To Each His Own Is Beautiful ~ Cicero

What Happened...

2009-08-22T11:23:00.001-06:00

... to my previous post? It has disappeared!!!

The Big Move

2009-07-31T00:20:00.002-06:00

Despite having a month filled to the brim with things I could write about, I have not had the chance to make a post about said things. Over the past month, I have pulled out every single thing, hidden or otherwise, and decided if it would make the journey with me to Minneapolis. I donated or discarded several things – mostly clothes and furniture, and lovingly packed several other things – mostly mementos and other stuff that I don’t really need, but am too soppy to let go of.

“Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves
Of cabinets, shut up for years,
What a strange task we’ve set ourselves!
How still the lonely room appears!
How strange this mass of ancient treasures,
Mementos of past pains and pleasures;
These volumes, clasped with costly stone,
With print all faded, gilding gone;
These fans of leaves from Indian trees--
These crimson shells, from Indian seas--
These tiny portraits, set in rings--
Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things…”

While I was busy packing the evidence of my entire existence into the contents of one large cupboard, I also wrapped up other business in town and got ready to move into a quaint little studio flat that I found almost a month and a half ago. I had gone to Minneapolis to look for apartments, and stayed with my friends A & A. Almost as eager to find me a new place as I myself was, they joined me in scouting the internet for ads, and touring a few places with me. Thankfully, they also managed to keep cool heads about it unlike me, and rescued me from rashly engaging apartments that I liked on the spot. Anyhow, on my third day there, I walked into the apartment that was “the one”. I bunged in an application and the necessary holding fee the next day; and the month following this has been one of impatient and eager anticipation.

And when the day of moving (yesterday) finally came, I teamed with a friend A on this end and friends A & A on that end (I seem to have lots of friends whose names begin with A), to complete the move. While leaving a place I called home for the last five years was a bit upsetting, it was coupled with the excitement about being in a new, and well-loved city. Sadly, as I had to return the rental moving truck the very next day, the most I could enjoy of my new place was the view of a spanking clean room with old and familiar stuff dumped all over the floor. I return in three days time to piece my space back together again. Updates re: the new place shall hopefully not be as tardy as this one.

P.S. Poetry courtesy Charlotte Bronte (published as Currer Bell)

Thirty Years

2009-07-03T09:53:00.005-06:00

I turned thirty today. I ought to be depressed – that is what thirty-year-olds are supposed to feel. But, I feel no different than I did on my twenty-nine-year-old yesterday. I expected to feel numb, but if anything I feel a sense of elation. All creation makes itself agreeable to me – the weather in Kansas City is dark, overcast, windy and wet. Some call it depressing, but it is the perfect mix of the elements in my opinion. I ushered my thirtieth year in by singing Happy Birthday to myself in unison with my sister who gave me a chocolate cake and several quaint gifts. Friends and family called and wished me, and I went to bed as happy and contented as I did the first night I came into the world.

As I reflect on my thirty years, I notice just the same mix of the beautiful and the beastly as everyone else. I have had my share of the laughter, adventure, disappointment and heartbreak that is due me. I have met and been influenced for better or for worse by the most interesting kinds of people. Sadly not one amongst them was a perfect saint, and thankfully none of them was an Iago. I am right now at a point in my life which I could scarcely have imagined ten years ago. And yet, I revel in my achievements and am satisfied and happy. And if the next thirty years of my life could leave me as contented as these past thirty have, then I shall count myself blessed.

"Here at my feet what wonders pass,
What endless, active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear." ~ Matthew Arnold

Stupid Indian Soaps

2009-06-02T21:20:00.001-06:00

Each evening after the day’s labors, I used to get back home and indulge in my daily dose of crap reality shows where absolutely idiotic men and women get drunk and go about competing for money, the love of dubious B-grade celebrities and so on. I was thoroughly embarrassed by my guilty hour of mindless entertainment, but since coming to India and watching Indian TV for five days, I have developed a strange sense of pride in my enjoyment of American reality TV. Indian television, which I used to love for the quality of its televised serials, has lost all its erstwhile glory. Most shows on Indian TV these days appear to be soap operas or melodrama-filled game shows.

The soap operas are so insufferably stupid, that I feel sick. In addition to having absolutely no plot whatsoever, they are infuriatingly sexist and unashamedly promote ridiculously conventional ideals. Ironically most of the characters are women, but each one of them is either diabolically evil and malicious, or unbearably conventional and good. All of them wear several kilograms of bangles that sheath their hands from wrist to elbow in a sickeningly gaudy display. Every other part of their bodies that can possibly be, is adorned with other similarly outlandish jewelry. And the ‘good’ women are defined entirely in terms of the men in their lives – as daughters, wives, sisters and mothers – not a single independent personality amongst the lot of them. None of them have an occupation – none of the wives anyway. The sisters might be something completely gender-biased such as a fashion-designer or a school teacher. The men on the other hand are mostly businesspersons and keep out of the way of the women’s machinations – is it any wonder that many Indian men think that women are not to be trusted and are underhand and devious? Furthermore, all these ‘good’ women are painstakingly devout – every second sentence that they speak is either a prayer or an affirmation of faith. At least one segment of each half-hour episode is devoted to a melodramatic prayer with the woman beseeching her deity that her mentally challenged husband (a fact she did not know when she was tricked into marrying him, but now she believes that taking care of him and lovingly feeding him his food and so on is her supreme duty) be spared the pain of losing a cricket match to his brother who is married to the wicked and scheming sister-in-law. I bet Indian television would never dare to portray an atheist spinster scientist as a good woman, or a man subscribing to feminist principles as an ideal man. I am so angry I want to punch a hole through the television screen. At least in the idiotic reality television, women are afforded the choice to be able to make utter fools of themselves. I am told that these soap operas are highly celebrated television serials. To each his own, and those that watch them are welcome to them. As for me, I would much rather watch drunken degradation than have conventionality stuffed down my throat.

P.S. Disillusioned with television, I have turned to my ever faithful entertainers – books. When mummy and daddy are off at work, knowing nothing of this strange new city, I find that I have nothing else to do but read. I’m polishing them off at the wonderful rate of one book every couple of days. I’m done with two Agatha Christie-s (one of which – “Passenger to Frankfurt” – surprisingly reads less like Christie and more like John le Carre), have finally finished “The Thin Man” (which despite Sinclair Lewis’ assertion that it is a book you cannot possibly put down once begun, I have been inching through for almost a whole year now), and am almost done with the “Vicar of Wakefield” which I am finding enormously entertaining. I hope to be done with at least five more before I return to the US.

Dr. Me

2009-05-12T21:29:00.004-06:00

This afternoon, I got all dressed up and dolled up, went to school, and shut myself up in a room with six professors for two hours. At the end of that time, I emerged alone and paced around in the hallway while the posse of profs debated about what I had said in there. Ten minutes later, my advisor popped out smiling a big smile. She then threw her arms around me in a warm hug and said:

"CONGRATULATIONS DR. ASHA STEPHEN"

Yes, after months of crazy preperation, I successfully defended my dissertation this afternoon. I can't stop grinning, want to pat little children on their heads, blow kisses to strangers in the street, and am generally in love with everything and everybody. Coming at the end of the most productive year of my life (getting my second masters, passing the Ph.D. qualifiers, proposing my dissertation, and applying and matching to an excellent internship), this is the pinnacle of my educational career. I've done it - I've got my Ph.D!!! (Actually, I technically won't until I finish my internship. But without today's victory, I would not get the degree).

I called my sister, my parents and a few friends. Then I had a quiet celebratory dinner with three of my closest friends in Ames. I shall never again have to spend sleepless nights at school, and can now enjoy my weekends without feeling guilty about not having completed research or assignments. I feel rejuvenated. Once again: Amat victoria curam!

The Auto-complete List

2009-04-20T16:47:00.002-06:00

Ha Ha Ha!!! I feel so stupid and yet so gleeful saying this: I am now on the autocomplete function on google. This is hilarious. When I googled myself and saw my name on the auto-complete list, I was astonished. At first I thought that it must be because there are lots of people with my name. But it turns out that the majority of hits (those that do not have a comma between my first and last names) are indeed related to me. Presumably, this is either because there is a lot of information about me out on the internet, or there have been a lot of people looking me up - I am not sure which of these google uses as a auto-complete list criteria. And I am not convinced that either of these is a very good thing, but am nevertheless flattered.

What Has Happened To Me?

2009-04-15T22:10:00.003-06:00

I don't know the answer to the above question. My life has suddenly become more banal than ever. I go from home to school and back home again in a sort of daze, and nothing seems important enough to report. Although that sounds very much like a bout of depression, I can safely say that I am actually quite happy. I have a dissertation defense date set for the 15th of May, and I am looking forward to the summer holiday. I am also beginning to wrap up things in Ames in anticipation of my big move in August. Things are looking cheery, hopeful and very busy. But nothing seems important enough to post on here. I do wish something exciting would happen to me!!!

However, having come to the terrible, but inevitable conclusion that nothing exciting or new is going to happen to me unless I make it happen, I make the following resolutions for the coming month (and hopefully will follow through on them):

ONE:
Will buy a nice variety of alcohol and mix myself a fancy cocktail every other night. (This one is inspired by an envious admiration of my friends A & A's choice collection of booze bottles).

TWO:
Will watch ABSOLUTELY NO cable television - especially crap reality shows (news shall be excepted); and go for an hour-long walk each night instead in order to enjoy the wonderful weather that Iowa is getting these days. This will also be time to muse and think up things I want to post on here.

THREE:
Will call one of my friends each night. Maybe the reason for the dried up imagination is the unwitting isolation I've let myself into during this busy month.

FOUR:
Will eat at one (or two) restaurant(s) each week which I have not been to during my stay in Ames. For Lent, I gave up eating out when I was not travelling. While this did vastly improve my home-cooking and bank balance, it did rather take a lot of fun out of the eating. Now, I intend to savor every single non-chain restaurant in Ames between now and August.

Let's hope that makes life more interesting and gives me more to write about. Stay tuned...

I've Been Busy - In Verse

2009-04-15T21:37:00.003-06:00

I have been busy all month, and these lines from Anne Bronte's "The Student's Serenade" capture what the past few weeks have been like.

"I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the day
Yet my weary soul opprest;
And, before my dreaming eyes
Still the learned volumes lay,
And I could not close their leaves,
And I could not turn away." ~ Anne Bronte (published as Acton Bell)

I'm writing an update that I'll post in a little bit...

The Fourth State

2009-04-07T14:33:00.003-06:00

Today, Vermont has become the fourth U.S. state to legalize gay marriage — and the first to do so with a legislature's vote. This happy news comes at the heels of the April 3rd legalization of same-sex unions in Iowa, the state I live in. On Friday, the Iowa Supreme Court legalized gay marriage by a unanimous decision. And today, Vermont did so by the legislature's vote. Of course, there is widespread uproar and unrest at these decisions. Already, opponents of the same-sex marriages are seeking constitutional amendments that will reverse these controversial laws.

I simply do not understand people who oppose same-sex marriage. I get that many people, for primarily religious reasons do not think that same-sex relations are right. And I am okay with religious institutions not accepting such unions. But why some people think that the non-religious state should discriminate against gay individuals (or indeed side with a religion on any issue) is beyond me! Homosexual individuals and their allies have yet to go a far way in their struggle. Congratulations to them on their second victory in the same week!

Beaded Lace

2009-03-31T14:04:00.003-06:00

Those of you who know me, know that no matter how liberal I might be in terms of my attitudes and beliefs, I tend to be pretty old-fashioned when it comes to my tastes in design, décor, architecture, and lifestyle. My furniture is well-worn and cozy, I rarely hang abstract pictures on my walls, my surroundings in general tend to veer away from minimalism or cold straight lines, and anything that is old or antique finds a warm reception in my environment. Of course, this makes me less fashionable. But I don’t care too much about that sort of thing.

In my quest to obtain quaint little knick-knacks for my home, I comb thrift stores, garage sales, antique malls, and so on. However, I rarely make anything old-world myself. Since it would seem that most of my creativity in writing seems to have dried up over the past few months, I decided to craft something. I was looking for inspiration, when I found it in the old britcoms that I watch. First in “Jeeves and Wooster”, and in quick succession later that night in “Rumpole of the Bailey”, I chanced to see two very delightful beaded lace jug covers. I was captivated and wanted one.

Following some preliminary research, I found that lace covers used to be used in pre-refrigerator days to keep the flies out of drinks. The lace was usually weighed down with beads so it stayed in place and did now blow away easily. I briefly considered making my own lace, but discarded the thought quickly – I can’t tat very well, and I wanted this jug cover quick! So, off it was to Hobby Lobby where I purchased several glass beads, and a lace doily. Then, I beaded round and drop beads together and sewed the loop to the ends of the doily. The result is magnificent – not quite as authentic as a real lace jug cover, but close enough. I’ve been using it all the time ever since. Mostly to cover a jug of lemonade, but I also have started using a creamer for my tea – which I have never done before – just so that I may be able to use the lace. This fascination won’t last of course, but it’s fun while it does.

P.S. I could not help clicking lots of pictures… enjoy!

Beaded lace on the lemonade jug…

…on a glass of lemonade…

…on the creamer that I usually don’t use…

Match Day News...

2009-02-23T08:40:00.003-06:00

I just heard about my internship for next year... I got matched to the University of Minnesota - Minneapolis! Yahoo!

Laissez les bon temps rouler!!!

The Green Fountain Pen

2009-02-17T15:01:00.005-06:00

As Valentine’s day came and passed, I began thinking about all the different loves of my life. I am not talking about the various things I am passionate about, and these are numerous. No, I am talking about the men I have been infatuated with. These have been numerous too. By now, you all know that it takes me absolutely no time to build up a fantasy land, replete with fantasy situations and fantasy romances. Throughout my life, I have built fantasies around many things – places, objects, music, animals… the list is endless. Individuals of the opposite sex occupy no small part on this list. Talking about all of them is going to take too long. Maybe I’ll start a series on them. But today is devoted to the charming W. who gave me a beautiful green fountain pen.

On the street that we lived on when I was growing up, there were no other children my age. Everyone who was not an adult was either an infant, or belonged to that delightful section of teenage where one firmly believes that one is an adult, and is always shocked to see that one’s parents don’t think so. In any case, once I returned home from school, other than my sister I had no one else to play with. The infants were boring and played ridiculously childish games that I thought were shockingly stupid and completely beneath my level of maturity. And those in their late adolescence treated me with a sort of benign pity, as if to sympathize with how young I was while also thanking the heavens that they were not that young and they never again had to be. Interestingly enough, all of these arrogant youngsters happened to be boys. The girls of such an age seemed to be secreted in the inner chambers of their houses. Hyderabad in those days used to be a much more conservative city than it is today. We lived close to the Old City, and it was not at all unusual to see burqa-clad women walk the streets, and for less-than opulent houses to have inner chambers that functioned as the women’s quarters. In any case, this was where the young women were – shielded from the eyes of the young men. But this is beside the point – it is the boys, or rather a boy that is of interest to this story.

Two doors down from my house, was the home of a large family. There was a grandfather, and a grandmother, and numerous uncles and aunts, and an absolute army of children – whose ages ranged from the early twenties to a few months, though still none in my age group. I always wondered as a child how they all fit into that one small house. As I grew older, I noticed that the presence or absence of the members of this clan seemed to rotate with the seasons. January and February belonged to Uncle X and his family, May and June to Auntie Y, and so on. It turns out that only the grandparents actually lived in the house, their numerous offspring - most of whom lived abroad - turned up about once a year to visit them.

One summer holiday, when I was about 12 years old, a new kid whom I had never noticed before surfaced within this clan. I call him a kid, but in reality he was about 7 years older than I was. He was cheerful and charming, but ever so intrusive. I was used to regarding this family (and indeed the inhabitants of my entire street), as interesting subjects from an anthropological viewpoint, and observed everybody closely. For the most part, they never noticed, and if they did, they all ignored me. That is, all except one. The new kid started back – as though I provided him with as much amusement as he did me. He would even go a bit further – he’d follow me around and stare at me. It’s not quite creepy as it sounds because I think he did it as a way of putting me in my place. And like all the other young men his age, he regarded me with a sort of benevolent pity. And he always had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth – an open and ready smile. He seemed to find my embarrassment, and my discomfort enormously entertaining. I hated him. At times I had an advantage over him – the vantage point from which I did most of my ‘anthropological observing’ was a section of my house which had a sort of screen one could look through without being seen. From this vantage point, set higher up than the single-story house he lived in, I observed him go about his day. It was sheer delight to be able to watch him – he had the other children devotedly following him about, and he seemed to be a favorite amongst those older than him. He was charming and delightful. I never could hear what he was saying, but he had everyone in bits and pieces. And watching him made me smile. Two months later, he disappeared.

Two years later, he miraculously appeared again. This time, I was older and wiser, and did not spend too much time perched behind the screen wall on my roof. I had my tenth class board examinations to study for – they were a year away, but my mother made sure I was at my books each day in preparation. Every once in a while, I’d see him in the street and he’d smile at me with the same kind of benevolent sympathy that he had done two years before. But this time, it infuriated me. What was his problem, I’d mutter to myself, fuming! I was fourteen, and practically and adult! What did he mean by smiling at me in such a pathetic fashion? How dare he? Did he not see that I no longer had time for this? He might be here to enjoy his summer holidays, but I had no time to waste. I would seethe with anger at him. But anyone who has been fourteen, and has professed hatred for someone who once fascinated them, knows that beneath the burning passion of fourteen year-old hatred, beats the heart of a much more tender feeling – fully blown infatuation. I was smitten by him. The more he treated me like a child, the more I wanted him to feel I was his equal. The more benevolently he smiled at me, the harder I fought back the tears. The more good-natured he was, the more violently I sobbed at night. He haunted my thoughts day and night. I experienced a rare and beautiful heartache, all summer long.

Two weeks before he left Hyderabad, one balmy summer evening found us both on our terraces. I was reading an old and battered book. He was playing with one of the numerous infants who inhabited his house. I would look coyly at him, and he would smile. It took me all my courage to stay put and not disappear indoors. Surprisingly, it seemed that he was finding it difficult to say something to me. This was not lost on me, and it made my heart ache even harder for him. Finally he spoke, and I heard his voice for the first time. There was nothing spectacular in his voice or what he asked me, but it was sweet relief to hear it. He asked me what I was reading. I told him, he asked me if he could see the book, and he scaled the terrace that separated our homes. As I passed the book to him, he smiled, and I saw that he was shy too. It was the closest I had ever been to him, and I was weak at the knees. He flipped through the pages of the book and then asked to borrow it. I nodded assent – I would give anything to talk with him again. He asked me my name. At the time, I had been reading another book in which the child-heroine was called “Susanna”. I told him that was my name. I knew instantly that he did not believe it – he knew my name already. But he said nothing, and told me it was a beautiful name. In that moment, knowing that he went along with my little falsehood to humor me, I loved him more than ever. His name, he said, was W.

All week long, I repeated his name to myself countless times. I built beautiful fantasies of a shared life together. It was the most delightful week of my fourteenth year. A week later, he returned my book to me. On one of the pages, he had written his name and his address in a faraway land. He also seemed to have scented the page – because it smelt wonderfully like him. He wanted me to write to him, he said. And he gave me a slim box wrapped in festive foil. He bade me open it, and I did. In the box was a green Parker fountain pen. It was beautiful. I promised to write. A week later when he left, I sobbed myself to sleep for a fortnight. We exchanged two letters. In the letters, he called me Susanna. But the intensity of my feelings for him was lost in them, and I looked forward to his return two years later.

When he did, we were both older. He tried to talk to me once, but out of fear of something unknown, I was unkind to him. He left again, only to return a year later. This time around, we got an invitation to his wedding. I felt empty when I saw the invitation, and although I knew that I did not love him, I was jealous of his new bride. At the end of that summer, I left to go to college in Kerala. The next time I saw him was four years later. I was twenty-one, and he was twenty-eight. He had always been handsome, but now he was radiantly so. He had lost none of the charming and impish smile, but it was tempered with an easy and mature air that became him well. One evening, as I was walking along a different street of the colony, a motorbike pulled up beside me. I looked around sharply, and there he was. He had a small child on the bike with him, whom he introduced to me as his son. The child had his father’s good looks, and good nature. ‘Can we not be friends?’ W. asked, and I said that we could. This exchange was neither bursting with supressed passion like our first had been, nor bitter like our later meeting had been. It was easy, and light. It was also our last. I have not seen him since. As long as my sister lived in India, each summer I’d ask her if he had come home for the holidays. I don’t love him anymore, maybe I never actually did love him. But I dearly cherish my childish infatuation.

The green Parker fountain-pen was stolen from me at my college-hostel. It was well-loved and well-used, and I never wrote in my diary with any other pen until it disappeared one day from my desk. I still have the diary in which I wrote of my childish fantasies about W. And on my bookshelf in Ames, sits a book whose inner pages hold a long-faded scent, and a slightly smudgy name and address that remind me each time I read them of balmy summer evenings, and beautiful heartache.

Two Years

2009-02-14T14:06:00.000-06:00

It's my blog's second anniversary! Two years and counting...
Also, HAPPY VALENTINE's DAY to all my readers!

Paulina

2009-02-11T10:47:00.002-06:00

On Sunday afternoon, I was feeling bored. It was beautiful outside, and I decided to walk to the grocery store instead of driving. Right next to my local Hy-Vee is a Goodwill store, and I often stop in here to see if I can spot a good item at a bargain price. I usually don’t. But this Sunday, between the framed pictures, and the furniture, I found a gem! It was a black wrought iron clock – beautifully built. It was also a Howard Miller clock. I don’t know very much about clocks, but I knew enough to know that this was a clock of a rather good make. I grabbed it up and looked for any tell-tale signs about why it might have been given away to Goodwill. None presented itself. It was in perfect condition - not a scratch or dent. So, I walked to the sorting room and asked an attendant if he had a couple of batteries so I could see if the thing worked. It did. I was still skeptical – maybe it did not keep very good time. It was marked at $3.99, so I thought I’d give it a shot. I could always re-donate it later if I found it faulty.

So, holding it in my hand and went to browse the second-hand books. As I was looking at the books, a voice behind me said, “That’s missing a piece.” I turned around. An elderly gentleman was smiling at me and pointing at my clock. I was surprised. It looked okay to me. He must have sensed the confusion in my face. “The pendulum”, he said. “That clock used to have a pendulum.” I turned the clock over and looked at it. The man pointed at the spot for the second battery. “It only takes one battery to run the clock. The second one is for the pendulum. Maybe you could buy one and replace it.” I smiled and thanked him, and asked if he was the one who donated the clock – how did he know all this? “I used to be a clock-maker”, he said. It sounded sad. I thought clocks were dished out my automated machines. “That was long ago” he added, “We went out of business years ago. I am retired now.” Where could I get a pendulum, I asked. He told me I could find one at a clock-store, or online. “That is a good clock. A great bargain.” I thanked him, and bought the clock.

Then, I did some research online. I was looking for a pendulum, and it is surprising how few clock parts are available online. Anyway, I typed in “wrought iron pendulum” into Google Images, and there it was – my clock, plus pendulum. It turns out, this Howard Miller clock is called “Paulina”, and retails at $61 on sale. I called Howard Miller today, and it turns out each Howard Miller clock has a serial number. I gave them mine, and asked for a pendulum. And they are sending me one – no charge, and no shipping fee. I was astonished. What an amazing chain of events! My Paulina has to be the best Goodwill bargain I have ever got. She also keeps perfect time. :-)

Villette

2009-01-12T11:48:00.001-06:00

Happy New Year everyone! Over the first two weeks of January, I have been very busy – I’ve been doing bunches of interviews and then took a long road trip to visit a few places I am interviewing at. In the complete absence of a computer and a TV, I finished two books – I listened to a book on CD in the car, and read a Rumpole book while I wasn’t driving. Considering that this is in less than two weeks, I am quite impressed with myself. Not too bad, eh?

The first book I finished was Villette, considered to be Charlotte Brontë’s best work. Although Brontë’s Jane Eyre has always been one of my favorites, Villette has surpassed Jane Eyre in my opinion and has risen up to my top three books of all time next to The Way of All Flesh and Brideshead Revisited. It is a BEAUTIFUL book – it gives one an intimate view of the thoughts and psychology of the narrator. It is amazingly expressive, sensitive, and touching. Towards the end of the book, I could not bear how heart-wrenchingly sad the plot was getting and was streaming tears as I was driving (this was the book I read on CD). On the last CD, I had to pull over and sob uncontrollably because of the transparent beauty of what I was hearing. Villette is a semi-autobiographical book which draws heavily on Charlotte Brontë’s time in Brussels at the pensionnat of M. and Mme. Heger. Brontë’s love for M. Heger was unrequited, and the depth of her sadness is reflected in Villette. The intensity of her love and pain is described beautifully. It smote my heart to think that love like that had in real life been spurned. I alternated between so many emotions as I listened to the book – love, anger, joy, hatred, despair… It is a rare writer who can draw out emotions like Brontë did from me through Villette. God bless her!!!

Roundup of the books I read last year – I surpassed my goal of twenty-four books by three.

Lord Emsworth and Others - Wodehouse
Poirot Investigates - Christie
The Miracle at Speedy Motors - Smith
Murder in Three Acts - Christie
The Golden Ball and Other Stories - Christie
The Penge Bungalow Murders - Mortimer
Mr. Parker Pyne, Detective - Christie
Funny Boy - Selvadurai
The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories - Christie
Dolores Claiborne - King
Espresso Tales - Smith
A Season of Betrayals - Hyder
44, Scotland Street - Smith
Murder at Hazelmoor - Christie
Morality for Beautiful Girls - Smith
Persian Girls - Rachlin
At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances - Smith
The Good Husband of Zebra Drive - Smith
No Country for Old Men - McCarthy
Blue Shoes and Happiness - Smith
The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs - Smith
Portuguese Irregular Verbs - Smith
The Kalahari Typing School for Men - Smith
Tears of the Giraffe - Smith
Kamasutra - Vatsyayana
The Full Cupboard of Life - Smith
Forgive Us Our Press Passes – Skidmore

Exciting News...

2008-12-15T12:34:00.005-06:00

I have been hearing back from lots of places I applied to for internships. I've heard back from ten internship sites so far, and they have all been yes-es. Consequently I have a busy January. I'll phone-interview at all these places and will visit as many as I can. By the end of january, I imagine I shall be exhausted, broke, and very very happy!

12/16/08: 10am: ELEVEN now :-)
12/16/08: 3pm: TWELVE yes-es and counting!
12/17/08: I heard back from them all. And they ALL said YES! Now, what do I need to do in order to get men to behave in the same way???

The Golden Road to Samarkand

2008-12-03T10:32:00.004-06:00

Two years ago, I wrote a post on one of my blogs which never really took off. It was about a poem. I was reading the poem again yesterday, and thought I'd repost what I had written here...

I was watching "Rumpole". And Rumpole, being Rumpole, was quoting poetry as usual. He quoted something that brought back a deluge of memories. He spoke about the golden road to Samarkand. I felt that somehow the floodgates of forgotten memories had been opened. I felt shaken, and almost cried, for right in the middle of the strange crises of adulthood, he had called to my mind one of the most vivid dreams of my childhood. He had reminded me of a longing I had felt since my childhood, of taking the golden road, and of entering the gates of Samarkand.

It was somewhere between the ages of 7 and 9 when I first heard my father mention "The golden road to Samarkand". It was a phrase, quite out of its original context. I never thought it belonged in a poem. I thought it was one of those odd sentences, heard in one's childhood that happily haunts one's memories even years later. Those words caught my childish fancy. I did not know where Samarkand was. But by the name I imagined it to belong in the Arabian nights. The second I heard of it was when I was about 11 years old. I was reading the history of the Mughals, a daunting, but exciting volume in my father's small library. I read the story of Emperor Babar as a child longing to enter the golden gates of Samarkand. I imagined it to be a bustling city full of busy bazaars, with peculiar looking street vendors selling their exotic wares - spices, incense and delightfully odd unnamed concoctions. There was the old-world charm of the Arabian nights, the wise old men puffing off at their hookahs, the birds, the animals, the smoke, and the earthy, musky fragrances of the people and the land. This Samarkand existed nowhere but in my imagination. Yet, I could see, smell and taste all its wonders. As a child and perhaps even now, my Samarkand seems so exquisitely tangible; I could almost reach out and touch its arcane secrets and unknown treasures.

But equally fascinating to me was the road - the golden road to Samarkand. I always was a loner at heart, never needing anyone else, never wanting anyone else to enter that world of my own, the sacrosanct land of childish fantasies, from where the world of grown ups seems so dull. It was the same with this journey. I wanted to travel to Samarkand alone, discover its riches and wonders alone, so that in some strange way it would belong only to me. I think I had subconsciously even resolved to travel there when I was old enough. I think I imagined myself to be a sort of Dick Whittington. I think I still do. The road and the journey seemed to promise exhilarating thrills and exciting experiences. I still want to take the road and relive the happiest years of my life - my childhood, when under the protective eyes of my parents I built that fantasy land where I go even today when the burdensome worries of my adulthood grow too heavy for me to bear.

I think as an adult, the road seems more a metaphor. I have attempted a few short forays onto the road, but always returned to the calling of responsibility and maturity. But one of these days, I'll bundle up my belongings, and set off down the golden road for good; the child in me singing and hopeful. I will reach my Samarkand one day. And it will be as beautiful, as exciting and as wonderful as I have always known it will be.

We travel not for trafficking alone;
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. ~Flecker

A Snippet of a Conversation

2008-11-29T16:19:00.005-06:00

“May I go to the restroom?” he asked. And then a moment later, “Please?”

I stared. “You don’t have to ask my permission to leave”. I was flustered.

“I know”, he replied quietly. “But it is polite to ask.”

I lowered my glance and nodded my assent. He stood up and heeled his chair back into position.

“Can I bring you anything back?”

His voice was playful, and I rose to the challenge.

“Yes”, I said. “Bring me back the mirror.”

We both blushed. He started to say something, hesitated, and then turned away.

I looked around the coffee shop. On the bookshelf next to our table was stacked an odd assortment of books - some which I would never have imagined belonged in such an establishment. I pulled out a volume on the wines of Tuscany and lazily flipped through its pages. Friends of mine, a couple, were visiting Italy. I remembered her asking me if I would like them to bring me back a bottle of Italian wine. She had called me a connoisseur. I smiled despite myself. Although I would like to be, I am not a good judge of flavors. I prefer Beaujolais to Burgundy. Some people tell me that is sacrilegious, but I have never understood why.

I glanced at my mug of Ethiopian coffee. Strong. Bitter. Overpriced. And served in an awfully ugly mug. Most “cool” coffee shops serve their hot beverages in hideous mugs. They are meant to be artistic, I suppose. I try to be broad-minded about these things, but to my rather primitive and untrained mind, all art – all appealing art at any rate – needs to be aesthetically pleasing. I put the book back on its shelf. The book at least had aesthetically pleasing pictures.

I closed my eyes and listened to the lowered voices of the other customers. Coffee shop conversations always sound so intimate. I sighed and opened my eyes. He had returned, a boyish grin on his face.

“I tried”, he said earnestly. “The mirror wouldn’t come off the wall.”

I giggled with mirth at the thought. He extended his hand and I saw a shiny quarter in it.

“It’s like a mirror”, he said. “I can’t believe I found this. It has been ages since I found a coin.”

I took the extended quarter from his fingers and looked into his face. I could not tell if he was lying. Coffee shop conversations are meant to be mysterious. And the lights were too dim for me to care.

"May I Write To You?"

2008-11-14T12:12:00.002-06:00

Yesterday, someone asked me, “May I write to you?” How often does one get asked such a beautiful question? I think people today say, “Can I call you?” or “Can we talk again?” But an exchange of ideas, and the continuation of a conversation through the writing of letters is practically unheard of. I was quite happy when I was asked this question and consented to a correspondence, upon which we exchanged our email ids. Not quite as romantic an end to the wonderful question as I would have liked, but still…

I would like to write to someone. As a child I had several pen-friends. I even tried reviving my interest in writing to people in distant lands after I became an adult. However, this franchise soon disillusioned me because I found that most adult pen pals are only trying to pave their way to a romantic relationship. But imagine… if you were writing just for the sake of writing… to be able to tell your story, and listen to the stories of others… wouldn’t that be beautiful and delightful and enlightening? C.S. Lewis said, “We read to know we are not alone.” I think this might be truer for writing. We write to know we are not alone… to know that someone wants to read what we have to say and share… that insignificant though we may be in the grand scheme of things, little bits of ourselves are significant to others even if only just momentarily. Is it any wonder then that I enjoy writing this blog?

Hurray for the President Elect

2008-11-05T13:42:00.006-06:00

Last night was one of the most historic nights in the history of the United States of America. By an overwhelming majority Barack Obama was elected America's 44th president - and became the first African American ever to be elected to this post. The energy of the American public was infectious and heart-warming. As I watched election night TV, I was struck by how many things were different about this US Presidential election - people turned out in record numbers to cast their votes, first time voters (the generation many people think does not care) were keen to have their voices heard, and in the face of ignorance and prejudice, Senator Obama scored a proud victory.

Listening to Sen. Obama's address to the nation after winning the 2008 presidential election, I was moved. This isn't my country, and I cannot vote. But this certainly is an incredibly exciting time to be in America! I hope many more good things lie ahead...

"Pie" Surprise

2008-11-03T09:50:00.002-06:00

Typically, when I attempt to throw together a recipe from things that just happen together in my fridge, I end up with an eatable, but equally forgettable end product. However, last night, I made up a recipe that turned out something that was a delight – one which I am going to continue to make often.

So, in an attempt to clean out my fridge, I located these things:
• One butternut squash that I wanted to make soup with, but which I did not end up making
• A quarter packet of mixed vegetables – too little to put into anything else.
• Half a red bell pepper left over from a pizza that I made last week.
• One pre-made pie crust with which I was going to make apple pie, but I ended up eating the apples raw

So, I decided to make a vegetable pie – most of my previous vegetable pies have been passable, occasionally good, and never exceptional. However, I needed to clean out the fridge. So on I went with the project, and the result was amazing – a LOVELY pie: tasty, savory, filling, healthy, and above all EASY! It really was what I might classify as “healthy comfort food”. I’ll post pictures soon. Here’s how I made it:

I diced the whole butternut squash, the red bell pepper, and half an onion and boiled these in a bit of salted water with the leftover mixed vegetables. Don’t add too much water – we just want enough so that we don’t have to drain out any water after the veggies are cooked. I threw in some garlic powder and some rosemary and thyme (I grow the rosemary and thyme. If you don’t have these, just use whatever dried herbs you have – oregano, sage, basil…). I boiled all these together covered for about 15 minutes till the squash was a bit mushy. Then I let it cool and drained out the little water that remained. Then I mixed in a handful of shredded cheese (I used a low-fat cheddar-pepper jack blend because I happened to have some, but any regular shredded cheese is fine), and a couple of pinches of red pepper flakes. In the meantime, I had thawed out my pie crust. I sprayed my pie dish with some non-stick spray and rolled out the bottom crust. I spooned in the vegetable mixture and covered it with the top crust. I slotted the top crust, sprayed it will some non-stick spray and popped it into the oven for about 30 minutes (at 350 F), and then took it out to cool. Wait for it to cool a bit before you slice it. I had a slice for dinner last night with some spicy habanero sauce. Will have some more tonight. Do try to make it – it is really delicious!

To Autumn

2008-10-30T22:50:00.003-06:00

Folowing the biting cold of the weekend, Ames has had a few days of glorious and tender warmth. But I fear that this is the last of the good weather we will have. Autumn is on its way out, and the cold winter months loom ahead. I wanted to post Keats' "To Autumn" before the end of the loveliest season of all.

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies."

~ John Keats

Click on the pictures to enlarge:

A maple tree in autumn (www.middle-fork.org)

Iowan cornfields in the fall (www.jefflawson.net)

Yet Another Step...

2008-10-28T08:56:00.002-06:00

I have to rush and am hopelessly busy, but thought I'd post a quick update... I successfully defended my dissertation proposal. This means that I can apply for internships for next year. So, I am DEFINITELY going to leave ISU nexy year (subject to being matched to an internship). Got to go, will write more later.

A Step Closer

2008-10-21T13:30:00.003-06:00

Last Friday, I finalized my dissertation proposal manuscript and gave it to my committee members. This Friday, I will present the research to them and they will either be bowled over by how wonderful it is (which is highly unlikely), axe my project and doom me to another year in Ames (which I am praying will not happen), or will tell me that it's a bit crappy but can be fixed with their suggestions (which I am hoping will happen). I got caught up with sleep and a bit of reading. Now that my mind was not occupied with thoughts about research, I felt an urge to read some more of "Clarissa". I did, and loved it - it still takes me a while to get through some passages, but is a delight to read.

Remember long ago, in one of my first posts, I said that I wanted to be like Cleopatra - a woman of infinite variety? Well, something I read in Clarissa makes me want to be something similar. It's from Anna Howe's letter to Clarissa where she relates to the eponymous heroine what her mother (Mrs. Howe) said about her:

"Miss Clarissa Harlowe is an admirable young lady: wherever she goes, she confers a favour: whomever she leaves, she fills with regret. O my Nancy, that you had a little of her sweet obligingness!"

If someone ever said that about me, I'd faint with pleasure!

Dark Circles and Bags

2008-10-14T11:43:00.002-06:00

I have been awfully busy the past two weeks - whether or not I will be able to propose my dissertation in time for applying for internships is still uncertain, but I am working away... Last week, I did not sleep two nights and slept in my office for another two nights. I think what makes it so tough for me is that I am not a naturally research-oriented person and everything seems to take me too long. Anyway, I went homes yesterday afternoon, had about 7 straight hours of sleep, and at midnight, I came back to my office and have been working away again. I just happened to catch sight of myself in a mirror - I look horrible. Haggard. And I have dark circles under my eyes! That is something I never thought I would ever see since I have dark skin to begin with! But I do have them under my eyes - dark circles and bags.