I
The fog is clearing, perhaps. There appears to be a growing sense of clarity, of things coming together. At least that’s the way it feels on most days. I feel like a more resolved version of myself. The struggling being within, who was afraid of the world, shrank from the world, is gone. Some days this feeling is pronounced.
These are the days when I feel I could whistle as I walk, if I only knew how to whistle. I look around taking in all assorted sights and sounds, pleasured by everything I see, relishing each sensation. I call it elation, euphoria.
Euphoria, however, isn’t normal. It’s an aberration a disorder of sorts. Medical dictionaries define it as a sense of elation that is disproportionate to its cause. It’s ephemeral, it rarely lasts, or perhaps it simply wilts under extreme scrutiny; an unexamined life having been condemned, rather boldly, as not worth living. So I take each nuance and tear it apart, split each hair, peel away each layer until I convince myself it’s all a mirage.
Mirages terrify, the familiar grayness of everyday existence is so much more comforting and easier to accept. The gray room is safe, no disappointments here, no dashed expectations, the sleep-wake-eat cycle keeps things moving like clockwork for four score or more years. Why would we ever leave? And yet we leave, comfort and contentment weren’t meant to travel hand in hand. Contentment lies elsewhere, out in the distance where the images shimmer and dissolve in the burning sun.
II
Edgar, the piano tuner specializing in Erards, in Daniel Mason’s novel – The Piano Tuner – could have stayed in England doing what he did best: tuning pianos with consummate skill and loving his devoted wife Katherine as best he could. But the jungles of Burma beckoned irresistibly. He believed what he was told about Surgeon-Major Anthony Carroll: that the good doctor’s unconventional methods were indispensable to British interests in the Shan states of Eastern Burma. The doctor, much to the chagrin of British military, had successfully petitioned for an Erard piano which was shipped to the jungles of Burma at considerable expense and hardship. Its difficult travel under extreme humidity had, however, rendered the piano unplayable. The doctor was now requesting the services of a skilled tuner of Erard pianos. That’s where Edgar came in. He was briefed about Dr Carroll. He was convinced that the doctor intended to use music to peaceably unite the warring factions fighting for autonomy from the British, or fighting each other. His initial skepticism was superficial, his mind was made up before he knew it was. His wife Katherine also believed that this was something Edgar needed to do, that it was a personal quest without which he would remain unfulfilled. So he sets off for the long journey to Burma enthralled by the sights and especially the sounds along the way.
There are ill-portents along the way. He meets a poet on the train who wants to tell him about the Leip-Bya and a passenger on the boat who tells him how he followed a mirage, an elusive woman behind a veil, into the desert, only to learn that the woman had the face of a deer and sang a song that only he could hear, then the mirage ended and he was left drained, helpless and deaf, unable to hear anything else, ever.
He finally reaches the doctor after many delays, attacks, injuries and illness. He spends many hours in the great man’s company, absorbing his views, marveling at his discourses on art, literature, poetry and even botany. He meets and is entranced by Khin Myo, a Burmese woman who accompanies him and looks after him during most of his stay there. He seeks her company, he is attracted to her, even as he writes letters to the one love of his life, his sweet Katherine.
He works on tuning the piano, reveling in the sounds, the notes, in getting them just right. He spends his days in Khin Myo’s sensuous company, never exceeding propriety. Although he comes close one night when Khin Myo expresses a desire to learn how to play the piano. He asks her to put her hands on his as his fingers fly across the keyboard. Strands of her hair brush his face, a moment full of possibilities, when it ends just as soon as it has started.
He finally becomes a part of the doctor’s larger plan. He is asked to play for the Shan Saubwas. His protests that he is simply a tuner and not a pianist fall on deaf ears. The doctor insists and he plays.
All this is a preamble to my favorite part of Mason’s book. The part that describes Edgar’s choice of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier when he’s asked to play, and the thoughts that went into his selection of the piece.
III
I have talked about the elation I’ve felt on certain days. I’ve tried to delve deeper into the cause, as is my nature. There are scattered events that seem to shine, like characteristic notes in a raag, that define it and set the tone for a larger context. And my raag analogy here, is itself a part of this larger context, as I try to understand, to feed my pattern-seeking brain, bits of information to piece together the rudiments of musical understanding. I have the invaluable guidance of a friend during this process, where each time I think about what he says, a key seems to fit a lock within, opening doors to a beautiful world, thrilling every sense. This tends to happen in every field of interest; if I am wondering about poetry, friends come and light the path with gems about assonance, consonance, enjambment, caesura and thoughts on structure and rhythm, conversations lead to book recommendations that are almost always a soul-satisfying experience.
One talks about floodgates opening up, often in the sense of catharsis, of things rushing out, I wonder if there is a similar metaphor for the richness of experience rushing in, irrigating every single parched corner of the soul. There’s beauty around me that I never noticed before.
In the book, Edgar put his ear to some stones in the river and heard notes he had never heard before. He arrived at Burma, his very own land of lotus-eaters. He wanted to return home to Katherine but accepted every opportunity to stay in on in this languid land of beauty, of music, of haunting sensuality. His senses were filled, the search of which he hadn’t been aware, his eternal quest, was over.
A synergy of sorts happens when a random discussion leads to a book recommendation and a character within the book is eerily similar to a dear friend. Things this friend has been saying, the concerns he has been expressing are identical to those of the protagonist in the book. It makes me wonder what it all means, what is this larger sense and why does it feel as if I am being drawn, inexorably, toward a definite conclusion, a final resolution, the nature of which remains hidden but palpable.
IV
His words imply he has hit some turbulence in life, several things have gone awry. I suggest his music will see him through, restore order for awhile where discord and disorder seem to have taken hold. He agrees but only partially. His passion for music, how he senses and feels each note, each arrangement is enviable and a joy to watch and hear. He says he is luckier than most to have his music but even so there are moments of discontent when a certain arrangement of notes, occurs to him in sleep, he wakes up wanting to capture it, immortalize it, but is limited by an adequate means of transcribing his epiphany. Even now I am not certain I adequately grasp the sense of what he is trying to convey; intuitively I do. I sense the frustration. We have conversations about the order and symmetry, the mathematical nature of music. I question him in wonderment about how it becomes possible to hear each note in isolation. I understand Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa but my ears can never recognize the Re or the Ma in isolation. He mentions “equally spaced notes”, the mathematical beauty of it, where I can try making each individual note the base, one at a time and eventually, with practice, get to hear each one in isolation. I am ecstatic as I convince myself I understood what he was saying. These discussions are enlightening to a musical illiterate like me, more knowledge rushing in with every word, greater joy. A joy that radiates through other aspects of life, rendering many other concerns meaningless and petty.
V
And that takes us to Edgar’s selection of the Well-Tempered Clavier for playing to the Shan Saubwas, in his firm belief that he is campaigning for peace, order and well-being. I will let you read this excerpt from Daniel Mason’s book, for yourself:
He began with Bach’s prelude and fugue in C sharp minor, the fourth piece of Bach’s collections of preludes and fugues known as The Well-Tempered Clavier, or as simply The Forty-Eight after the number of prelude variations, which are arranged into two books, each of twenty four chapters. It was a tuner’s piece, an exploration of the possibilities of sound, and a series that Edgar knew from testing the tuning of professional pianos. He had always called it a testament to the art of tuning. Before the development of equal temperament, the even spacing of notes, it was impossible to play the entire piece on the same instrument. But with equally spaced notes, the possibilities suddenly seemed endless.
He played through the prelude, the sound rose and fell, and he felt himself sway as he played. There is much I could tell the doctor, he thought, about why I have chosen it. That it is a piece bound by strict rules of counterpoint, as all fugues are, the song is but an elaboration of one simple melody, the remainder of the piece destined to follow the rules established in the first few lines. To me this means beauty is found in order, in rules – he may make what he wishes from this in terms of law and treaty signing. I could tell him that it is a piece without a commanding melody, that in England many people dismiss it as too mathematical, as lacking a tune that can be held or hummed. Perhaps he knows this already…Something mathematical, for this reason, is universal, all can appreciate complexity, the trance found in patterns of sound.
There are other things he could say, of why he began with the fourth prelude and not the first, for the fourth is a song of ambiguity and the first a song of accomplishment, and it is best to begin courtships with modesty. Or that he chose it simply because he often felt deeply moved when he heard it. There is emotion in the notes, if it is less accessible than other pieces, perhaps this is why it is so much stronger.
The piece began low, in the bass strings, and as it increased in complexity, soprano voices entered, and Edgar felt his whole body move toward the right and remain there, a journey across the keyboard, I am like the puppets moving on their stage in Mandalay. More confident now, he played and the song slowed, and when at last he finished he had almost forgotten that others were watching.
….And so he began again, now D major, now D minor, and forward through each scale, moving up, each tune a variation on its beginnings, structure giving rise to possibilities. He played into the remoter scales, as his old master had called them, and Edgar thought how fitting a name this was for a piece played into the night of the jungle.
I marvel at the coincidences once again. The protagonist in this novel is exactly like my friend in how he thinks, how he relates to sound. I am quite baffled. These discoveries add to the feeling of elation.
VI
In the book things now take a turn for the worse. Doctor Carroll and Khin Myo make plans to leave the Mae Lwin valley encampment. Dr Carroll asks Edgar to make preparations to leave. Edgar is puzzled, disoriented. He sets off on a raft with the Erard and three boyish companions. He continues to enjoy the sounds of the hammers hitting the strings within the piano, discovering sounds he has never before heard, but conditions start rapidly deteriorating. He is told the legend of Leip-Bya again. He remembers it being mentioned by a train carriage poet earlier in his travels. He is told that the soul of every man lives within a butterfly – the Leip-Bya. It wanders while the man sleeps, visiting strange lands, wandering exploring. He is told that this is the reason a sleeping man isn’t disturbed mid sleep, his sleep needs to last as long as it takes for the Leip-Bya to return and re-enter the body. If it doesn’t death follows. Edgar also remembers the story he was told by the deaf sailor and the things his master said to him. His companions are then shot and Edgar is arrested. He is accused of being a spy. He is debriefed in a manner that leaves no doubt that Doctor Carroll was a traitor to Her Majesty’s interests. Edgar is accused of similar treason for playing for a band of traitors.
The axis of his whole world shifts, his beliefs are shaken, he sees a mirage…
VII
And so I am afraid of this sense of elation, this euphoric feeling that assails each sense, allows me to walk on air enjoying each contact, each sensation, a sensory overload of well-being. Is it a mirage as well? The fear that it is, is strong enough, convincing enough, that there is no option but to let it wilt under the glare of extreme scrutiny. I can’t take it for granted. It is ephemeral, it could well be a mirage.
Sunday, April 9, 2006
Saturday, April 8, 2006
Sun Glare - Rt 80 (Exit 28)
There is light all around yet I am as blind as blind can be. I can’t see a thing. The days are getting longer again, the sun gradually rising above the horizon as I head east, squinting, shading my eyes, trying to leave them wide open so I can get accustomed to the blinding glare sooner but nothing works and all I can think of is the car ahead of me into which I could be crashing any minute now. I don’t see its outline, its taillights or anything at all. I feel like stopping right where I am, immobilized with fear, but I creep slowly ahead, clutching the steering wheel tight, hunching over it, inching forward until the bare branches of the trees on the hills come to my rescue, taking away the glare.
I know the respite is temporary, there is only so much the bare trees can offer. They are yet to experience the lushness of spring. Spring isn’t here yet. The clarity of vision will last only as long as the movement of the car takes me away once again from the cover offered by their static existence. I have to keep moving. And most of the times I move blind, using the cues that reside in memory and not in any physical reality. I am programmed. I am sure the other drivers all around me are similarly programmed. They know when to stop and when to slow down in this light induced blindness.
I know the respite is temporary, there is only so much the bare trees can offer. They are yet to experience the lushness of spring. Spring isn’t here yet. The clarity of vision will last only as long as the movement of the car takes me away once again from the cover offered by their static existence. I have to keep moving. And most of the times I move blind, using the cues that reside in memory and not in any physical reality. I am programmed. I am sure the other drivers all around me are similarly programmed. They know when to stop and when to slow down in this light induced blindness.
Impressions: My Name is Red - by Orhan Pamuk
It took me many months to finish reading news-making Turkish author Orhan Pamuk’s –My name is Red. It wasn’t an easy read and yet never once did I feel like giving up. It certainly kept me interested till the end. It is a thriller and the back page reviewers have likened it to Umberto Eco’s –Name of the Rose. But it isn’t as fluid as Eco’s novel. Perhaps some fluidity is lost in translation.
However, the book does become pertinent in light of the recent cartoon controversy. It’s about the gilders, illuminators and calligraphers in sixteenth century Turkey. It opens in the voice of a man who has recently been murdered – Elegant Effendi. He was the master gilder on a top secret book that had been commissioned by the Sultan. Elegant Effendi recalls his own brutal murder where he was beaten and his head crushed by a stone, by someone he trusted. His body then dumped into a well.
As the story goes on, the narrators change. Each chapter is narrated from the perspective of either an illustration within the unfinished book or one of the illustrators, calligraphers and the persons involved with them. One of the perspectives is that of an illustrated dog. The dog talks of the harsh treatment he receives in this land due to a prevalent misinterpretation of the Holy Quran. He tells us that the Prophet had nothing against dogs and that people assumed the dog was a detestable animal simply because the Prophet decided to offer a piece of his shawl to the cat and not to the dog.
The story is also told from the point of view of a lonely tree depicted in the center of an illustrated page and a horse that has been drawn running with both his forelegs extended. The illustrated horse questions the reality of this depiction since horses never run like hares.
The debate central to the book is whether or not paintings should be done in the style of the Frankish painters who saw and painted every wrinkle in a face, every item in a room, every fold in the clothes draping the people depicted. The old masters in Turkey were opposed to the imitation of the Frankish painters which was being encouraged by Enishte Effendi who had been commissioned by the Sultan to create just such a book. The ambitious project was expected to showcase the Sultan to the West in a manner that established him in their eyes as the Refuge of the World. There were many detractors in an age where senior artists routinely blinded themselves with a plumed needle so that they could paint from memory, exactly how god intended them to see things, for seeing things with their own eyes and depicting them as they saw them amounted to blasphemy.
Then one of the illustrators turns murderer and several pieces of the narration are in the murderer’s voice yet I found it extremely difficult to start guessing which one of them was guilty. So I kept reading on, trying to discover clues, none were forthcoming.
The murderer strikes again and kills Enishte Effendi, the man commissioned with the completion of The Book. He is killed after a lengthy debate with the murderer about the adoption of European illustration practices. The murderer has trouble accepting it.
The Sultan then leads an investigation. The form the investigation takes is quite intriguing. There are long passages about “signature” and “uniqueness” in the works of art. It wasn’t acceptable to develop unique styles, through centuries of apprenticeship, traditions were required to remain the same, one had to paint n the styles of the old masters. Exhibiting individuality was a sin punishable by law. Yet every artist tended to do make the slightest possible variation to the thing he was illustrating. If his specialty was horses, he drew the nostrils differently, if it was trees, there was something very subtly different about the trees. The investigators found a sheaf of unfinished horse sketches at the scene of the murder and asked all illustrators involved in the creation to draw horses. An old master was then asked to examine all collected drawings to determine which one of the illustrators who had apprenticed with him drew horses similar to the ones found at the scene of the crime. These particular horses were all drawn with torn nostrils, Mongolian horses, whose nostrils were torn to breathe easier in the rarefied Mongolian air.
The Old Master is finally able to single out the murderer although the knowledge isn’t shared with the reader immediately, much violence, intrigue and further discussions follow about illustrators, illustrations and the implications for religion and spirituality.
One particularly thought provoking chapter is the one that’s written from Satan’s point of view:
I, Satan
I am fond of the smell of red peppers frying in olive oil, rain falling into a calm sea at dawn, the unexpected appearance of a woman at an open window, silences, thought and patience. I believe in myself, and most of the time, pay no mind to what’s been said about me. Tonight, however, I’ve come to this coffeehouse to set my miniaturist and calligrapher brethren straight about certain gossip, lies and rumors.
Of course, because I am the one speaking, you’re already prepared to believe the exact opposite of what I have to say. But you’re smart enough to sense that the opposite of what I say is not always true, and though you might doubt me, you’re astute enough to take an interest in my words. You’re well aware that my name, which appears in the Glorious Koran fifty-two times, is one of the most frequently cited.
All right then, let me begin with God’s book, the Glorious Koran. Everything about me in there is the truth. Let it be known that when I say this it is with utmost humility. For there’s also the issue of style. It has always caused me great pain that I’m belittled in the Glorious Koran. But this pain is my way of life. This is simply the way it is.
It’s true, God created man before the eyes of us angels. Then He wanted us to prostrate ourselves before this creation. Yes it happened the way it is written in the “The Heights” chapter: While all the other angels bowed before man, I refused. I reminded all that Adam was made from mud, whereas I was created from fire, a superior element as all of you are familiar. So I didn’t bow before man. And God found my behavior, well, “proud.”
“Lower yourself from the heavens these heavens,” He said. “It’s beyond the likes of you to scheme for greatness here.”
“Permit me to live until Judgment Day,” I said, “until the dead arise.”
He granted His permission. I promised that during this entire time I would tempt the descendants of Adam, who’d been the cause of my punishment, and He said He’d send to Hell those I’d successfully corrupted. I don’t have to tell you that we’ve each remained true to his word. I have nothing more to say about the matter.
…I am not the source of all the evil and the sin in the world. Many people sin out of their own blind ambition, lust, lack of willpower, baseness and most often, out of their own idiocy, without any instigation, deception or temptation on my part…I’m not the one who tempts every fruit monger who craftily foists rotten apples upon his customers, every child who tells a lie, every fawning sycophant, every old man who has obscene dreams or every boy who jacks off. Sure, I work very hard so you might commit grave sins.
Like so, we arrive at the heart of the matter: figurative painting. I’ve heard that some of the miniaturists among us claim that I’m the one behind all this painting in the Frankish style. For centuries countless accusations have been leveled at me, but none so far from the truth.
Let’s start from the beginning. Everybody gets caught up in my provoking Eve to eat the forbidden fruit and forgets about how this whole matter began. No, it doesn’t begin with my hubris before the Almighty either. Before anything else, there’s the matter of His presenting man to us and expecting us to bow down to him, which met with my quite appropriate and decisive refusal – though the other angels obeyed.
This however is precisely what the new European masters are doing, and they’re not satisfied with merely depicting and displaying every single detail down to eye color, complexion, curvy lips, forehead wrinkles, rings and disgusting ear-hair of gentlemen, priests, wealthy merchants and even women – including the lovely shadows that fall between their breasts. These artists also dare to situate their subjects in the center of the page, as if man were meant to be worshipped, and display these portraits like idols before which we should prostrate ourselves. Is man important enough to warrant being drawn in every detail, including his shadow?…”
What a fascinating device used by Pamuk, to turn the pious, religious argument against drawing a certain way, on its head!
All in all, a book that keeps one interested till the end but it is certainly one where there has been some loss in translation. The ending, the resolution of the murder mystery, also fails to satisfy.
However, the book does become pertinent in light of the recent cartoon controversy. It’s about the gilders, illuminators and calligraphers in sixteenth century Turkey. It opens in the voice of a man who has recently been murdered – Elegant Effendi. He was the master gilder on a top secret book that had been commissioned by the Sultan. Elegant Effendi recalls his own brutal murder where he was beaten and his head crushed by a stone, by someone he trusted. His body then dumped into a well.
As the story goes on, the narrators change. Each chapter is narrated from the perspective of either an illustration within the unfinished book or one of the illustrators, calligraphers and the persons involved with them. One of the perspectives is that of an illustrated dog. The dog talks of the harsh treatment he receives in this land due to a prevalent misinterpretation of the Holy Quran. He tells us that the Prophet had nothing against dogs and that people assumed the dog was a detestable animal simply because the Prophet decided to offer a piece of his shawl to the cat and not to the dog.
The story is also told from the point of view of a lonely tree depicted in the center of an illustrated page and a horse that has been drawn running with both his forelegs extended. The illustrated horse questions the reality of this depiction since horses never run like hares.
The debate central to the book is whether or not paintings should be done in the style of the Frankish painters who saw and painted every wrinkle in a face, every item in a room, every fold in the clothes draping the people depicted. The old masters in Turkey were opposed to the imitation of the Frankish painters which was being encouraged by Enishte Effendi who had been commissioned by the Sultan to create just such a book. The ambitious project was expected to showcase the Sultan to the West in a manner that established him in their eyes as the Refuge of the World. There were many detractors in an age where senior artists routinely blinded themselves with a plumed needle so that they could paint from memory, exactly how god intended them to see things, for seeing things with their own eyes and depicting them as they saw them amounted to blasphemy.
Then one of the illustrators turns murderer and several pieces of the narration are in the murderer’s voice yet I found it extremely difficult to start guessing which one of them was guilty. So I kept reading on, trying to discover clues, none were forthcoming.
The murderer strikes again and kills Enishte Effendi, the man commissioned with the completion of The Book. He is killed after a lengthy debate with the murderer about the adoption of European illustration practices. The murderer has trouble accepting it.
The Sultan then leads an investigation. The form the investigation takes is quite intriguing. There are long passages about “signature” and “uniqueness” in the works of art. It wasn’t acceptable to develop unique styles, through centuries of apprenticeship, traditions were required to remain the same, one had to paint n the styles of the old masters. Exhibiting individuality was a sin punishable by law. Yet every artist tended to do make the slightest possible variation to the thing he was illustrating. If his specialty was horses, he drew the nostrils differently, if it was trees, there was something very subtly different about the trees. The investigators found a sheaf of unfinished horse sketches at the scene of the murder and asked all illustrators involved in the creation to draw horses. An old master was then asked to examine all collected drawings to determine which one of the illustrators who had apprenticed with him drew horses similar to the ones found at the scene of the crime. These particular horses were all drawn with torn nostrils, Mongolian horses, whose nostrils were torn to breathe easier in the rarefied Mongolian air.
The Old Master is finally able to single out the murderer although the knowledge isn’t shared with the reader immediately, much violence, intrigue and further discussions follow about illustrators, illustrations and the implications for religion and spirituality.
One particularly thought provoking chapter is the one that’s written from Satan’s point of view:
I, Satan
I am fond of the smell of red peppers frying in olive oil, rain falling into a calm sea at dawn, the unexpected appearance of a woman at an open window, silences, thought and patience. I believe in myself, and most of the time, pay no mind to what’s been said about me. Tonight, however, I’ve come to this coffeehouse to set my miniaturist and calligrapher brethren straight about certain gossip, lies and rumors.
Of course, because I am the one speaking, you’re already prepared to believe the exact opposite of what I have to say. But you’re smart enough to sense that the opposite of what I say is not always true, and though you might doubt me, you’re astute enough to take an interest in my words. You’re well aware that my name, which appears in the Glorious Koran fifty-two times, is one of the most frequently cited.
All right then, let me begin with God’s book, the Glorious Koran. Everything about me in there is the truth. Let it be known that when I say this it is with utmost humility. For there’s also the issue of style. It has always caused me great pain that I’m belittled in the Glorious Koran. But this pain is my way of life. This is simply the way it is.
It’s true, God created man before the eyes of us angels. Then He wanted us to prostrate ourselves before this creation. Yes it happened the way it is written in the “The Heights” chapter: While all the other angels bowed before man, I refused. I reminded all that Adam was made from mud, whereas I was created from fire, a superior element as all of you are familiar. So I didn’t bow before man. And God found my behavior, well, “proud.”
“Lower yourself from the heavens these heavens,” He said. “It’s beyond the likes of you to scheme for greatness here.”
“Permit me to live until Judgment Day,” I said, “until the dead arise.”
He granted His permission. I promised that during this entire time I would tempt the descendants of Adam, who’d been the cause of my punishment, and He said He’d send to Hell those I’d successfully corrupted. I don’t have to tell you that we’ve each remained true to his word. I have nothing more to say about the matter.
…I am not the source of all the evil and the sin in the world. Many people sin out of their own blind ambition, lust, lack of willpower, baseness and most often, out of their own idiocy, without any instigation, deception or temptation on my part…I’m not the one who tempts every fruit monger who craftily foists rotten apples upon his customers, every child who tells a lie, every fawning sycophant, every old man who has obscene dreams or every boy who jacks off. Sure, I work very hard so you might commit grave sins.
Like so, we arrive at the heart of the matter: figurative painting. I’ve heard that some of the miniaturists among us claim that I’m the one behind all this painting in the Frankish style. For centuries countless accusations have been leveled at me, but none so far from the truth.
Let’s start from the beginning. Everybody gets caught up in my provoking Eve to eat the forbidden fruit and forgets about how this whole matter began. No, it doesn’t begin with my hubris before the Almighty either. Before anything else, there’s the matter of His presenting man to us and expecting us to bow down to him, which met with my quite appropriate and decisive refusal – though the other angels obeyed.
This however is precisely what the new European masters are doing, and they’re not satisfied with merely depicting and displaying every single detail down to eye color, complexion, curvy lips, forehead wrinkles, rings and disgusting ear-hair of gentlemen, priests, wealthy merchants and even women – including the lovely shadows that fall between their breasts. These artists also dare to situate their subjects in the center of the page, as if man were meant to be worshipped, and display these portraits like idols before which we should prostrate ourselves. Is man important enough to warrant being drawn in every detail, including his shadow?…”
What a fascinating device used by Pamuk, to turn the pious, religious argument against drawing a certain way, on its head!
All in all, a book that keeps one interested till the end but it is certainly one where there has been some loss in translation. The ending, the resolution of the murder mystery, also fails to satisfy.
Introduction: Find the One Lie!
I was born in the late sixties in Honolulu, Hawaii, USA and for the first three months of my life lived in a tropical paradise. Unfortunately, my arrival was at the tail end of my parents’ five year long stay in this fiftieth state of America and from the tropics the small family of three ventured straight into the Tundras. The next two years of my life were spent in snowy Canada. I can’t really tell you much about the time spent there because, honestly, I don’t remember a thing. The pictures look good, with me in snowsuits, romping around, accepting the snow, relishing it. Far cry from the misery ice and snow now invoke! My pictures bear a striking resemblance to my Anoushka.
The Canada phase lasted two years after which my father, who hails from an extremely patriotic, freedom fighting family, felt the urge to return to the homeland. My parents were terrified of raising smelly, LSD’d flower children in North America and so we moved back to India via Europe. Once again, the pictures show that I had a wonderful time in Europe. My Mom tells me I picked up rocks on the Swiss Alps and having seen Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, imagined myself a moonwalker, proudly displaying my collection saying, “Look Mommy, Look Daddy - Moonwocks!”
I am told I displayed amazing poetic talent as well and my first composition celebrated the Niagara Falls region with the following words, “Green, green grass/blue, blue sky, looks nice, I rike it!” (I couldn’t say “l”). Alas, the muse fell asleep soon thereafter!
No moonwocks, or inspired poetry in Patna, Bihar, where we landed next. After Patna we went further into interior Bihar to a place called Sabour. It was a pleasant place, truly bucolic, with mango trees and flower gardens surrounding our government quarters. My Dad got an award for growing the biggest tomato there, I still remember walking up the stage to receive his award for him.
But this is when the music changes, these were the years when I slowly learnt how to be fearful of all my teachers and shy around all fellow students. The sisters at Mt Carmel Convent School had a tendency to smack the kids with rulers and so I developed an interesting habit of never turning in my examination papers. I used to take the exam but then stuffed the papers into my satchel for Mom to discover after the report card showed mysterious absences, especially when she knew she had dropped me off in class. Those were some trying times for my parents. What can I say, the penguins terrified me!
Idyllic Sabour, where time stood still, was left behind in a quest for a better life and so began the New Delhi phase. My shyness and quirky student habits became more pronounced here, much aggravated by my extreme shyness and fear of teachers. I kept marking my own work with a red pencil, impersonating the teacher’s initials, confident in my seven year old forgery skills. I even sat on my bookcase for several months because my chair had been stolen by the class bully. My younger brother who used to spend his time in my classroom after his kindergarten hours went home making dire pronouncements one day, “Mommy, Didi doesn’t even have a chair in class, she sits on her bookcase!” Took quite sometime to shake off some of this irrational fear and even longer to shed the shyness.
The episode where I lost track of the rest of my Delhi School of Economics, Class of 1987 classmates, during a Jim Corbett park tour, and got hopelessly lost in the jungle, can be attributed to my extreme shyness. I branched away from the others thinking I wasn’t cool enough to stay with them and walked away to a point of no return in the middle of the jungle. Soon as I realized I was lost I started looking around and spotted elephant droppings. I decided to follow this trail back to safety until the ground shook beneath me and I turned to see an enraged wild elephant running toward me. I remember thinking “musth”, that must be “musth” and running like crazy! I kept running, stepping into soft warm heaps at various places, finally stepping behind a tree while the elephant ran ahead. I waited awhile, until I could breathe normally again and then continued along the fragrant trail, all the way back to safety and civilization covered from head to toe in prickly burrs and other stuff. There were a couple of friends who had missed me and were worried about me. How heartening that was!
That was the last memorable experience in India. I left the country in 1988, to reclaim my birthright of US citizenship.
I have been in the US for eighteen years. I met my husband Anil in the February of 1991 and married him on the American Independence Day, July 4th, 1991. Indian weddings are usually characterized by the groom and his family leading a procession (Baraat) to the bride’s home, where the marriage usually takes place, but in my topsy-turvy world I drove my rickety car, family within, as “Baraat” to Rochester, New York, where Anil and I tied the knot. We used the long holiday weekend for a brief honeymoon in Toronto and then it was back to work.
We’ve settled down now to a quiet life in New Jersey, Anil, Anoushka and I. We are wrapped up in our own lives for the most part until at night, before bedtime, the Internet opens up its virtual doors to a wonderful circle of friends and family the world over.
The Canada phase lasted two years after which my father, who hails from an extremely patriotic, freedom fighting family, felt the urge to return to the homeland. My parents were terrified of raising smelly, LSD’d flower children in North America and so we moved back to India via Europe. Once again, the pictures show that I had a wonderful time in Europe. My Mom tells me I picked up rocks on the Swiss Alps and having seen Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, imagined myself a moonwalker, proudly displaying my collection saying, “Look Mommy, Look Daddy - Moonwocks!”
I am told I displayed amazing poetic talent as well and my first composition celebrated the Niagara Falls region with the following words, “Green, green grass/blue, blue sky, looks nice, I rike it!” (I couldn’t say “l”). Alas, the muse fell asleep soon thereafter!
No moonwocks, or inspired poetry in Patna, Bihar, where we landed next. After Patna we went further into interior Bihar to a place called Sabour. It was a pleasant place, truly bucolic, with mango trees and flower gardens surrounding our government quarters. My Dad got an award for growing the biggest tomato there, I still remember walking up the stage to receive his award for him.
But this is when the music changes, these were the years when I slowly learnt how to be fearful of all my teachers and shy around all fellow students. The sisters at Mt Carmel Convent School had a tendency to smack the kids with rulers and so I developed an interesting habit of never turning in my examination papers. I used to take the exam but then stuffed the papers into my satchel for Mom to discover after the report card showed mysterious absences, especially when she knew she had dropped me off in class. Those were some trying times for my parents. What can I say, the penguins terrified me!
Idyllic Sabour, where time stood still, was left behind in a quest for a better life and so began the New Delhi phase. My shyness and quirky student habits became more pronounced here, much aggravated by my extreme shyness and fear of teachers. I kept marking my own work with a red pencil, impersonating the teacher’s initials, confident in my seven year old forgery skills. I even sat on my bookcase for several months because my chair had been stolen by the class bully. My younger brother who used to spend his time in my classroom after his kindergarten hours went home making dire pronouncements one day, “Mommy, Didi doesn’t even have a chair in class, she sits on her bookcase!” Took quite sometime to shake off some of this irrational fear and even longer to shed the shyness.
The episode where I lost track of the rest of my Delhi School of Economics, Class of 1987 classmates, during a Jim Corbett park tour, and got hopelessly lost in the jungle, can be attributed to my extreme shyness. I branched away from the others thinking I wasn’t cool enough to stay with them and walked away to a point of no return in the middle of the jungle. Soon as I realized I was lost I started looking around and spotted elephant droppings. I decided to follow this trail back to safety until the ground shook beneath me and I turned to see an enraged wild elephant running toward me. I remember thinking “musth”, that must be “musth” and running like crazy! I kept running, stepping into soft warm heaps at various places, finally stepping behind a tree while the elephant ran ahead. I waited awhile, until I could breathe normally again and then continued along the fragrant trail, all the way back to safety and civilization covered from head to toe in prickly burrs and other stuff. There were a couple of friends who had missed me and were worried about me. How heartening that was!
That was the last memorable experience in India. I left the country in 1988, to reclaim my birthright of US citizenship.
I have been in the US for eighteen years. I met my husband Anil in the February of 1991 and married him on the American Independence Day, July 4th, 1991. Indian weddings are usually characterized by the groom and his family leading a procession (Baraat) to the bride’s home, where the marriage usually takes place, but in my topsy-turvy world I drove my rickety car, family within, as “Baraat” to Rochester, New York, where Anil and I tied the knot. We used the long holiday weekend for a brief honeymoon in Toronto and then it was back to work.
We’ve settled down now to a quiet life in New Jersey, Anil, Anoushka and I. We are wrapped up in our own lives for the most part until at night, before bedtime, the Internet opens up its virtual doors to a wonderful circle of friends and family the world over.
Internet Embargo
The message was blinking on the screen as she watched, transfixed. The words started swimming around on the page, drifting in and out of focus while she sat, paralyzed. They leapt out at her – HUMAN THOUGHT - growing bigger in her line of vision and taking over completely.
If they weren’t going to be thinking how would she monitor their thoughts? The Grand Triumvirate (TGT) had no tolerance for excuses. “Excuses” were a fascinating discovery. When humans were in trouble, when they hadn’t done or said what they were supposed to have done, when they broke promises or commitments they could use excuses and get away with almost anything. TGT had greeted this discovery of hers with great amazement and equal disdain.
Now they would think she had learnt the art of making excuses from her subjects of study. If the humans weren’t going to be thinking for an entire week how and what could she report back? This could jeopardize the whole project.
The World Wide Web had offered some amazing behavioral insights. She had seen them change and evolve and accept willingly the leashes that bound them to their laptops, computers and various hand-held devices. Laptops had replaced the bedtime book and people on the streets always appeared to be talking to themselves. They had little devices hidden behind their ears and a tiny microphones dangling around their necks. She had ridden with them on trains and buses, noticing their deep involvement with their gadgets. No one paid attention to their fellow travelers in this journey of life, it was a wonder they still needed to get up and go somewhere every morning! People didn’t seem to need or want flesh and blood people anymore. Why, just last night she had watched a news snippet on TV about the International Pornographers Convention and their optimism about the new phenomenon of Pocket Porn. Cell phones could now provide titillation on demand! Well, well! Back home she had learnt about the outcome of such utter dependence on technology. It had taken them eons to recover from its soul-destroying effects.
Her efforts to understand humans had led to her becoming an avid chatter. She chatted around the clock, interacting with people all over the world. Loneliness was rampant. Real relationships had deteriorated or were somehow standing simply because their dissolution was a nuisance that wouldn’t add anything meaningful to the their lives. Clean breaks were just as meaningless as unions. And now it was all virtual. People were virtually stimulating the same areas of the brain that got stimulated during the mating ritual simply by interacting across chat lines. She was very amused with the “a/s/l” inquiries that came her way each day as some lonely soul somewhere, on this vast blue planet, reached out to “touch” someone across high bandwidth cables.
So how was this world going to react to a shut down of the Web and subsequently human thoughts? It did cross her mind that this was perhaps a hoax, but her research validated its authenticity. She was worried for herself. The TGT would demand her return and immediate execution if she failed to send in her weekly report. They would never believe all thoughts were going to be shutdown for a week. They would think it was her ploy to take that vacation to the 12th moon of Jupiter. They believed human tendencies were contagious and disdainfully cited the example of a renegade predecessor of hers who had gone around sporting an S on his suit as he flew around making people wonder if he was a bird or a plane.
She needed to think and fast. The shut down would happen in a few hours. She decided to take a walk on the beach to clear her head. There still was time.
She walked along the shore watching the waves thinking about her future, when suddenly she saw it. It jumped out of the water, a gargantuan beast, before gliding back in. A plume of water shot out of its head. What was that? Could it be? This was wonderful! She had been reading about these sea creatures, there was some data that they were almost as, if not more, intelligent than the humans she had ended up studying all these years. It all came back to her now – The Discovery Channel - she remembered the Whale. They were even said to have a language of their own, a Whale song! Her problem was solved.
She summoned up all her energy, and saw the sands shift beneath her slowly disappearing feet, her legs turning into that mighty tailfin as she slid, smoothly into the calm waters.
She was going to be reporting on whales this week.
If they weren’t going to be thinking how would she monitor their thoughts? The Grand Triumvirate (TGT) had no tolerance for excuses. “Excuses” were a fascinating discovery. When humans were in trouble, when they hadn’t done or said what they were supposed to have done, when they broke promises or commitments they could use excuses and get away with almost anything. TGT had greeted this discovery of hers with great amazement and equal disdain.
Now they would think she had learnt the art of making excuses from her subjects of study. If the humans weren’t going to be thinking for an entire week how and what could she report back? This could jeopardize the whole project.
The World Wide Web had offered some amazing behavioral insights. She had seen them change and evolve and accept willingly the leashes that bound them to their laptops, computers and various hand-held devices. Laptops had replaced the bedtime book and people on the streets always appeared to be talking to themselves. They had little devices hidden behind their ears and a tiny microphones dangling around their necks. She had ridden with them on trains and buses, noticing their deep involvement with their gadgets. No one paid attention to their fellow travelers in this journey of life, it was a wonder they still needed to get up and go somewhere every morning! People didn’t seem to need or want flesh and blood people anymore. Why, just last night she had watched a news snippet on TV about the International Pornographers Convention and their optimism about the new phenomenon of Pocket Porn. Cell phones could now provide titillation on demand! Well, well! Back home she had learnt about the outcome of such utter dependence on technology. It had taken them eons to recover from its soul-destroying effects.
Her efforts to understand humans had led to her becoming an avid chatter. She chatted around the clock, interacting with people all over the world. Loneliness was rampant. Real relationships had deteriorated or were somehow standing simply because their dissolution was a nuisance that wouldn’t add anything meaningful to the their lives. Clean breaks were just as meaningless as unions. And now it was all virtual. People were virtually stimulating the same areas of the brain that got stimulated during the mating ritual simply by interacting across chat lines. She was very amused with the “a/s/l” inquiries that came her way each day as some lonely soul somewhere, on this vast blue planet, reached out to “touch” someone across high bandwidth cables.
So how was this world going to react to a shut down of the Web and subsequently human thoughts? It did cross her mind that this was perhaps a hoax, but her research validated its authenticity. She was worried for herself. The TGT would demand her return and immediate execution if she failed to send in her weekly report. They would never believe all thoughts were going to be shutdown for a week. They would think it was her ploy to take that vacation to the 12th moon of Jupiter. They believed human tendencies were contagious and disdainfully cited the example of a renegade predecessor of hers who had gone around sporting an S on his suit as he flew around making people wonder if he was a bird or a plane.
She needed to think and fast. The shut down would happen in a few hours. She decided to take a walk on the beach to clear her head. There still was time.
She walked along the shore watching the waves thinking about her future, when suddenly she saw it. It jumped out of the water, a gargantuan beast, before gliding back in. A plume of water shot out of its head. What was that? Could it be? This was wonderful! She had been reading about these sea creatures, there was some data that they were almost as, if not more, intelligent than the humans she had ended up studying all these years. It all came back to her now – The Discovery Channel - she remembered the Whale. They were even said to have a language of their own, a Whale song! Her problem was solved.
She summoned up all her energy, and saw the sands shift beneath her slowly disappearing feet, her legs turning into that mighty tailfin as she slid, smoothly into the calm waters.
She was going to be reporting on whales this week.
Short Story
“These are the latest”, she said as she flicked the envelope toward Josie. Angie’s cheeks were tear-stained and her fingers shook as she lit another cigarette. The packet had arrived in the mail today, another set of photographs that Mr Desoto, her private investigator had sent.. It was Joe assisting a long haired blonde woman out of the limousine. The picture was grainy but not unclear. There were other pictures of Joe holding the door open for the same woman or enjoying a meal at a sidewalk café. She had yelled at Mr Desoto for never being able to capture a clear view of the woman on film.
She had spent hours poring over all the photographs she had collected. She had scanned them in her computer and had invested hundreds of dollars in imaging software. It had become an obsession. She had suspected Joe of cheating on her ever since he had become more attentive in bed and had taken to having flowers delivered at the office every other day. Her coworkers were going gaga over the long stemmed roses, orchids and other floral arrangements that had made her cubicle resemble a florist’s. But this was highly unusual behavior. They had been married fifteen years and Joe had rarely showered her with cards, candy, flowers or jewelry in all their years together. She didn’t mind, she saw herself as a practical woman who only yearned for these things when she saw other well-loved women exclaiming with glee all around her.
“You have no need for artifice”, he liked telling her and she had laughed such comments away. So this was puzzling, to say the least.
She had also been noting his late work hours and the sudden proliferation of work assignments that required frequent travel. She has deliberated long and hard and then, on a whim, picked out Desoto Investigations from the yellow pages. Mr Desoto had been tailing Joe for two months now. She was convinced Joe was having an affair. She wasn’t sure who the object of his affection was, but she felt she was close and that the answer was there, staring her in the face, she just needed to concentrate.
Josie scanned each picture again. She felt the color drain from her face. She looked up at Angie and said, “I don’t know what to say Ange. These pictures are not very clear. You can hardly make out anything. Besides, I could never imagine Joe being unfaithful, especially after all these years!”
“Get a hold of yourself Ange, I can’t see you doing this to yourself!”
“I don’t know, Josie, I just don’t know! I really trusted him….never thought for a moment that he would do this to me! The saddest part is that our married life has really perked up! He has been so attentive, so sensitive. I am convinced now it’s guilt!”
Josie saw the tears brimming again and rested her hand on Angie’s, “Maybe she is just an acquaintance Ange! You are letting your imagination run away with you. And this Desoto guy is just making it worse. I think he is a charlatan, a bottom feeder. You have to cut him loose Ange! He is messing you up!”
“I don’t think so. I have really studied these pictures. The woman looks so familiar to me, yet I can’t place her. That hair, her style. I wish these pictures were clearer!”
Josie felt nauseous. She had an insane desire to leave the table at the restaurant where they had met for lunch. She wanted to bolt and was just about to excuse herself for the powder room when the waiter arrived. He smiled at her and said, “Ms Greene! So nice to see you again! Two days in a row. How fortunate we are!”
Angie looked at her as Josie flashed an icy smile back at the waiter, “Why John, you must be confused! I haven’t been here in awhile! Excuse me!” She got up and walked to the powder room while Angie stared after her, with a perplexed John looking on. She ordered herself a martini and told John that she needed a few more minutes.
But instead of reading the menu she pulled out the pictures from the packet again and flicked through them until she came upon the one where the restaurant awning read – Café Un Deux Trois.
That’s where they were today. The blonde hairstyle, the clothes, the shoes, were all pieces of a puzzle that suddenly fell neatly into place. She had been confiding in Josie for many months now, sharing her deepest, darkest secrets and more recently her suspicions about Joe’s infidelity.
She saw things with crystal clarity now. The music changed to a familiar old tune, “When you left me all alone/At the record shop/ Told me you were going out/For a soda pop…” A favorite oldie. She saw Josie walking back from the restroom, steps resolute, a decision reached.
“Angie, I don’t know how to tell you this. Actually I have told you about it, many times. I am hopelessly in love. It started that day at your fifteenth anniversary party. Remember when you had retired early, with a headache? Joe had spent a lot of time organizing the party. He was heartbroken when you left. I found him standing alone on your porch, drinking. He talked about that spark that was missing and one thing led to another….this is it for me Ange, I have found love. I am glad it’s out in the open. We should all try to move on with our lives now.”
The wrought iron chair scraped the floor and fell backward as Angie got up with a start, she walked out of the restaurant with whatever dignity she could muster as Josie picked an olive out of her hair and wiping the martini from her face looked on at Angie’s retreating figure. John was standing nearby, napkin in hand….
She had spent hours poring over all the photographs she had collected. She had scanned them in her computer and had invested hundreds of dollars in imaging software. It had become an obsession. She had suspected Joe of cheating on her ever since he had become more attentive in bed and had taken to having flowers delivered at the office every other day. Her coworkers were going gaga over the long stemmed roses, orchids and other floral arrangements that had made her cubicle resemble a florist’s. But this was highly unusual behavior. They had been married fifteen years and Joe had rarely showered her with cards, candy, flowers or jewelry in all their years together. She didn’t mind, she saw herself as a practical woman who only yearned for these things when she saw other well-loved women exclaiming with glee all around her.
“You have no need for artifice”, he liked telling her and she had laughed such comments away. So this was puzzling, to say the least.
She had also been noting his late work hours and the sudden proliferation of work assignments that required frequent travel. She has deliberated long and hard and then, on a whim, picked out Desoto Investigations from the yellow pages. Mr Desoto had been tailing Joe for two months now. She was convinced Joe was having an affair. She wasn’t sure who the object of his affection was, but she felt she was close and that the answer was there, staring her in the face, she just needed to concentrate.
Josie scanned each picture again. She felt the color drain from her face. She looked up at Angie and said, “I don’t know what to say Ange. These pictures are not very clear. You can hardly make out anything. Besides, I could never imagine Joe being unfaithful, especially after all these years!”
“Get a hold of yourself Ange, I can’t see you doing this to yourself!”
“I don’t know, Josie, I just don’t know! I really trusted him….never thought for a moment that he would do this to me! The saddest part is that our married life has really perked up! He has been so attentive, so sensitive. I am convinced now it’s guilt!”
Josie saw the tears brimming again and rested her hand on Angie’s, “Maybe she is just an acquaintance Ange! You are letting your imagination run away with you. And this Desoto guy is just making it worse. I think he is a charlatan, a bottom feeder. You have to cut him loose Ange! He is messing you up!”
“I don’t think so. I have really studied these pictures. The woman looks so familiar to me, yet I can’t place her. That hair, her style. I wish these pictures were clearer!”
Josie felt nauseous. She had an insane desire to leave the table at the restaurant where they had met for lunch. She wanted to bolt and was just about to excuse herself for the powder room when the waiter arrived. He smiled at her and said, “Ms Greene! So nice to see you again! Two days in a row. How fortunate we are!”
Angie looked at her as Josie flashed an icy smile back at the waiter, “Why John, you must be confused! I haven’t been here in awhile! Excuse me!” She got up and walked to the powder room while Angie stared after her, with a perplexed John looking on. She ordered herself a martini and told John that she needed a few more minutes.
But instead of reading the menu she pulled out the pictures from the packet again and flicked through them until she came upon the one where the restaurant awning read – Café Un Deux Trois.
That’s where they were today. The blonde hairstyle, the clothes, the shoes, were all pieces of a puzzle that suddenly fell neatly into place. She had been confiding in Josie for many months now, sharing her deepest, darkest secrets and more recently her suspicions about Joe’s infidelity.
She saw things with crystal clarity now. The music changed to a familiar old tune, “When you left me all alone/At the record shop/ Told me you were going out/For a soda pop…” A favorite oldie. She saw Josie walking back from the restroom, steps resolute, a decision reached.
“Angie, I don’t know how to tell you this. Actually I have told you about it, many times. I am hopelessly in love. It started that day at your fifteenth anniversary party. Remember when you had retired early, with a headache? Joe had spent a lot of time organizing the party. He was heartbroken when you left. I found him standing alone on your porch, drinking. He talked about that spark that was missing and one thing led to another….this is it for me Ange, I have found love. I am glad it’s out in the open. We should all try to move on with our lives now.”
The wrought iron chair scraped the floor and fell backward as Angie got up with a start, she walked out of the restaurant with whatever dignity she could muster as Josie picked an olive out of her hair and wiping the martini from her face looked on at Angie’s retreating figure. John was standing nearby, napkin in hand….
Home?
Sometimes she didn’t want to go home. There were spaces in her life that called out to her, comfort zones that soothed. There was a collection of shoes underneath her desk at work and a special corner of her bookshelf reserved for her latest purchases; an ever-growing collection of books, delivered and fondly arrayed there. There she sat, immersed in her work, occasionally glancing out at the busy streets below where the snow was falling or a sea of umbrellas floating by, in perpetual motion, as she tried to decide whether to take a walk to the local delicatessen for lunch or to skip lunch entirely and stay dry. The lunch hour was usually spent glancing out at the hard-working guy on the eighth floor of the building across the street. He liked to put his feet up on his desk, every now and then, as he took a break from his computer screen or paced around his office, gesturing wildly as he made a point over the phone. On the floor underneath him was a dance studio that sent her thoughts reeling to a dream world of dance and music where she would live out the music trapped within her soul. And on the days when the sun was shining brightly, the rays glinting off the tops of art deco buildings, she felt right at home walking around the block, observing tourists and travelers, beggars and bums and the guy dressed like a chicken handing out flyers for the newest chicken joint. It felt alive, she felt alive, efficient, on top of her game, this was home indeed…or was it work?
Pounding the pavements in her high-heeled boots she often thought about the home of her childhood where she sat with her Dad, hearing and assimilating his dreams for her. The memories were hazy now but she clearly recalled his vision of a successful daughter reaching the highest heights amidst a lively city like this one. The home of her memories was a warm, safe place where dreams were built. Now she was living these dreams. Their dreams had become her own, this setting of their dreams was hers, this world belonged to her. It made the arduous trip back to a place where she could rest for the night extraneous and meaningless. She had yet to live the dreams she had never dreamed for herself.
The line at the bus terminal was like home too where the same faces greeted her each day. She never knew their names but she knew how their bosses had treated them that day or what their husbands or kids had said to them the previous day; this is where she became a repository of information on strangers’ lives. It was a welcome part of the day. It held the promise of a comfortable bus on her favorite seat by the window where she could lose herself in a book until the words on the page started swimming around, the book slipping from her hands as welcome sleep took over. It was two more hours of comfortable escape.
Then the bus ride would end in a vast parking lot, where she was drawn like a magnet toward the silver car she loved as it called out to saying, “Come in, the seat is warm, your music’s waiting!” She would slide her favorite disc into the CD player and sing at the top of her voice, matching every note until she reached the place where her creditors mailed bills. The place where dishes piled up in the sink and dirty clothes in the hamper. The place where everything simply piled up. There were corners of this place she had never visited. Was this home? If this was home why did she feel like backing her car out of the garage again, to be anywhere but here?
Perhaps it was a painful reminder of the things at which she had failed. Every now and then she tried to add a touch or two to one specific corner or the other: a tiny vase here, a picture there, a rearrangement of the furniture or undertaking a backbreaking housecleaning event. She would then sit back and enjoy the fruits of her labor in the comfortable chair that had lovingly been christened “the thinking chair” by her daughter. The house now fragrant and sparkly clean, the clothes ironed, the dishes done, no toys on the floor, no crumbs in the carpet, blankets, pillows, cushions and throws artfully arranged. For one tiny moment in time her world would be in equilibrium. An extremely transitory event that ominously indicated that all hell was about to break loose yet again. As soon as the Barbies got pulled out of the toy basket, their clothes and tiny pointy boots discarded with a vengeance, as soon as the dynamic father-daughter duo trooped into the house with snow or mud-covered boots leaving footprints all around and as soon as the purplest of grape juices got spilled on the freshly spot-removed carpet, the moment would end. She tried to resign herself to this inevitability and repeat the mantra about the futility of all resistance, but it never helped. The peace always got destroyed as soon as she started screaming like a banshee, asking her loved ones to respect the sanctity of her homemaking efforts!
Oh, what was the use! The weekend over, she would retreat into the world of her desk, her computer, her office collection of books, of shoes, of jackets and sweaters hanging at the back of her swiveling chair and the familiar figure in the eighth floor office of the building across the street, and the dancing students below him. She would be home again!
Pounding the pavements in her high-heeled boots she often thought about the home of her childhood where she sat with her Dad, hearing and assimilating his dreams for her. The memories were hazy now but she clearly recalled his vision of a successful daughter reaching the highest heights amidst a lively city like this one. The home of her memories was a warm, safe place where dreams were built. Now she was living these dreams. Their dreams had become her own, this setting of their dreams was hers, this world belonged to her. It made the arduous trip back to a place where she could rest for the night extraneous and meaningless. She had yet to live the dreams she had never dreamed for herself.
The line at the bus terminal was like home too where the same faces greeted her each day. She never knew their names but she knew how their bosses had treated them that day or what their husbands or kids had said to them the previous day; this is where she became a repository of information on strangers’ lives. It was a welcome part of the day. It held the promise of a comfortable bus on her favorite seat by the window where she could lose herself in a book until the words on the page started swimming around, the book slipping from her hands as welcome sleep took over. It was two more hours of comfortable escape.
Then the bus ride would end in a vast parking lot, where she was drawn like a magnet toward the silver car she loved as it called out to saying, “Come in, the seat is warm, your music’s waiting!” She would slide her favorite disc into the CD player and sing at the top of her voice, matching every note until she reached the place where her creditors mailed bills. The place where dishes piled up in the sink and dirty clothes in the hamper. The place where everything simply piled up. There were corners of this place she had never visited. Was this home? If this was home why did she feel like backing her car out of the garage again, to be anywhere but here?
Perhaps it was a painful reminder of the things at which she had failed. Every now and then she tried to add a touch or two to one specific corner or the other: a tiny vase here, a picture there, a rearrangement of the furniture or undertaking a backbreaking housecleaning event. She would then sit back and enjoy the fruits of her labor in the comfortable chair that had lovingly been christened “the thinking chair” by her daughter. The house now fragrant and sparkly clean, the clothes ironed, the dishes done, no toys on the floor, no crumbs in the carpet, blankets, pillows, cushions and throws artfully arranged. For one tiny moment in time her world would be in equilibrium. An extremely transitory event that ominously indicated that all hell was about to break loose yet again. As soon as the Barbies got pulled out of the toy basket, their clothes and tiny pointy boots discarded with a vengeance, as soon as the dynamic father-daughter duo trooped into the house with snow or mud-covered boots leaving footprints all around and as soon as the purplest of grape juices got spilled on the freshly spot-removed carpet, the moment would end. She tried to resign herself to this inevitability and repeat the mantra about the futility of all resistance, but it never helped. The peace always got destroyed as soon as she started screaming like a banshee, asking her loved ones to respect the sanctity of her homemaking efforts!
Oh, what was the use! The weekend over, she would retreat into the world of her desk, her computer, her office collection of books, of shoes, of jackets and sweaters hanging at the back of her swiveling chair and the familiar figure in the eighth floor office of the building across the street, and the dancing students below him. She would be home again!
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