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-79140529162658409082011-09-27T10:00:00.000+05:302011-09-27T11:59:01.836+05:30Debipokkho<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Mr Mookerjee dimly heard the cellphone alarm go off on the far side of his bed. Within a few seconds his little bedside clock began to sound its own alarm as well. He fumbled around for the clock first. A firm pound on its little button shut the alarm off but the cellphone required the bedside lamp and some sleep-dazed reading of buttons. Not for the first time he wondered why these phone makers had to complicate life.<br>
</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/09/debipokkho.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-60633385038762118112011-09-20T10:00:00.000+05:302011-09-20T10:41:00.547+05:30The letter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Mrs Singha sat down heavily on her bed. The girls were both in school, their father on his way to work and the maid was not due for another hour. This was her time to plan her day, maybe watch a little TV or catch up on her sewing. She was a large-boned woman with heavy hands but her stitching was remarkably fine. When she embroidered each stitch was tiny and perfectly set, lost in what felt like a garden of other, equally tiny and impossibly perfect stitches. Even her hemming was note-worthy, so fine as to be nearly invisible.<br>
</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/09/letter.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-4990324398109875942011-09-14T19:27:00.004+05:302021-05-13T02:14:05.991+05:30The Laundry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>(There is no episode of <a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/search/label/serial">the serial</a> this week. As an apology I offer you a recently written poem that will perhaps give you some idea of the whirlwind that is my life.)</i><br>
<br>
<br>
The Laundry<br>
<br>
The perfect lines for a poem<br>
Around my head do run<br>
I can’t stop to write them down, you see,<br>
The laundry has to be done<br>
</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/09/laundry.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-5579540023286779042011-09-06T10:00:00.000+05:302011-09-06T10:03:13.828+05:30Poetry and prose<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sona stared at the page. The words didn’t change. Nor did they make any more sense to her than they had yesterday. <br>
<br>
<i>I wander'd lonely as a cloud<br>That floats on high o'er vales and hills,<br>When all at once I saw a crowd,<br>A host, of golden daffodils;<br>Beside the lake, beneath the trees,<br>Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.</i><br>
<br>
<br>
</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/09/poetry-and-prose.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-12815051574409248482011-08-31T02:03:00.001+05:302011-08-31T02:13:48.781+05:30The well-deserved smoke<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i> Note: This episode is nearly 24 hours late. I'm sorry, I confused my dates. That happens a lot with me. Oops. :)</i><br>
<br>
As Mr Rai dreamed on in the glossy warmth of Tapati’s black bathroom, the ‘large’ bathroom in the flat on the third floor witnessed a very different scene. Rajib entered surreptitiously and quietly locked the door behind him. He turned on the little ventilation fan and the geyser too. Nandita was still helping to clean the roof but there was no saying when she would be back. In the meantime, he had to have a cigarette.<br>
<br>
</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/08/well-deserved-smoke.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-20002712509180442902011-08-23T10:00:00.000+05:302011-08-23T11:38:27.640+05:30The black bathroom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Mr Rai walked fast, hoping to avoid anybody he knew. It was a lot to ask for since he had walked down these streets every day for the last two decades, but he hoped that if he could find a taxi in front of the sweetshop then he could leave the area without having to answer any awkward questions.<br>
</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/08/black-bathroom.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-81631382944767386632011-08-16T10:00:00.006+05:302011-08-18T13:04:02.346+05:30Independence Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The flag hoisting was scheduled for 8 o’ clock. However the ‘pole’ (a long stick, mysteriously found on the roof last June) had warped with the rains this summer and the flag took a good twenty minutes to actually reach the top. Eventually, though, it went up and all the residents of 63/1/B/4, Lake Gardens, dutifully sang ‘Sare Jahan Se Achchha’ as well as ‘Jana Gana Mana’. Nandita and Rajib, that young couple from the third floor, sang a surprisingly moving version of ‘Ay mere pyaare watan’ from <i>Kabuliwala</i>. Mr Rai gave a little speech afterwards, speaking of how important it was to preserve our hard-won independence and sovereignity.<br>
<br>
</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/08/independence-day.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-12179594659914040312011-08-09T10:00:00.003+05:302011-08-18T13:08:28.806+05:30The baby in Canada<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The news of the dog spread up and down the building, albeit slowly. Old Mr Mookerji on the ground floor heard it first since it was outside his window that Mrs Rai accosted the maid. Mrs Rai did mention it to Mrs Singha when they were both giving the dhobi the laudry for ironing, but since Mrs Singh turned away at the crucial moment to fish up a school skirt that had fallen to the floor, she missed the dog part and Mrs Rai decided to close her own door with a decisive slam instead of repeating the story. If Mrs Singha were truly interested she could jolly well ask the maid herself!<br>
<br>
<br>
</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/08/baby-in-canada.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-8462018492214826672011-08-02T10:00:00.008+05:302011-08-18T13:06:36.811+05:30The overheard phone conversation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The couple on the third floor were rather noisy. The whole building heard them and wondered if the young people knew they could be heard. This morning their maid left the door open as she ran after the garbage collector – on Mondays the regular collector, who collected the garbage from each flat daily, had his day off. The young man was on the phone with his mother, it seemed, and he appeared to be rather annoyed with her. A long and exasperated conversation floated down to the interested recipients downstairs each of who had a unique take on the mother-son exchange.<br>
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</div><a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/08/overheard-phone-conversation.html#more">Read more »</a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-76429456580746272162011-08-01T23:23:00.003+05:302011-08-02T23:29:10.616+05:30The Serial<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Inspired by Alexander McCall Smith's '<a href="http://thescotsman.scotsman.com/books/Welcome-to-44-Scotland-Street.2497470.jp"><i>44 Scotland Street</i></a>' novels, from this month I am going to try my hand at writing a weekly serial. I don't aspire to be a McCall Smith but I hope to write something that I wouldn't mind reading myself. Let's see how it goes.<br />
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In the meantime, I extend an invitation to you and all my other readers to feel free to chip in with a guest post. From September, once the tone and atmosphere are established, I will be happy to host your vision of my story. You are welcome to write it your way but just remember to keep it clean.<br />
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See you Tuesdays at 10 am, then.The first episode is up and you can read it <a href="http://sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com/2011/08/overheard-phone-conversation.html">here</a>.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-85114551465918758682011-04-26T11:25:00.002+05:302011-04-26T11:30:34.219+05:30Chanakya’s Chant by Ashwin Sanghi<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIAx3IRlC6AIL_VrvQYzugUjoFs7EvQwQbEyq-RZGQwq3jHG4dmA41tmQEbznHvrXjdGNLRvtg2OgaT-ytFzS_CxEhbTbHw8Z0K-WUw3Fo8VboS0H7IjztnDozy_jPI6YkeRJ/s1600/Chanakya%2527s_Chant.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 205px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIAx3IRlC6AIL_VrvQYzugUjoFs7EvQwQbEyq-RZGQwq3jHG4dmA41tmQEbznHvrXjdGNLRvtg2OgaT-ytFzS_CxEhbTbHw8Z0K-WUw3Fo8VboS0H7IjztnDozy_jPI6YkeRJ/s320/Chanakya%2527s_Chant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599766993096115970" border="0" /></a><br />Chanakya is a name familiar to most lovers of history, especially political history. Politician par excellence, his work helped consolidate the kingdom of Chandragupta Maurya, one of India’s greatest emperors ever. Ashwin Sanghi’s new novel is not so much about Chanakya’s life and career (of which our knowledge is admittedly sketchy) as it is about the modern Indian state. Two narratives run in tandem: one the story of a young Brahmin boy who saw his family dishonoured and swore revenge on his corrupt king; the other the story of a wily historian who plays kingmaker in contemporary India. The former is heavily fictionalised while the latter is, of course, entirely so.<br /><br />The story of Chanakya as a young boy on the run and later a young man intent on revenge by replacing his tormentor with a ruler of his choice provides a fascinating mirror to the present-day saga of Pandit Gangasagar as he spins his complicated and far-reaching web to put the leader of his choice – and making – in the Prime Minister’s chair. How far will Chanakya and Gangasagar go in their single-minded determination? As their plans play out, the lives of the people they involve will never be the same again. One is forced to suspend judgment of morals and ethics however as Sanghi is careful to keep the reader’s vision focused on the larger picture, the greater common good that both Chanakya and Gangasagar claim to work towards.<br /><br />The narrative tone feels like a tele-serial sometimes, where one point is made several times over, in several ways. Midway through the book it begins to jar as the reader wishes for tighter editing. The language is occasionally disappointing too, as when some men are described as “guarders” of the royal treasure. Despite these niggles, this reasonably priced book provides its fair share of twists and thrills and is an intriguing account of political machinations.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Chanakya’s Chant</span> by Ashwin Sanghi<br />Westland, Rs 195, 448 pages<div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-11043443426061200712009-05-14T13:24:00.001+05:302011-08-01T22:59:45.178+05:30The School at the Chalet by Elinor M. Brent-Dyer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">[Am posting this piece I wrote for <a href="http://thestatesman.net/">The Statesman</a> in August 2005 because I can't find it in their online archives.]<br />
<span class="il"></span><br />
The second and concluding chapter on schoolgirl stories concentrates on Elinor M. Brent-Dyer. She was a later contemporary of Angela Brazil's, writing around the same time, but a slightly different kind of stories. She was born in 1894 and died in 1969. In between she published over a hundred books, which included stories for schoolgirls as well as a novel for adults (under a pseudonym) and some geography textbooks. She is remembered nowadays for the <i><span class="il">Chalet</span> <span class="il">School</span></i> stories, of which there are roughly 63 paperbacks and several short stories, in addition to a couple of annuals. An impressive amount of writing; what was it that made the <i><span class="il">Chalet</span> <span class="il">School</span> </i>tales so popular?<br />
For one thing, they were probably the truest to life among all the <span class="il">school</span> stories written then. Brent-Dyer was first a teacher and then the headmistress of an all-girls' <span class="il">school</span> so she did know what she was writing about. Thus her books tend to give a very balanced view of schoolgirl pranks. She wrote about girls getting up to every imaginable trick but she neither sympathised with the more outrageous ideas nor completely condemned them. Her girls were naughty and got punished accordingly. Her teachers were equally realistic, being neither severe dragons nor omniscient superwomen. Some of them made mistakes and some were more popular than others. The most interesting feature of the series is perhaps their length, because the 63 odd books cover a period of several decades, which is a long time to be following the fortunes of any one <span class="il">school</span>. The original students grew up, some returned as teachers, some helped the <span class="il">school</span> out during times of difficulties, yet others sent their daughters in turn to be future Chaletians. <br />
The period covered is also one of great interest because the first book was written in 1925. Since the <span class="il">school</span> was set in the Austrian Tirol region it had to be evacuated when the Second World War broke out, so the location of the <span class="il">school</span> shifted at several points in the various stories. Along with a very vivid picture of the times, these books also capture the changes in attitude of schoolgirls, from the (relatively) more prim and ladylike girls of the 1920s to the more free-mannered and independent-minded students of the 1950s. <i>The <span class="il">School</span> at the <span class="il">Chalet</span></i> was the book that started it all. <br />
Brent-Dyer's death at the end of the '60s signalled the end of an era in a way. More stories have been written for schoolgirls than schoolboys in the last few decades yet neither genre has retained its old popularity. The <i><span class="il">Chalet</span> <span class="il">School</span></i> books themselves have become difficult to find now. The odd one may be found in second-hand bookshops or well-stocked <span class="il">school</span> libraries. It is only in the last few years that J. K. Rowlings has rekindled the enthusiasm for <span class="il">school</span> stories. Even there, those who have attempted to cash in on the popularity of wizarding <span class="il">school</span> stories have found that it is not that easy to reproduce a Hogwarts or its atmosphere.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-75980884264121458512007-10-01T01:14:00.000+05:302007-10-01T01:29:14.138+05:30The Jeep that Wouldn't StartIt was one of those mornings when you feel great to be ten years old with the whole summer vacation ahead of you. And if you happen to live with your grandmother (who is after all quite strict, however nice she might be) in the city, while your father moves from tea garden to tea garden, it is <i>good </i>to spend your holidays with your parents. All the more so if you like tea gardens and the hills, which Vicky did, very much so.<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="">But it wasn't the perfect start to the holiday that he had expected. For one thing, his parents seemed worried about something. His mother had warned him not to wander too far from the house, and his father was in his office-room, talking to the manager of the tea-garden next to theirs. In fact, as Vicky climbed moodily up the mango tree next to the house, he could hear his father's voice.<br /><br />"It's an insider job, I'm sure of it", he was saying. "We’ve tightened security, increased guards, questioned the workers and none of that has led us anywhere. I think the tea is being stolen by somebody who works inside the garden. The question is, who?"</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know,” said another voice (the other manager, Vicky decided). “They are doing a clever job, too. The thieves always seem to know where the labourers will be, which areas are being closely guarded. Who gives them this information?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Vicky suddenly remembered that his father would not want him overhearing official discussions, and quickly made his way back to the ground before he was caught.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“So that’s what is up,” he said to himself, as he walked down the garden to the verandah in front of their bungalow. He knew enough about tea-gardens to realize how serious the theft of green leaves might be. A garden might lose a fortune through tea stolen like that, directly from the tea bushes on the hillside. Still thinking, he found himself in front of one of his father’s jeeps. This was his favorite, a white, short-bodied Willys that would hold just 2 people and enough equipment in the back for the perfect picnic. He and his father had planned fishing trips down at the river nearby as well as treks up the hillsides, and his father had promised that they would take this jeep.</p> <p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;" align="left">His mother was on the porch, directing Dinesh, their driver, about the shopping to be done that day. Seeing Vicky, she called out, “The car is going down to the bazaar. Do you want to go with Dinesh and get the marbles you wanted? Dinesh says he knows a shop where you should be able to get big ones.”<br /><br />The bazaar! A place full of interesting shops! He had his pocket money with him and besides, his Dida would never let him go to the bazaar with only a driver for protection. Beaming with joy, he jumped into the passenger seat of the Willys and waiting impatiently while Dinesh made his way down the steps. As he opened the driver’s door he said, “I’ve to stop by at the factory on the way, ok, Vicky-baba?” Vicky nodded assent. A drive and to the bazaar at that. It was going to be a fun morning!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As they pulled into the bazaar his enthusiasm rose again. They’d had to wait for a long time at the factory, to collect some sacks, but here they were now at the bazaar, and there was the shop. Dinesh dropped him off there and said, “I’ll come by and pick you up in half an hour, all right? I have some work, and I have to do Madam’s shopping as well. Please don’t wander off.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Vicky spent an exciting ten minutes picking out five huge multicoloured glass marbles. But once his shopping was done, he decided to search for Dinesh and the car, instead of waiting another twenty minutes to be picked up. After asking around, he finally found the Willys parked outside a crumbling little building outside the bazaar. He looked into the doorway, and then entered, meaning to ask for Dinesh. He was just about to call out, when he heard the driver’s voice, talking to some other men.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’ve left the <i>chhokra</i> out in the bazaar. Must go pick him up now. Wonder what the brat would say if he knew he had helped me bring six sacks of his father’s precious tea out of the factory… heh heh heh”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>So the insider was Dinesh! Shocked, Vicky crept up to the doorway from where he could hear the men talking. He heard Dinesh boast about how he had been masterminding the theft for months and how smoothly it was running. Nobody would suspect him because he had such good recommendations from former masters. Who would think they were all false?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Vicky ran out into the street. There was nobody there to help him. He remembered seeing the police station near the other end of the bazaar, but running there and back would take him ten minutes or more. What if Dinesh left in the meantime? The police needed to catch him with the other members of the gang. Thinking aloud, he said, “I can run there and back. If only the jeep develops some kind of trouble. If only it can somehow keep him waiting here, even five minutes would do! Oh Jeep, you must <i>not</i> start!” And Vicky began running for the police.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKoCl-1hpOU7GI969S3z6xPb15j3YdWeonDbjscMSeeGqa-c1F7XMIFuxK06zWFgHoGKxMgtHsYlCpE18iL5bqN99pM2ddsCTQr9X1kCBoij1grXhOAB1B7u7e6KI0g1HAeRA/s1600-h/jeep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXKoCl-1hpOU7GI969S3z6xPb15j3YdWeonDbjscMSeeGqa-c1F7XMIFuxK06zWFgHoGKxMgtHsYlCpE18iL5bqN99pM2ddsCTQr9X1kCBoij1grXhOAB1B7u7e6KI0g1HAeRA/s320/jeep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116088400851566050" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal">“What I don’t understand,” said Vicky’s father that evening, “Is how the Willys didn’t start. It’s never given me a day’s trouble. In fact, it’s the best-maintained vehicle I have. And if it had started Dinesh would certainly have left. And you were lucky, Vicky, that his friends were all there, trying to help him start the jeep.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>But Vicky only smiled to himself. It hadn’t been luck at all, it had been the Jeep. In fact, as he had got out of it when he reached home half an hour ago, one of the headlamps had dimmed in a way that could only be called a wink!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: olive;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 0);">Written by Sunayana Roy (P.G. II, Roll No. 761) as a term paper for the optional course on Children’s Literature in April 2005</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 0);">Illustration © Soubhik Niyogy 2005</span><i><span style="color: olive;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-1136434298644142602006-01-05T09:39:00.000+05:302006-01-05T09:41:38.656+05:30Looove well thought out phrasesThis phrase ain't mine but I love it! Found it <a href="http://www.quidditch.com/lemony%20snicket.htm">here</a>.<br /><br />"Lexicographic plasticity"<br /><br />Heh!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-1135757480545674302005-12-28T13:34:00.000+05:302011-09-27T11:32:57.085+05:30The Defence of the Housewife"Enough!" I heard her scream in desperate haste,<br />"I shall not let you lay the whole house to waste!<br />You have dismembered my dryer and the washer too,<br />My kitchen floor now resembles a railway loo;<br />You have used up entirely my last bit of patience,<br />And the penultimate drop of my coconut oil rations.<br />In addition your tone seeks to disparage<br />The experience I have, a woman twice your age!<br />Not content with ruining my kitchen plugpoints you<br />Dare to attempt those of other rooms too?"<br /><br />"Thus far and no farther shall you venture my boy,<br />My home is not for Godrej servicemen to destroy!"<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">This poem was written in commemoration of my mother's heroic attempts to save our home in Chennai from the entirely destructive hands of the Godrej serviceman who came to repair our washing-machine. Our place survived, with a somewhat battle-scarred electrical wiring, but I'm afraid the washing machine didn't make it. We have a Haier one now.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-1132859237662086282005-11-25T00:36:00.000+05:302011-09-27T11:34:01.067+05:30In the Eyes of the Beholder<!--Post Image--> <a name="1127888963"></a> Once upon a time there was a princess. Like all princesses she was special but hers was not the specialty of beauty or intelligence or generosity. She was special because she was blind. She had not been born blind, of course. As a young girl (a fairly attractive one, with her black hair and straight nose and smiling lips) she had had many suitors. Her fancy though fell on a horse. A brown pony with liquid eyes and a sturdy body. She gave this pony all her time and all her love and did not notice that people had begun laughing at her or that her suitors were beginning to drift away. Then one day her mother, who was quite practical but fairly kind as queens go, pointed it out to the young girl that princesses do not fall in love with horses, however liquid their eyes and gentle their bearing.<br /><br />Our princess of course knew all this but hearing it did not make it any easier for her. However she was not an unreasonable girl and knew that her duty lay in things beyond her special desires. In such things princesses are brought up differently from the rest of us. So one day she held the horse’s head in her hands and looked it in the face and told it that their time was over, that she had other things to do and that he should go. The horse, not having had the education of princesses, was not as tractable as she could have wished. He was finally led away, snorting and twisting back to look at her. But the princess was made of sterner stuff and walked away herself without turning once to look at the poor beast. She told herself that it was a fine and noble thing to have done and for everybody’s eventual good.<br /><br />Then she went into the palace and into a party and began leading the life everybody thought a princess should lead. She spent her days at parties and balls, in gossip and shopping. If some mornings her eyes were duller than they should have been it was ascribed to her hectic schedule and not to sleepless nights.<br /><br />She eventually gave a young Emperor of a far-off land the permission to approach her parents for her hand in marriage and the entire court rejoiced. She was eighteen and getting more beautiful with each passing day – and she was acting as a princess should. What she didn’t tell anybody was that it was getting more and more difficult for her to see well out of her left eye. She could make things out of course, but through a bit of a haze. However, her reputation as a modestly brought up young girl stood her in good stead, because she was not obliged to look important people in the eye (and indeed, would have been called brash if she had) and her fiancé seemed to find nothing wrong with her walking into the occasional table.<br /><br />After a while though the haze got into the other eye and the princess began living out a surreal dream. She was obliged to confess to the Emperor and beg his pardon for refusing to marry him after all. (He was saddened by the event and begged her to reconsider, because he truly loved her for her sunny smiles and the way she had of making him laugh but eventually he was made to understand that her decision was final. With a last bow, he walked away and into another story.) The princess stayed confined in her chambers now as great doctors fussed at her and put drops in her eyes and poultices on her face and made her swallow a great many evil-tasting medicines. In the end they all gave up, unable to locate a cause or its cure.<br /><br />“It’s almost as though she doesn’t want to really see,” said one physician, “as though her body has ordered curtains to be drawn across her eyes – with her permission.” In that he was not far wrong, because the princess herself seemed unaffected by the fact that she could not see. She lay quietly in her bed and ate whatever was put before her and listened to whatever she was told. Sometimes she sang to herself but nobody understood the language of her songs. Her mother, in tears, begged her to stop because everybody believed she was going mad, so she did stop the singing. She must have been the most tractable of patients but perhaps that too was due to her excellent training. Princesses, after all, do not complain.<br /><br />One of the doctors stayed behind when all the others left. He was interested in her case and besides, he had a kind heart too, and was much affected by the poor young girl lying patiently on her bed. He taught the Court not to move any furniture in the palace so that she may move without unease. He instructed the minstrels to play different songs at different hours so that she always knew what part of the day she was in. And he showed the princess that even the blind may move, that senses other than that of vision may be used with as much temerity. On her part the princess was grateful to him for his many kindnesses and tried to do her best to please him.<br /><br />One day this doctor, having heard that she had been fond of riding, got her a gentle mare. The queen sighed from her window as she saw her sightless daughter mount by touch but she did not make any move to stop them because there was so little that the princess could really enjoy any more.<br /><br />The princess rode far and wide on her mare. Most of all she loved riding out into the forest that lay a little beyond the palace. She loved letting the mare lapse into a walk so that she could touch the trees as she passed, feel their leaves caress her face. She was usually accompanied by the doctor or a groom but by and by she persuaded the groom that she would not go further than he could call, if only he would let her ride alone. I’m sorry to say she did not keep her promise but the groom knew she was an excellent young horsewoman and, as she always returned when she said she would, he stopped worrying about where she went.<br /><br />One day, while she was out riding thus by herself, she heard a voice say from in front of her, “Princess, you would be happier in our land.”<br /><br />She knew who had spoken, had indeed been waiting for months for the mare to find the courage to address her. In the same tongue, the one that no one had understood when she had sung in it, she replied, “I know I would but how would you ever get me there?”<br /><br />“The same way I came, my lady. Your troubles have been reported in our land and our Prince sent me to find out if you would change your mind about him.”<br /><br />“He remembers me then, still?” said the princess, a pensive note entering her voice.<br /><br />“Yes, my lady, and he asked that I tell you his feelings have not changed. If you really wish it, I could take you there.”<br /><br />“How would we travel? What is it that I would have to do?” asked the princess, with more hope in her voice than anybody had heard for a year or to be precise, since she had begun leading the life expected of her.<br /><br />“A little beyond these trees there is a cliff my lady,” replied the mare, “That is where we have to leave your land. I’m afraid though that you will not be able to take this body with you. We shall have to leave it behind, as I must leave the one I have assumed. Will you be afraid?”<br /><br />“Are you questioning my courage?’ said the princess with a touch of hauteur. She came from a long line of brave kings after all, was her valor to be questioned by any mare?<br /><br />“I beg your pardon my lady,” whinnied the mare, “It is just that leaving one’s body is never easy or pleasant. However, if you are truly decided, should we leave now? I have missed my land and would get back to it as soon as your decision is made.”<br /><br />The princess thought. Was she ready to leave her parents behind? Her friends in the court, her pampered life of luxury? The more she thought, the further they seemed. In one sense, she realized, what the eyes do not see the heart does not miss. Her mind made up, she patted the mare and said, “I am ready.”<br /><br />------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />When they found the bodies of the girl and the horse at the bottom of the cliff a few hours later, nobody could believe what had happened. The groom was held responsible for negligence and turned away and the doctor dismissed for indirectly leading the princess to her death, but nobody thought to ask themselves why a horse would deliberately go over a cliff. The feelings of all were summed up in what the queen said to comfort the heartbroken king, “At least she couldn’t see where she went. We must be thankful for that.”<br /><br />Finis<div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19281927.post-1148550435096794472004-06-14T04:15:00.000+05:302011-09-27T11:32:57.091+05:30BlankyO Vicky’s very comfortable<br />Like your cosy old blanky<br />As familiar and reassuring<br />As his tebilkavar hanky<br /><br />And just like a blanky,<br />He’s good to take to bed<br />Where he can show a girl a good time<br />-- Just let him have his head!<br /><br />Sunayana Roy<br />Midnight<br />14th June 2004<div class="blogger-post-footer">Read the rest of this post at www.sunayanaroy2.blogspot.com.</div>Suehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10819608939555247317noreply@blogger.com