Burma Chronicles by Guy Delisle

It's not as edgy as Pyongyang but I suppose repression and mind control in Burma aren't as all pervading as they are in North Korea.  The other key difference is that Guy isn't working in Rangoon.  His wife Nadege works with Medecins Sans Frontiers and he's there to look after their young son, Louis.  Guy makes wonderfully sarcastic observations about the gilded lives of expats in Rangoon.  Although not as incisive as Pyongyang, it's cute nonetheless.  My favourite strip is the one below from when Guy attends a Vipasannna retreat for 3 days and has to wake up at 3AM to meditate with the monks.  You can check out Guy Delisle's site here.  It contains excerpts from his other books as well as his blog on Jerusalem which is where he's been living in the recent past so we can naturally expect a book about the city.  You can read my post about his earlier book, Pyongyang, here. 

Wicked Women of the Raj by Coralie Younger

Younger portrays twenty women who were deemed ‘wicked’ by the society of their times (both European and Indian) for their relationships with Indian princes. Not all of the women date to the Raj; several are from post-independence India. These women were almost universally ostracised by the British gentry and reviled by the Indian aristocracy – both steeped in their parochialism about not upsetting the order of things. Some of the women were just plain greedy and saw the princes as their ticket to prosperity and consequently milked their native husbands for all they were worth. Others were simple and imprudent; we can only groan at their folly. But, it’s the badly behaved playboy princes that you develop the deepest revulsion for. I can’t believe that anyone would have even an iota of respect for these leeches. Indira Gandhi couldn’t have been wiser in stripping them of their privy purses; she ought to have stripped them of all their properties as well. After all, aren’t these assets acquired through the toil of the peasantry and the collusion of the British who did all in their power to prop up these fat cats? Most of the princes were eccentric bordering on the insane and perverted. The Nawab of Bahawalpur (now in Pakistan) had a menagerie of 390 women including several English women who the Nawab perceived as imperial trophies (by the way, this was in the 1940s and not the 14th century). V.S. Naipaul apparently visits Bahawalpur and recounts this incident in Beyond Belief; “they found a whole collection of dildos. About 600, some made of clay some bought in England and battery operated. The army dug a pit and buried these dildos. A lot of dirty magazines. He needed them to use the dildos. He became impotent very early. His appetites were sated.”

Most of the rajahs already had one Indian wife if not several before marrying their European paramours. But, their enthralment with their white acquisitions was mostly transient and they would quickly tire of them and move on to new prey. Of course, not all of the women were vestal in their comportment. Stella Mudge who married Paramjit Singh, the Maharajah of Kapurthala, used her position to loot the state treasury of its finest jewels. On the other hand, one can only feel sympathy for the likes of Marguerite Lawler, an American, who was bullied into a divorce by the Yeshwant Rao Holkar, the Maharajah of Indore, when he discovered and became besotted by Euphemia Crane, yet another white woman.  

Although Younger has penned a fairly absorbing book, each chapter deals only perfunctorily with each one of its twenty subjects in a chatty, almost gossipy manner, or perhaps this is intended. The kind of research and detailing that bring alive the people who populate William Dalrymple’s White Mughals, which deals with a similar topic but in reverse, are missing in the Wicked Women of the Raj. An interesting book, if somewhat inadequate.  

Cappuccino Dusk by Kankana Basu

Cappuccino Dusk is an implausibly brilliant example of how not to write a novel. Its characters are so banal, the language so lacking, the plot so trite, that you gag each time one of Basu’s asinine creations opens their mouths. No prizes for guessing that the story is about a Bengali family. Basu delivers them to us in that nauseating, faux-melodrama that only a piddling little Bengali writer could accomplish. But, we must laud her for her originality of setting the Banerjees down in A-502, Pushpa Milan, Durga Nagar, Bombay. Bengalis in Bombay; now that’s surely fertile ground for an invigorating plot. Basu cashes in on the city where she herself lives by involving (OMG is it even possible?) non-Bengali characters. There’s Mustafa, the handsome & indolent Bohri Muslim; CoKen a drugged up Dingo; pert breasted, intelligent TamBram, Malati Iyer and Maltesh who has no friends save a gecko and a guinea pig... oh and an eco-warrior geriatric who lives in the national park.  

Basu saves the best of her idiocy for those lovable nuts, the Banerjees. Soumitra, Ira, Shreya, Bonny, Mishti, Siddharth and their accent challenged celibate cousin, Dibendyu; the less said about these imbeciles, the better.  

Clearly, Basu must be an avid fan of Mills & Boon books with gems such as “Dibyendu lay on the sofa, his eyes shut, his limbs spread out carelessly. A lock of his hair fell over his forehead. The buttons at his neck were open, revealing the thick black hair on his chest. His arms rippled with muscles in the half-light of the storm and his taut thighs bulged. Suddenly and unexpectedly, he appeared virile and handsome.”

And where trashy books are an inadequate inspiration, Basu turns to the real world possibly paraphrasing the Times with “Siddharth knew that the colony had been built on land stealthily claimed by deliberately destroying the mangroves that had existed for decades in these parts of the suburb. Land acquired illegally by land sharks who were masters at destroying the ecology in an unobtrusive, almost invisible manner. The mangroves had been steadily vanishing under Siddharth’s anguished eyes.” Deliberate destruction of mangroves? Really, you don’t say?  Her hackneyed attempts at reflecting reality come across even more crudely with references such as Makhijani Foundation School in Powai which Madame Basu has surely modelled on the Hiranandani Foundation School.   There are so many elements ranging from a forest brigand, a bomb attack, sons of the soil vs. others, nepotism in educational institutions and xenophobia among others that it borders on the bizarre.  

With Cappuccino Dusk having been long listed for the Man Asian Literary Prize in 2007, we can only speculate that Basu feels sufficiently encouraged to write another chef d’oeuvre. One can only hope that Basu has had some sort of epiphany that either leads to better writing or an early retirement.

Pyongyang - A Journey in North Korea by Guy Delisle

I find the term Graphic Novel really pretentious. You can conjure up a dozen fashionable words but they’re not going to mask the fact that it is after all a comic at the end of the day. And why can’t adults enjoy comics which are not of the non-Japanese weird cross-species porn variety? I loved Asterix & gang when I was 8 and I still love them twenty years later. Pretentious terms aside, Guy Delisle, a French Canadian cartoonist who works for a French animation studio has captured his 2 month stay in the hermit state uncannily through the medium of the comic strip. His wry observations of the absurdity and cruelty of life in North Korea are simultaneously funny and distressing. He’s smuggled in potential contraband in the form of Orwell’s 1984, quotes from which juxtapose appropriately against the reality of life in North Korea. He’s also not averse to taking pot-shots at the mindless routine that he becomes resigned to, like the ridiculous excitement of eating melons, a somewhat rare commodity at a thoroughly unpalatable breakfast. There were so many bits I enjoyed, but the scene at the International Friendship Exhibition, a museum built to house junk from around the world, is particularly priceless. 

After wondering through endless corridors and rooms full of gifts offered to the ‘eternal president’, that’s Kim Il-Sung to all you non-au-courants, Guy is finally taken to meet the big man himself, well not him but his wax replica.  

Pyongyang best embodies the word tragicomic, literally. I must get my hands on Delisle’s other works.  

Varca

So much for my avowed frequency.  I was away at an office do in Goa if it's anything by way of an excuse.  I packed Sebastian Faulks' Bird Song with the intention of finishing it by the poolside but forget reading, it was way too hot to even think. (Photo: Varca Beach, South Goa)

You have 0 friends

I used to be South Park's biggest fan but since season 10, they've become kind of lame, more preachy and less parody.  So, I was delighted that the latest episode 'You have 0 friends' smacks of everything that I love about South Park; satirical, current and absurd and what's more, I could really see eye to eye with the topic.  Everyone in South Park becomes obsessed with Facebook and people's popularity in the real world is based on the numerical strength of their friends on Facebook.  Stan doesn't want a Facebook profile but Cartman and Kyle have made him one so they could add one more friend to their count.  Kyle's obsessed with adding more friends and getting people to cultivate his Farmville farms.  He makes the mistake of adding a geeky student named Kip who's an absolute Nigel with 0 friends, this causes him to start bleeding the friends he has. In a classic South Park scene, Cartman tells him that he can find and make new friends on Chat Roulette and then add them to his Facebook friends list.  But, all the chatters turn out to be men slapping their monkeys which prompts Cartman to utter this very quotable quote "If you want to find some good quality friends, you have to wade through all the dicks first."  I coudn't agree more Cartman!  And I couldn't agree more with the theme of the episode - I deactivated or deleted (I am not sure which because that dastardly Facebook is pretty purposefully confusing) and my life is so much better sans Facebook.  A couple of months ago, I met some friends who I hadn't met in the longest time and for 45 friggin minutes, they spoke about Facebook updates, Facebook albums, Facebooks widgets and Facebook fuck-all!  Oh man, whatever happened to normal non-Facebook conversation? 

You can watch the full episode at the official site.

An Irregular Frequency: The Short & Long of It

I intended this site to be a blog on books.   But, lately I find that I can't seem to finish more than a book in a week.  The traffic is really bad in the evenings.  On Friday, I left work at 6 and got home at 8.  I feel so bushwhacked after that ordeal every day that I can't seem to read more than a couple of pages before falling asleep.  On my 'only Sunday' weekends, I find that time flies so quickly that its Monday faster than (in the words of Stephen Fry) "a priest could strip a choir boy."  On 'double day' weekends, there's so much to do that I can just about finish the book for the week.  And then writing what's virtually an essay on the book is a near-Heruclean feat.  It's not that I am writing for anyone - I write to satisfy my own cravings - but I seem to have collected some regular readers and unbelievably a follower.  The hits are mostly from Los Angeles, Chicago, Bombay, Bangalore, Pune and Singapore so I assume that these are probably repeat readers but no one seems to leave any comments which is a pity because I don't even moderate.  

Anway, since:

1. brevity is the soul of wit and
2. tempus fugit and
3. prunes make you regular,

I am considering posting more frequently but with shorter pieces (like today).  However, the self-proclaimed literary nature of my posts may suffer and the topics may be more widespread (like today).  I'll try not to be a deadly dull bore.  

Kattam Villayattu

On my visit to Odyssey today, I picked up a game from a group called Kreeda Games also from Madras, who are trying to revive traditional Indian games. I picked up one called Kattam Villayattu which comes in 3 levels. Armed with a horrendous knowledge of Tamil, I infer that the name translates as Checked or Square Game and what a delightful little game it is! It’s a simple game of strategy and concentration, somewhat reminiscent of noughts & crosses and Chinese checkers. I am really excited about all the other products Kreeda Games sell. On their site, they write “at Kreeda we want to remember our games for they tell us a lot about who we are and where we come from. But above all they are a lot of fun.” Heritage, game and fun, that sounds right up my creek. What’s more the games are made with eco-friendly materials. This is a manufacturer that deserves to be supported (you can order directly from their site) and the games, despite their simplicity, are infinitely more interesting than your run of the mill American board games.  

Odyssey Book Store

I really like Odyssey Book Store.  It's not as grand as Landmark but it's quieter and unassuming and it's just 3 hopscotch hops away from home.  I don't have to crawl all the way to Lokhandwala to get a literary fix.  Moreover, Landmark was kind of pissing me off with its incompetent staff and Andheri airheads who cruise the bookshelves in an attempt to kill time until the commencement of some brainless activity.  As if looking at books upside down wasn't annoying enough, the surety of telephonic conversations with long-lost bosom buddies and raucous laughter is enough to put off even those who are most tolerant towards our more imbecilic citizens.  The other great thing about Odyssey is their website.  They don't have too many books at the store but you can order it online and unlike Landmark which calls you a month after you place your order to tell you that the book is out of stock, Odyssey delivers within 3 days!  I ordered the book on Monday morning and on Tuesday, a deep southern drawl (Odyssey's from Madras) told me over the phone that my book would come "latest tomorrow" and she was as right as rain.   The only blip in the Odyssey experience was the sales assistant at the store who typed in 'Sanju' into his database search field when I asked him for 'Sun Tzu', but I think that was kind of sweet.  

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest by Stieg Larsson

I finished reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played with Fire nearly a year ago. But, I put off finishing the Lisbeth Salander trilogy partly because the book wasn’t available yet in India (well, that’s not really an obstacle) but mostly because I’d heard that the concluding book was a bit of a letdown after the adrenaline rush of its preceding sisters. I stopped reading thrillers and crime fiction years ago but the first two books were true blue page-turners. Admittedly, the writing was a bit amateurish and wordy, but you fall in love with the books’ unconventional heroine or is it anti-heroine? So I am willing to forgive Larsson’s faults in The Hornet’s Nest for Salander’s sake. As attested to by countless reviews and bloggers, there’s a bit of an information overload with regards to the workings of Swedish state institutions and the legal system. At least it was all new info for me; I wondered how the Swedes plodded through these bits. Maybe, they were reading the books whilst beating themselves with birch branches in steam filled rooms or maybe I have them mixed up with the Finns. Larsson also makes the Swedish state out to be kind of sinister and immoral which you find hard to believe when your entire life, you have been fed positive stereotypes of the well endowed and interior furnishings variety. Anyhoo, as the Yanks say, reading The Hornet’s Nest was all about closure.  

A TV Commerical for a Book?

I rarely watch the telly and ever since BBC Entertainment disappeared off my CAS menu, I have just about quit watching.  But on Friday, I happened to spot something to my liking whilst my mum was flicking through channels and so I quite naturally commandeered the remote.  It was that likable Indophile, William Dalrymple (no it wasn't his Matted Locks of Shiva, which was kinda lame), it was a docu that he'd done many years ago on the Nazrani of Kerala - the Christians of St.  Thomas.  I remember watching when I was still at Uni in Canberra and laughing with my chaplain, Father Laurie (I lived in a Catholic dorm) about the dancing nuns in the docu.  Ah, Father Laurie, another very likable person and what a wonderful poster boy for Roman Catholicism, when it so badly needs one.  Anyway the reason for this post isn't the documentary (which by the way was called Doubting Thomas).  During one of the sodding commercial breaks (which is among the reasons why I quit watching TV), there was an ad for a book - a television commercial for crying out loud.  Harper Collins was informing viewers that they could buy Santosh Desai's Mother Pious Lady from a bookshop near them.  It all seemed so crass and so demeaning - to hawk a book as if it were a fairness cream or worse a movie!  

But, later that night when I pondered over it, I realised that I was a being a little presumptuous.  Why should books be at a disadvantage when it comes to marketing them?  Still, it seems not quite right.  I think I will attempt to deliberately avoid Mother Pious Lady.  Fuck, I am such a prat. 

Crackpot by John Waters

I love John Waters but I can't say the same about Crackpot.  It's a collection of fairly independent pieces that contain Waters' take on everything from the strippers in Baltimore (his beloved hometown) to Santa Claus to the trash film genre.  It was way too rambly.  The other problem was that I have seen one his lectures as a result of which a lot of funny anecdotes in the book weren't new to me.  I laughed my head off when I first heard of Blaze, the malignant Baltimore stripper who'd scowl at patrons demanding to know what they were looking at.  Sadly, it wasn't so funny the second time around. In fact, I think I feel the same way about his movies.  I could never watch Pink Flamingos or Female Trouble again except maybe the bits with Edith Massey, she's so friggin demented, it's almost sweet.   Although with Polyester and A Dirty Shame, which happen to be my favourites, I could watch every week and find something newer and sicker to appreciate.   But, I forgive Waters for not writing a very absorbing book, his movies more than redeem this sin.   If you haven't watched any of John Waters' films and you're a free spirited, non-fascist type, then you must watch the following in this order: 

1. Pink Flamingos 
2. Desperate Living 
3. Female Trouble 
4. Polyester
5. Serial Mom (camel-toe rocks!)
6. A Dirty Shame 

I am not going to recommend Hairspray because there's not enough of Waters' nuttiness in it.   Since, it's highly unlikely that you'll find any of these movies at your local Crossword or Planet M, you may also just want to stare at his child-molester like face in this picture.