Death by a pothole

No, it wasn't the torrential rains, nor was it the open manhole,
They didn't cause the death of the forgotten and unknown soul,
He died in utter ignominy,
Unable to believe the blasphemy,
That death could come by a pothole.

And who's there to take the blame?
To take action and to shoulder this shame?
Will the faulty roads ever see repair?
Or will common people just have to risk their lives and beware,
Caught in the trap of this nasty and dangerous death game?

Does it look like a crater? Beware, it kills too. Image - google.com

Death comes again

The rain beats steadily against the window like an uninvited guest.

The room is dark save for a lone light in the centre where a figure is crouched alone.

The knife, with its sharp glint, inches up slowly and stealthily.

The killer strikes the unsuspecting victim. Again and again.

Till the page of the book is turned.

Sounds familiar?

Sounds like you? Not the killer, I mean, the reader…

Let me guess –

•  Sherlock Holmes, Byomkesh Bakshi, Feluda, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple – been there, read that?
• Your idea of a perfect day – an unread Agatha Christie where you could guess the murderer?
• Does everyone else in the family thinks you must have gone nuts as you sit and watch back-to-back Criminal Minds and/or Law and Order episodes to relax at the end of a long day?
•  You wonder who let CID be launched on Indian Television as a crime show rather than a comedy one?

Well if the answer to majority of the above questions is yes, then, like me, by now you would have finished all the classic murder mysteries and wondered, now what?

Where are the real psychological crime thrillers now?

That book which you can’t put down, which keeps you awake at night, which sends shivers down your spine and which unravels the dark corners of a criminal mind?

The stories that do not just read like fast paced action drama or like gruesome accounts of blood and gore with DNA analysis thrown in for good measure but which challenge you to unravel a puzzle and match wits with a ruthless and highly intelligent killer?

The good old-fashioned "whodunit" which reflects the changes in society and the dangers of the human mind?

Well, the good news for all crime-starved souls like us is that there do exist crime authors in this genre. The bad news is not many of them are based out of India.

My top picks for a few interesting crime authors and the unforgettable characters they have created:

1. PD JAMES

    About the author: She's 90 and still quite a presence! Worked in the Home Office

    Backdrop of the stories: London

    Detective: Adam Dalgilesh; celebral and private, fond of writing poetry

    What's unique: precise prose and sharp insights into human mind

2. RUTH RENDELL

    About the author: A journalist; believes in exercise of the body and mind even at 82!

    Backdrop of the stories: London

    Detective: Inspector Wexford; well-read, witty, solid, calm, women love him

    What's unique: often tackles issues of social injustice

3. HENNING MANKELL

    About the author: Been a seaman and dabbled in theatre. Lives half the year in Africa

    Backdrop of the stories: Sweden

    Detective: Kurt Wallander; loves opera, grumpy but upright, battles diabetes and more

    What's unique: beautifully incorporates changes in Swedish society

4. JO NESBO

    About the author: Been a financial analyst and a rockstar; also played footfall

    Backdrop of the stories: Norway

    Detective: Inspector Harry Hole; a rebel battling the bottle and his own demons

    What's unique: absolutely chilling crime descriptions; often about women in danger

5. IAN RANKIN

    About the author: Has been writing since his graduation in 1982

    Backdrop of the stories: Scotland

    Detective: Inspector Rebus; lonely, troubled, tries hard to stay sober

    What's unique: music plays an important part as a backdrop in his books

6. PETER TEMPLE

    About the author: Former journalist and lecturer

    Backdrop of the stories: Australia

    Detective: Jack Irish; former lawyer turned investigator and others

    What's unique: rich detailing of atmosphere including Australia's urban and rural       

    landscape

There are a few of my current favourite picks. There are many more.
The detectives of these books are not paragons of virtue but believable and flawed characters with their own insecurities and fears. They are at times disillusioned, at times rebellious, they battle alcoholism and/or diabetes. The darkness they see around them affects them deeply; their personal lives are often in shambles. But they are characters one can root for and characters which develop further with each novel rather than remaining static with a few stock and trademark characteristics like some detectives of the earlier days.

Well, naysayers will keep saying crime fiction is all about formula. It will never win the Booker Prize or be called literary fiction. Could be true in many cases. But the best of crime fiction do not just aim to thrill, they feature good language and gripping stories apart from brilliant characterization and a chance to understand the frailties of human mind and the changes in society that we never stop to think about.

I will return later this month with a few new Indian names that can be added to this list. And yes, if you are part of the crime-starved community, please also do share your new favourite authors.

And now returning to the crime scene we left. Did you just guess who the murderer is? 

Death by Tourism?

"What's your dream holiday destination?"

Chances are, when asked this question, many people, across the world, would definitely include one city, Venice.

The mysterious city surrounded by water, with its picture postcard beauty, is etched forever in our memories; a city whose history and beauty have been captured so beautifully in countless novels and not so beautifully in some less than forgettable Bollywood movies.

As I stood in St. Peter's square, trying in vain to look for pigeons to feed, I realized, that I was not alone in my dream. Apparently 26 million other tourists share the same dream and turn up every year for a glimpse of this city, choking its streets in a mad rush to soak in its beauty and history while choking out its residents and even its pigeons.

"The best way to discover Venice is to get lost" our guide told us above the din of voices and the sea of human faces of all ages and nationalities outside St. Peters' Basilica on a pleasant and breezy, May morning

So what made Venice so magical? What could be said about the place that was already not said a 100 times over?

-That's the answer we were looking for as we walked down the narrow roads with its 400 year old buildings that kissed the edge of the water gently even as they seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into the very canals that ran along the sides.

-The arches above the narrow canals where the men in the black and white striped shirts (gondola boatmen) expertly guided the gondolas and tirelessly ferried another set of tourists for a taste of the Venice experience. 

-The blatant tourist traps almost at every corner with colorful Venetian masks, t-shirts with "I Love Venice" printed in large letters, street art displaying the images of the Venice in its various shapes and forms, all being sold by eager street hawkers to gullible tourists.

-The quaint trattorias that jotted the narrow roads alongside the expensive restaurants, places where one could sit and gaze at the canal and enjoy a glass of wine over a plate of Seafood Linguini.

-The famous glass-blowing factory at Murano, where the masterglass blower literally seemed to be breathing life in the glass figures of horses and vases that seemed almost too ethereal to be true.

the first glimpse of Venice

an old house, note the lovely flowers

Pisa is not the only place with leaning towers, Venice has them too

Master glass blower at work in Murano

the narrow canals that run along the old houses

The Basilica stands proud

The Venice  we all know and love

The gondolas

the winding stairs in one of the old houses - these were used for protection against enemies in the old days

We walked and walked some more and saw it all. All the magical memories that made Venice what it was.

And at every arch, every corner, every canal we crossed, we found other people with cameras and maps, probably in the same quest to discover the magic of the city.

As evening fell and  we came back, as always, to the water, strains of beautiful and hauntingly lilting music bathed the entire quayside in a magical fairy-tale like atmosphere. There seemed to be nothing modern, nothing 21st century, about the city at that moment. It could be a scene straight from the Merchants of Venice. 

And then I saw her, a woman sitting quietly by one of the arches, conspicuous not just by the lack of a camera and map in her hand but but also by the sad look in her eyes, a look which seemed to ask a mute question to those restless tourists who had no time to stop and listen.

"Is tourism killing Venice?"

And no, I did not click her picture. But the pain in her eyes will haunt me forever. The city that was once a flourishing port and trade center, now has hardly any jobs except in tourism. The city that boasts of thousands of hotels for tourists hardly has affordable and inexpensive houses for residents. The city that lures over 26 million tourists annually has less than 60,000 residents today. The city which was famous for its history and its beauty seems to have fallen prey to its own irresistible charm even as it sinks further into the sea and more people leave its choked shores to find home in other and more modern places.

Can Venice reinvent itself and revive its glory? Can Venice be as beautiful for its residents as it is for its visitors? Yes, I fervently hope so. The magic of Venice should not be left to fade away and pain in the woman's eyes should not be unseen anymore.

Motherhood and the art of letting go

The hope of holding on vs. the fear of letting go. What is the right balance in motherhood?

For the first one year, as you feed your child each morsel of food and watch her take her first tottering steps holding on to your hand as an anchor, you feel pain and love as you probably have never felt before. Your world expands, your heart contracts, each time the two small hands unerringly turn to you in her sleep, each time she smiles her toothless smile at you, each time you soothe away her irrational fears, each time you read her favourite bed-time story and she falls asleep, curled up in your lap. You hold on to each fragment of memory, even as they pass by in a blur.

Then comes the day when she steps out, alone, for the first time, to her playschool or her daycare, leaving home and you. She cries, probably only for few days but you cry longer.  You agonize about each cough, each cold, each bruise, each bullied hurt, each imagined hurt, each moment of her life away from you, in her own, growing world.

Time flies.

Her world expands. The sandpit, the playground, the books, the toys, the friends, the teachers.

She finds them all.

You are still there but no longer needed every step of the way.

You watch her grow.

Your heart fills up with pride.

Yes, sometimes also with unbearable pain, when the first sign of rebellion strikes and tantrums replace the sunny smile, when the door slams in your face, when angry words and silence meet your futile attempts at disciplining the unreasonable demands.

But you know this too shall pass.

“You are my best friend”, Mummy she laughs when you cook her favourite food or take her on a holiday.

Your eyes fill up with tears, tears you hide quickly, tears you dare not show. You smile.

And you know that very soon that day will come.

Each year, you will have to let go a little bit more.

Each year, she will grow older and be more independent, a little bit more.

Till the day she leaves home and starts her own life, ready to face the world with the knowledge and courage that you have given her.

You hope you will be ready to let go then. And you hope that at 17, just as at 7, she will still consider you her best friend and share with you her darkest thoughts, her deepest fears, her wildest dreams. That by letting go, you will forge forever the unbreakable tie of love and friendship, love that has no expectations, no boundaries and no end.

You let go.

A day in the life of a Writer-in-Waiting

The beginning:

Imagine, its the weekend after a long zombie-like week at work. You have to, simply have to write this weekend.

Writer-in-waiting that you are, you are therefore, hard at work, this weekend, dreaming up your masterpiece that only you seem to be waiting for while the rest of the world seems to be blissfully happy to move on in tune with the latest breaking news.

But you ignore the world. You sit at your desk and and even ignore the most pressing chores staring you in the face; 

a) a sink full of dirty dishes

b) a floor that needs mopping

c) a child that needs a haircut

d) a social call that you cannot avoid

And then, just then, when you drown out everything except the noises in your own aching head, writers' block chooses precisely that unerring moment to strike.

The climax, captured in a limerick:

Sitting by the window, 
watching the world go by,

I sip my cup of tea and idly swat a fly;
I read a new book; I hear a sad song,
But time stands still, the day stretches long,
O its the writer's block again, sigh, sigh, sigh!

And then you turn to Dr.Google. Who throws up an infographic even on this topic:

The end:

And then you go back to washing the dishes. After all, didn't Agatha Christie once famously say "The best time to plan a book is while you are washing the dishes."

Shopaholic of another kind

I stand still at the entrance.

There, I get the itch again. My eyes roam lovingly over them and my hands itch to touch them. My eyes open wider, spying a latest collection I was always trying to get my hands on.

I brace myself. Should I or shouldn't I? I trace my steps back. But the temptation is far too great. I go back to the shelf. I give in. Adrenalin and joy rush through as I pick up the book that I desperately wanted.

Yes, I know now.

I am a shopaholic with an incurable addiction that I have finally admitted to myself. It's not an addiction for clothes, or shoes or watches or bags or gadgets but an unending and constant addiction for books.
Take me to a bookstore and I lose count of hours as I browse through books and look for new ones to add to my already overflowing collection. Cupboard space, I can happily sacrifice, bookshelf space, you dare not ask for.

Maybe I am part of a dying breed. In the age of Kindle Readers, iPads and free downloads, who reads books, you might ask. I do love technology and the changes that it entails, but still, I cannot get away from the sheer physical pleasure of turning the pages of a much loved book. I read when I need to be alone and I read to know that I am not alone.

And I do still buy books. And I hoard books with a collectors' delight. I can spend hours staring at my bookshelf, dusting the old covers and planning which new ones I can add to my collection.

When I travel to new places, and I do travel quite a lot, planning the books I will take with me becomes a more important task than the clothes to be packed. And of course, the trip includes a mandatory visit to one of the bookshops in that city to see if I can spot some new and interesting titles and author names. To the utter disgust of my long-suffering friends, I have completely useless hobbies such as remembering names of bookshops in the places I visited from Manila to Boston as I bring back more new books from my travels than chocolates and curios when I return home.

I research the latest released books and read the new book reviews as avidly as an Apple (the company, in case anybody thought of the fruit here), addict would keep track of the latest version of must-have Apple products.

Flipkart and now Amazon can count on my undying loyalty even as I wonder how the eCommerce industry in India fails to take off despite my single-handed efforts to boost it. As for the friendly neighborhood lending library, 'Justbooks', they might just revisit their 'avid reader membership program' (which allows for 4 books to be borrowed at a time for any number of times in a year) if they start making losses from more members such as me who literally devour books and force them to replenish their stock at alarmingly short intervals.

Book can be a refuge for me when I want to drown out noises I do not want to hear. And I often shamelessly use books as a weapon to avoid meeting unwanted people or having unwanted conversations. Some of the books I read are so heavy (yes I have even finished the most daunting ones such as "War and Peace" and "A Suitable Boy", such is my affection for books) that they might even double up as potential murder weapons if someone so much as dares to approach me when I am lost in my solitary tryst with my book whether at home, office canteen, restaurant, airport or while I am waiting in any sort of queue whatsoever. Short of opening up a book at a party or at an official meeting, which too I confess, I have often felt very close to doing, I guess I have read books at every conceivable place and time.

There is no cure for my addiction but more books.

I rest my case. I will be a bookaholic for life. Time to return to my book, one among many that I bought today.

And for anyone else who might share my addiction, I would like to add:

"It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it"
-Oscar Wilde

Of books and looks

There are those who use Beauty as a weapon,
Cold and steel,
Aimed not to please but your weakness to reveal.

And then there are those who use Words as a weapon
Searing and sharp,
Aimed not to heal but your mind and senses to warp.

They don't need other weapons,
Weapons that kill,

Their victims lie bloodless in a pool of their own shame,
As they move on, relentless, in their hunt for new game.

Imagine the meeting if the twain were to meet,

Would beauty rule the day and words simply fail?
Or would words slay the beauty and quietly prevail?

Or would they turn their weapons onto themselves?
Blind in the faith of their own power,
Would they destroy themselves instead of facing each other?