The romance of reading the “old fashioned way”!

Last year the launch of the Amazon Kindle created a lot of buzz in the book industry and if that did not kindle a flame in the hearts of book lovers and geeks, this year may make modern Plato’s of us all, since we may be seen roaming with tech tablets in the form of Apple I Pads. However, the digital revolution may not bode well for people like me who love reading the ‘old fashioned’ way.

I have nothing against technology but there are some things that I pray would remain the same. Many may call me a romantic fool but sometimes I’d rather be that than give up an old love. I find an e book extremely non personal, for it takes away so much from the whole experience of leafing through the pages of a book.

Reading on a digital device for me, is like having a diet supplement rather than a four course meal. I would never give up the pleasure of ravishing a good read for anything in the world.

I love the scent of old tattered second hand books, the coarse look and feel of the yellow pages roughened with age. Some even have little notes scribbled on the front leaf, mostly birthday or anniversary wishes and the name of the person who possibly presented these on particular occasions. My association with such a book begins right away, when I think that it has travelled a long way, changed many hands, brought joy to the person who got it as a present, when it was new with crisp pages. Then perhaps it fell from grace and for reasons unknown became part of a “kabhaari’s” paraphernalia or a second hand book shop, until I rescued it and reinstated it to its rightful position, on a bookshelf. Wonder, when the digital dragon engulfs all things printed, will we be able to have such pleasures. Will a digital device have any sentimental value or will it just be a part of e-waste?

Another favourite hobby of mine is browsing through books at bookstores. I can spend hours just looking at various volumes, before picking up several and then grudgingly sorting and re sorting these to limit my choice to just one or two. The experience is even more enjoyable if the owner or his assistants know what they have in the shop and helpfully recommend some. Sadly in most cases many of these are just salesmen who are clueless about authors and indifferent to books. I am willing to tolerate the latter in mega chain bookstores, for the digital editions are going to deprive me of this joy as well.

Sometimes I try to console myself by thinking that I may eventually take to these devices. I remember there was a time when my thoughts danced to the tune of a pen and I could not simply churn out any piece of writing on a computer but now I need a keyboard for putting down my thoughts and feelings. (In fact I should consider it a saviour in disguise since my handwriting is worse, though perfectly legible, than that of my 11 year old cousin)

I know this may be an issue for a long drawn debate since environmentalists would argue that more printed books mean more exploitation of natural resources but I do not want to start a Copenhagen climate conference here. My love for tactile books defies reason, which may favour virtual versions, but I guess Love is often beyond reason and I would prefer flipping the pages of an actual book rather than adapting to one touch buttons, virtual flips or clicks.

To the Heaven that I call Home

(A Kaleidoscopic canvas of seasons in

Nainital)

Summer

The placid green waters of the lake sparkle as they are touched by the playful golden rays.

Unlike the scorching sultan of the plains, the summer sun in the mountains is benign and benevolent in its ways.

The cobalt of the clear blue sky is a harbinger of times fresh and new, there is an intrinsic sweetness in all things that your eyes may view.

Monsoons

Lush green leaves play peek-a-boo, hiding behind the misty morning screen.

Nature’s palette seems to be filled with all shades of green.

The pitter-patter of raindrops on rooftops announces the arrival of a brief but steady shower, oft accompanied by lightning and thunder, proclaiming all their power.

The Mighty mountains rise above the mantle of mist, as if invoked by the sweet scent of wet

earth.

Tiny forest waifs wake up to soak in the season and carouse unabashedly in all glee and mirth.

Autumn

Weeping willows delicately arched over the resplendent waters of the lake.

The gentle caress of the errant breeze that feels like the touch of the first soft snow flake.

A rhythmic rustling of russet leaves, fills all the bowers and the eaves.

As people trudge along winding paths in a hurry to reach home, for Autumn’s onset heralds the long winter journey that they need to go on.

Winter

The dark night looks like a dusky maiden clad in pristine white, only the moon bears witness to her splendour.

Lofty trees in their silken snow covered garb, sway to the tune of the winter wind, singing an ode to her with boundless passion and candour.

But her beauty too is ephemeral and must fade away as

the first rays of the sun melt the snow and pave the way for another day.

(For my dear cousin Munu who misses home like Dorothy of The Wizard Of Oz. . Thank you for selecting these beautiful pics for me from http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/Nainital)

Pondering potpourri

The sound of the radio waft­­s in along with the smell of samosas and other savouries being prepared in the adjoining eating joint. The paanwallah who does not take lightly to offenders has a small placard with a list of his defaulters, on whom he bestows innovative but unparliamentary titles. Seated on his high chair he prepares paan with a great flourish, choosing the best betel leaf from the bowl smearing it with lime and ‘katha’ sprinkling some masala and carelessly throwing in a betel nut or two, before dexterously folding the leaf and presenting it to his regular patrons.

Although his name, Natwar, may remind one of a vile Bollywood villain but his appearance is a complete antithesis to it. Bespectacled and clad in a white dhoti with a little pony tail or ‘bodhi’ he conjures up the image of the quintessential pandit in a hindi movie. The archaic transistor by his side seems to be his best buddy and often the soft strains of old Hindi songs from it, break the monotony in my office. Sometimes it is a welcome distraction for me, especially when I catch snatches of one of my all time favourites but very often I wish I had ear muffs to keep away the jarring sound of disturbances in transmission and other not so pleasant tunes. This manoeuvres my stream of consciousness to other times in the past.

Radio’s and I have been at loggerheads since childhood. In the early days my room was adjacent to Chaji’s (my grand uncle) who till date turns on his radio at 5 am. As a child it served as an alarm as well as an irritant for me.

The AIR Bareilly service (the only one in Nainital, at that time) would begin with ‘Vande Mataram’ and I would toss and turn in bed to shut out the sound (no disrespect for the beautiful composition but at 5 am Vande Mataram only heralded a woeful morning for me). Next came the Akaashvaani news in that typical staid ‘propah propah’ hindi news readers, belonging to the old school BBC, accent. Followed by a scrutiny of the headlines for the day and then the daily recital of a part of ‘Ramcharitra Manas’. This was like a wakeup call for me since it meant that it was already 7 and time for school. Sometimes the sounds from the neighbours radio too would filter in to compete with the already existing ones and I felt caught in a web of hotchpotch hum.

In college I thought I had broken the radio jangle jinx but there were substitutes. In the hostel (As all IP hostellers would know) calls were announced over a microphone. One would often be shaken out of peaceful slumber by the Matron’s monotonous tone, announcing someone’s phone call.

There was no peace to be found even when I was out of college. The raucous radio came to haunt me again, this time as an accomplice of a portly lady next doors, who began her day with 'Gurbani' on her radio and joined in at the end with enthusiastic chants of “Jo bole so Nihaal” . Then followed her daily dose of Punjabi songs, many a times I have fought the urge of barging in to her house and decimating her device into pieces.

How certain episodes from childhood play on our psyche throughout our lives, to this day I simply get agitated with these sounds for no greater reason than they disturbed my sleep and were associated with waking up for school, exams, results and all things that I dreaded.

Auto Ordeal!

_{Commuting to office daily can be quite an ordeal. In fact most of us are stuck between the devil and the deep sea. It is torturous and straining for people who drive to work and worse for mere mortals like me who take an auto rickshaw every day.}

The torment begins even before starting from home because you are anxious about getting an auto in time. Even if you happen to spot a vacant one, it is most likely that the driver will make you feel like persona non grata and speed past as if he were James Bond in a chase sequence.

As you wait for an auto there are other irritants that need to be countered. The ubiquitous sweepers with their gigantic brooms cover you in a blanket of dust and God be with you if you are caught in between two overzealous ones, who threaten to reduce you to dust if you don’t move out of the way.

In fact, gazing at a distance for an auto can be so taxing that after a while you see a mirage, and may have a false illusion of green and yellow (colour of CNG autos in Delhi) amidst the chauffer driven colourful cars that speed (read almost snub) past you.

Even if your fervent prayers to God are finally answered and an auto deigns to stop, you need to be prepared for a fight. Mind you, this may vary from persuasive pleas and a haggling war to the choicest expletives stored in your vocabulary. Cunning and guile too come in handy sometimes, when you convincingly lie about your destination and then pretend ignorance of the route. However, practice this at your own peril for you may be asked to disembark midway by an irate driver.

The reasons for overcharging are getting innovative by the day. From the regular “Madam is route pe jaam hai” and “wahan se sawaari nai milegi” to the never heard before ones like “I am a graduate, phir bhi auto chalata hoon so I have a right to demand more money.” If you try to threaten them by calling up the helpline, an audacious few may offer to give you the number themselves.

Besides being open to the vagaries of “autowallahs” and nature, in these three wheelers, you are in for many more jolts at traffic signals. I have come across a motley crew of people, including beggars who smack your hand if you ignore them, a perpetually pregnant lady who begs in the name of her unborn child (although she has been sporting a baby bump since years), a little kid offering me “Bhog” (read Vogue magazine) and a man selling glowing red horns with the refrain “seengh lelo”.

And if that wasn’t enough you may find the visiting card of a tantric, with the assurance “har parshani ka hal, mai promise”, land on your lap from nowhere. I am almost tempted to visit him for a solution to my commuting woes, after all desperate diseases call for desperate measures.

How I wish that all my travelling travails would come to an end and I could imperiously command, “Beam me to work Scotty”!

Sleeping is no mean art: for its sake one must stay awake all day. ~Friedrich Nietzsche

Everyone has a forte, some claim excellence in the arts while others revel in scientific pursuits. But I for one, seem to be a maverick, a misfit of sorts and claim expertise over no mean accomplishment than being an absolute authority on the art of sleeping.

In fact our feline friends, who are old hands at the game, could take a lesson or two from me. Now as you know cats also need to forage for food, I too have to abandon my favourite friend 'Sleep' and go to work.

It is indeed a contradiction that my nightmares begin with waking up and if I were Shakespeare my Hamlet would morosely mouth "To wake up or not, that is the question".

In the morning, I drag myself out of bed like a zombie and God be with anyone who dare cross my path at this hour. In fact, at home, my grand dad, who was well aware of my idiosyncrasies, would jokingly admonish everyone against approaching me early in the morning.

I admit that I do have a predilection for sleeping but to make my next point clear I need to borrow from the bard again.

In Hamlet he says 'to sleep, perchance to dream, aye there's the rub', well, in my case there is no catch, for my sleep is seldom disturbed by dreams. And even if I happen to venture into dreamland I can never make head or tales of it, perhaps Freud's gray matter would come in handy to demystify my dreams.

In fact, last night was one such rare occasion when I did a Dr Do Little in my dream. I saw that my linguistic capabilities had been miraculously usurped by our bovine brethren and before I could masticate more on it or have my own version of the "theatre of the absurd" (remembering Ionesco's Rhinoceros), I was "alarmed" out of my sleep by the cruel clanging of my phone. At such times I wish I was born in the Stone Age when there were no alarms or phones, but then again, I reason it out, that in ancient times the rooster heralded the dawn of a day and obviously it didn’t come with a snooze or silent option so I am better off with the technology of our times.

Now, sleeping for me is an art perfected by a very few of our species and I certainly am a child prodigy at it, for since time immemorial I have been practising it with great finesse. The catnaps, the forty winks snooze, the baby sleep and the sound slumbers.

No lover can claim to love his beloved as I love sleeping for I am certain that there is no better bedfellow than sleep and no symphony sweeter than the sound of bon nuit!.....