The Good of Wanting

"Nobody ever became a writer just by wanting to be one." - Scott Fitzgerald

Scott Fitzgerald is a writer I love much and admire. His "The Great Gatsby" is a story I have read again and again, and every time I have been filled with wonder at the exact, appropriate usage of words as he tells the story. Every word is perfect. Every conversation is vital. Every bit of story line is useful. Every character is carved exactly as it needs to be. I run out of adjectives. It is just perfect. I cannot imagine how he got to this level of perfection in his craft.

To the perfection he brings, I look at stuff that I have written, some begun, some done, and some still in the head - and I completely despair at putting my stories on paper. I feel so so inadequate. I want to tell stories. There are so many of them jostling in my head. There are times I can barely hear myself because the characters in them talk to much. I know I will die unhappy if I don't tell them.

I wish I had studied literature rather then engineering. I wish I had started writing when I was 10 or 12. I wish I knew I loved words and stories so much. If I had started then, maybe I could have learnt to write the way I now want to write. With exact precision of words and emotions.

I remember a writer friend of mine telling me that in his view, technique comes later, with the content coming first. He had egged me on to write the story first, and not worry about the style of telling. I shared some of my story ideas, which he thought were capital. I know I want to tell them - and I don't really care whether they are endorsed as being capital or not - as long as I get them off my head. But the style of offloading them is beginning to intimidate me. I don't want to write a story that I would not like to read.

Yes, I can never become a story teller till the time I begin to tell my stories. Wanting to be one is simply not going to make me one. I know. But the skill requirement of writing a story that I would like to read scares the shit out of me. I have begun so many stories, and have abandoned them, not due to the plot, but as I could not but cringe on what I had written.

People have spoken to me about creative writing courses. Perhaps thats the answer. Other people have told me to just write - even if I hate the way I write. Other people tell me to do it when I can completely devote my full energy and passion to it, without any distractions. Perhaps the right time is the answer. My own heart tells me to just begin - but my head scorns at the way I write and forces me to stop.

Whats the good of wanting to be a writer if I have no clue of how to go about building the tooling required for it? Just how do I hone my craft? How can I hone my craft when I have not even begun learning it? I don't know how to learn it. Even if I found out, where to learn, am I not old to begin?

Perhaps if I had taken my wanting more seriously earlier on, I would not have despaired of achieving what I want. I would have then had time.

Time Stopped By

Time stopped by today, and stayed for a snuggle. It had been a while since I met him. He was in the neighbourhood, he said, and could not resist dropping in. I am glad he did.

I was in the middle of a call when he rang the bell, hesitatingly first, and then, loudly and insistently. I used to love unannounced, surprise visitors earlier, but not any more. I had half a thought to ignore the bell. Whoever it is, if he/she does not have the courtesy to plan beforehand, perhaps I should give them a miss, I thought, but my old self kicked in, and made me relent.

He came in, looking different that what I remember him. He used to have a lazy, langrous, dreamy look about him, with eyes that smiled and loved. He now looked anxious, almost feverish, his teeth clamped under a determined jaw, and I almost did not recognize him. Just then he smiled my name, and it came back - the redolent look - and blood coursed through me, reigniting the love and fierce protection I had always felt for him. I found myself smiling back, forgetting the call I had put on hold, as I took him by his hands, and sat us down on our favourite love seat by the French window, our breaths mingling, hands barely touching.

“How have you been?”, he asked.

“Er… I have been ok, I guess. “, I quivered, as I devoured the familiar look about his eyes. I wondered if he knew that my knees had turned to water.

He looked long at me, his eyes touching every corner of me. I felt myself blossoming under his eyes, and sighing, stretched out on the couch, enchanted by his presence alone.

“You look weary.” he said, looking me deep in the eyes.

“Ah, yes, perhaps I am. You are not with me much anymore these days”, I had to tell him I missed him so.

“You wanted more of me?” he retorted, his gaze now caressing my lips. “For what? Haven’t you used me enough?”

“Used you?”

“What else would you call doing what you do? Running from one place to other, making money, making investments, smiling at strangers, talking to crowds..”, he accused, his eyes still riveted on my lips, making them burn with longing.

I snuggled closer to him. And ran my fingers through his hair – they felt the same. Curly, thick. I could spend hours like this, I thought.

“Be with me tonight.” I whispered, dropping my head on his shoulders, suddenly aching for him inside.

“I am with you now, just as I have been before. You just stopped noticing me’. His voice smelt of unshed tears, smoked dreams and half-forgotten desires. “But I am going away soon. That’s what I came to tell you. I am running out.” he blurted out in one breath.

“Running out?”

“Yes. There will be fewer tomorrows than yesterdays”, he whispered, his eyes now on mine, soft and luminous, my face reflected back in them. “Do me a favour, will you? Do what you really want with me. And be quick.”

With that, he yanked his eyes away, and in one swift movement, got up from the love seat, wore his anxious look again, and before I could assemble my feet to entreat him, opened the door and walked out.

I continued sitting on the love seat, dazed with what he had said, still feeling his presence warm next to me, as waves of regret washed over me. He had to run out, I knew that, but how did I know that it would happen so soon?

I am glad Time stopped by today. I managed a small snuggle – it is not much, but it is something.

A Childs Play

There is a phrase in English - A childs play. That is supposed to mean that something is so simple that it can be done even by a child. But the phrase can be turned around to mean how a child can make you play on his terms! How a child can create a “play” out of a confident, swaggering adult in minutes.

My daughter Nidhi is a “strong willed” child, a euphemism to save us parents from the shame and helplessness of admitting that we don’t have a clue on what to do with her. Nidhi is mere 8 year old, but she can put most 80 year old geriatrics to shame with her bull headedness. She knows what she wants, and she is out to get it. Never mind refusals, scores of rules, censuring eyes and multitude of time-outs.

Lets take today. That too just the morning. I woke up earlier because of my gym routine, and came back rushing to ensure that I was in time to get her to school. I had put her in bed earlier the previous day so that she could have had a sufficient shut-eye. I was hoping she would co-operate and wake up with a sweet smile. As soon as I opened the door, I yelled – Hi Honey! Wakie Wakie, Time to wake up!” and flashed a warm encouraging smile. I saw her peep from the coverlet, pretending to be asleep. No other response. All quiet. I walked to her bed, and gave her a wake-up hug, ‘C’mon, Darling. Time to go to school”. Not a flicker. The hug turned into a squeeze, ‘C’mon, girl, time to get up”. Still no movement. I picked up a water bottle and made it hover on her head. The threat of sprinkling water was unmistakably clear. Nidhi likes her threats to not only be verbalized, but acted out. She stayed put, still snug in her coverlet. I sprinkled a drop of water on the bit of the forehead showing out from the coverlet. Swissshhh….the forehead vanished under the coverlet, much like a snail withdrawing in its shell.

Shucks, it is getting late. I do my time-out routine “Nidhi, if you are not out of the bed in another two minutes, I am going to sprinkle water of your head”. My firm voice and tone got a feigned stretch-and-yawn from the coverlet, and she took her head out and said sulkily – “Don’t throw cold water on me. I am getting up”. Right, now she is listening! I wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. The threat is forgotten. The time for the time-out is nearing. I declare the just-two-seconds-to-time-out bugle cry, “ I am beginning to count, Nidhi, One Two……”. Roll, roll, thud and a quick slither – Nidhi has rolled out the bed, and before I can swoop down on her, she has crawled under it, coverlet firmly stretched over her head!

I am furious now. Furious with her because she is getting late and furious with myself because despite my firm resolve to not lose my cool in the morning, Nidhi has made me come to a boil. I yelled – “Nidhi Sunil Mandawat, How dare you take the coverlet under the bed? Don’t you know it has cobwebs and is dirty? Come out, right this minute! And don’t think you won’t go to school if you are late! If you don’t get out from under the bed, I will take you school in your pyjamas.”. I hear a snigger – Nidhi knows that when she hears her full name, Nidhi Sunil Mandawat, she is in trouble, big trouble. But she is determined to dig in her heels and fight it out. I try getting under the bed, but get stuck because the bed is smaller than my girth. I glare at Nidhi, who is smiling wickedly – she knows Mamma can not come under the bed! I give up. I decide, I really would make her go in her pyjamas. That should teach her.

I walk into the kitchen to warm her milk and cereal, and decide to wait it out. She is bound to come out in some time, the underbelly of the bed is not comfortable, I know. She crawls out – eventually, the coverlet still under the bed, and the clock very close to the danger mark. I mentally make a note to send the coverlet to the cleaners tomorrow, and ask her to at least get it out from under the bed. She feigns deafness, and walks on groggily to the kitchen table, and plonks herself there.

“Get cracking, girl!”, I thunder, “Just look at the clock!”. She puts her head down on the table, and I can hear her deep breathing again. Looks like she is going to sleep again. I turn to fill a bowl with water, and stride across to her, where she is sleeping. She will now get a bowl-drench from me, and this would wake her up NOW, I resolve with gritted teeth. I turn towards the table to do the bowl-drench, and here she is, wide awake, grinning fiendishly with glee!

“I have been awake for a long time, Mamma!” she is chortling with delight. “You asked God to give you strength, did you not, Mamma, so that you would not yell at me? I heard you! I wanted to see if God gave it to you! And He did not! He Did not!”

I don’t quite know what to say. Once again, she has managed to make an blubbering idiot out of me, over a routine thing like a wake up call in the morning. All my adult resolves, my prayers to God, my reading of books on parenting, dissolve into zero when I face this willful child of mine. But God, how I love her! I hug her, smiling, “Okay, baby, you are right! God did not give me the strength to stand your tantrums. But God gave you to me!”. I scoop her up in my arms, and kiss her, and she kisses me back, her eyes still full of mirth.

“Nidhi Sunil Mandawat, get down from my lap this minute and get ready to school”, I whisper in her hair. She smells heavenly in the morning, she always does. She trots off, and I feel a lump in my throat. She makes me play to her tunes, but how I love playing!

Living Under Dust Covers

It was the golden hour. Soft bright sunlight was pouring in from her bedroom window, creating a patch on her bedcover. She could imagine little men, photons, carrying light straight into her bedroom, yelling “Stand Aside, Stand Aside” as they rushed in to do their jobs of spreading the morning warmth. She longed to just stay in bed, and watch the sunlight for a while. But, no way, the evil clock on her head stand nudged her and she got up, pushing the coverlets aside.

“Lift up those covers, fold them and keep them aside”. Her husband instructed from the bathroom, where he was shaving his stubble. “You always leave the room in a mess, and I have to spend time cleaning it up”. He was sounding irritated now. He is right, she thought, I never like folding up the bed immediately after I wake up. Somehow the act is too harsh when I am not fully awake yet. I would like to do that after I finish my tea. But she knew from experience, he can not stand the delay. So, she sighed and got down to the job. There - the job was done, the bedcovers were folded, lying neatly, and she straightened up, tying up her loose hair and began to walk towards the kitchen – Ah tea, that what she needed just now.

“Just why cant you keep the four corner aligned when you fold up?”, he was saying, as he glanced balefully at the bedsheet-fold-up job she had done. She halted at the door, temporarily putting her need for some hot tea on hold. She looked at the folded covers. They looked good enough to her. Obviously, he did not think so. He was glowering at her now – “I simply don’t understand how someone cant figure out that the four corners of the bedsheets have to be aligned, just so. Do you know how uncouth this looks, this non-aligned bedsheet?” Ok, ok, she said – I will do it again, and she resigned herself to drinking that tea later. She sat on the bed – her sunlight patch was still there, dancing merrily with the photon men. She glanced up at him, her eyes still drowsy and dreamy with sleep and the warm golden morning “Don’t you think the sunlight is just lovely? See, the patch it makes – it\s almost a degree warmer than the rest of the sheet”, she murmured.

“Must you stand there and talk about sunlight as if it never occurs every other day? Why don’t you get some discipline into yourself, fold those sheets properly and move out to your office?”, he was practically yelling now. “Sunlight and its patterns on the bed are about as important as your neatly folded bedsheet” – she almost retorted, but held her tongue. She had lost the warm, drowsy look in her eyes now. Proper sheet folding done, acknowledged by an exasperated sigh from him, and she walked out, pushing her feet in the slippers.

“Don’t wear those slippers to the bathroom. I have just wiped the bathroom clean. Yours are so dirty all the time. Here, wear mine” he pushed his slippers towards her. “My slippers are not dirty”, she said indignantly. “Oh, yes. They are. Just see”, he said, as he turned the soles of the slippers towards her. Yes, they were slightly dirty, dirt clinging from the soles, but she could always wash them in the bathroom, couldn’t she? He replied even before she asked – “I know the way you would wash your slippers. You would leave water all over in the bathroom, with mud in the edges. No, better wear mine.”

She moved to the kitchen after she finished from the bathroom. “Use the Aluminium tea pan” his voice sailed from the bedroom. “I have washed it for you, and please, don’t use the blue coffee mugs that we bought yesterday. They are a devil to wash, and you always chip china when you wash them”. But, she liked that glass coffee mug. She had bought it because she was tired to having her tea in these brown mugs for years now. She had liked them enough to have bought them even when he was completely against it, murmuring against her ears that it was waste of money.

She ignored what he said about not using the blue mug, and poured her tea in her new blue coffee mug. She would wash them herself, she resolved, and would do it carefully. She carried her tea out on the table, and went outside to pick up the morning paper. When she returned, he was pouring the tea out from the blue mug to the brown one. “The blue one was looking dirty from the outside”, he said. “Have your tea in the brown one today. I will wash all the blue ones and you can use it from tomorrow”.

Suddenly, it did not matter any more to her. Tea, no tea, blue mug, brown mug – it was suddenly too much work to get anything she liked. She gulped the tea, grabbed her towel and headed for her bath.

Stumble, Slip, Fall!

The next instant, she found herself sprawled on the floor, which was now somehow wet. Something near the foot region, she was hurting, it was as if something was broken, and she cried out involuntarily. She saw him running towards her through the tears of pain, and was grateful for his presence, for the first time since she woke up.

He helped her to her feet, and said “My God, Water is spilled all over, just after I had wiped it dry. Just stay here. I will get the mop”.

Slumdog Millionaire - A story not told

I squirmed uneasily as I watched Slum Dog Millionaire take awards after awards on the Oscar night. It was’nt that I was uncomfortable that a British film makers perspective of Indian poverty found favor with the jury– which is what many of my friends are uncomfortable about. My reasons were simpler. I was just awfully bored by the movie.

Indian poverty and the slums – these were the most visible parts of the story, but really, those were just the setting of the story. And the story was potentially pretty dramatic, with its moments of love, betrayal, cruelty and tragedy – and yes, even stomach-churning gross-ness, but somehow the story teller got so enamoured by the setting that he could not see beyond the obvious, and ignored every thing else.

Out of the nine rasas defined in Natya Shastra, there is a ras called the “Vibhatsa” ras. Loosely translated, it stands for ‘Grotesque-ness”. This ras defines the human reaction that brings up the bile.



As I know it, grotesque-ness is best visually described by Goya in his painting called ‘Saturn devours his children”, where he has painted a huge monster eating human flesh, entrails and all, with a gleam in his eye. You cannot watch the picture without feeling sick at the stomach. And yet, yet, the monster has an almost sad and desperate look about him – as if he could not help being what he is, being the monster he is. It is not the monsters fault that he is a monster – and there, lies a story. With the flawless execution of the visual imagery that capture a day in the monsters life, the painters job is done – but as we move forward and seek answers to questions such as what the monster thinks, why did he become the way he did, what made him devour human flesh - Ah, that’s where we need story tellers!

Slumdog Millionaire is movie made in Vibhasta ras, and it is made like a series of paintings, one after the other, one after the other, feverishly and ghoulishly put together – each frame more vibhatsa than the other. Once the series is done, the painter seems to lounge back in his chair and ask – So, was’nt that disgusting? How does your stomach feel now?

What do I say to him? I can only sigh, and look at the watch. I had come to hear a story, and what I saw was a series of pictures. The pictures moved my stomach, but there was no story to move my heart.

For, just where was the story told? Where was the poignancy of the love between Jamal and his lady love? Why was the tragedy of a lost mother rushed by for a glimpse of a blue-painted-boy-as-Ram? Why was the desperation and jealousy missing which must have been an essential part of the story, when Jamaal sees his lady love being kept as a chattel? Where was the celebration of heroism when Jamaal’s brother gives up his life so that Jamaal can finally find love? Where was the ecstasy of love finally found between Jamaal and his lady love? Where was the innocence of hope when Jamaal thinks that if he sings well, he would be out of the hell hole he finds himself? Where was the turning point when Jamaal’s brother hardens his heart and decides to trample over his fellows when in the clutches of the Mama? Where was the bright defiance in the demeanor of Jamaal when he takes on the barbs and leers of the TV Show host?

Am I talking about only acting inadequacies here, which the movie certainly painfully did have? No, it is really about the pace of the story, and where the narrator has chosen to linger. Because that is the point of the story. A movie maker commands a camera and bids it to stay some place and just gloss over some other place – and that’s what makes a camera tell a story, and defines its essence. It is not just what you show, it equally is what you hide - that defines a story.

Amazingly, the movie got an Oscar for editing!!

In Slumdog Millionaire, the movie maker lingered over the grotesqueness, the Vibhatsa, slowly and caressingly as if that was the most important part of the story - and in passing showed the beauty of love and the triumph of life amongst wretched squalor. The movie maker completely fails to imbue the viewer with a sense of pervasive hope that is found in Jamaals life, notwithstanding it being rooted in slums, and his glorious dauntless human spirit that lives on, shining and bright, and loves with a wholesomeness that is both beautiful and innocent. The Movie Maker got the imagery right, but lost the essence of this glorious slum-based life. By a mile.

Mr. Danny Boyle, you are a certainly a good photographer, but a story teller? Nah….

You had such a lovely story on your hands, and you never even told it. You abused the art of movie making and story telling – by showing us mere pictures.

Wearing My Skin: A Short Story

I met a school friend, rather a “crush” of mine, after 25 long years. He is one of those that I have dreamt of meeting again often, as he is one of those few guys who I was very interested in when I was young, back when I think I was prettier than I ever would be in my entire life.

He was devilishly attractive to me those days. He made eyes at me for hours - he was obviously smitten. I think we also went out together a couple of times. My friends giggled his name to me, and yes, I remember sighing his name in my sleep in those days of yearnings. Before we could get around to being more than casual friends, life and ambition intervened, and we drifted apart, and while I never really missed him, I have always wondered what it would be like to meet him, and see his wicked smile that I loved so much back then again.

So, I met him again yesterday, after years and years, and guess what, he still looked the same! Devastating and fiendishly attractive still to me. I am a sucker for good looking men whose eyes dance when they smile, and whose lips pout – lips that hint of a ravishing kiss, and steamy love bites. He looked older, of course, but his maturity sat him well. Years had not taken away the innocence in his eyes, his arms were still taut with strong muscles, and his hair while graying at the temple, became him awfully well.

And me, oh, the intervening years have not enhanced me much. Rather, the other way around. I look the worse for my years.

I was never a beautiful girl. My dad told me I was charming – but every father thinks so, and I never thought much of it. Several admiring men friends that I gathered when I was young also told me that I was sensuous and alluring, though not rapturously beautiful, but I always thought that their lust made them say such things. Not that it bothered me much. I was different from other young girls. I hated doing all the things that girls have to do to look pretty – the waxing, the plucking, the painting of the face, and other feminine stuff. I was a careless person with appearances, am even now, and back then, scrubbed only when I had to, wore good clothes only if I was forced to, dressed up only if I could not refuse and so on. I think I was just a lazy person. Clothes, hair and shoes bored me. I was more interested in people, world, ideas – and just having fun. I never felt that it mattered anyway, as it never made a difference to the crucial issue of being attractive to the opposite sex. I had more boys as my friends than girls, and I regularly received love lorn looks and notes from a few of them, and could flirt the heart out of boys that I was interested in. I was one scruffy young girl, but I was a confident, happy one.

Womanhood and corporate career changed all that. Stepping into the adult world meant that I had to trim my nails, brush my hair and wear freshly laundered trousers and shirts to go the office. Being a wife and marwadi bahu entailed wearing a matching bindi with the saree and the fancy clutch, with the right dash of lipstick, and the weekly trips to the parlour to peel off layers off my hirsute body. Being a business person meant that I had to dress to look in control, and look “Arrived”. I had to make sure I merged and belonged with the power dressing crowd, and I learnt the art of coordinating colors and accessories to create just the aura I wanted – feminine – but not overly so, smart - yet non-threatening, territorial – but not adversarial. I also learned to sheath my claws and cloak my boorishness, and learnt to eat daintily, curbing my desire to speak with my mouth full as I entertained classy men and women.

I did not really enjoy this much, but I did it because I had to, as I really did want to achieve growth in my corporate life, and appearing to be a sophisticated urbane woman was just one of the things that had to be done for it. Younger girls would sometimes walk up to me to ask for tips on how to dress the way I did, not surprising since I did a fairly competent job of exuding the image I wanted to.

And now, after being a mother for a decade, I have steadily been moving back to my older days. I have no need, nor desire to impress, belong or be approved of. My daughter loves me with a completeness that overwhelms me, no matter how I look or what I wear, and my husband depends on me with a thoroughness that can only be achieved through decades of loving and working together. My friends and I chat for hours, in identical élan, in designer or at-home dresses, in five star hotels and park benches. I am, once again, very comfortable in my skin and my place in the world – even better, as I have outgrown the rebelliousness of my younger days by growing a thick hide that is impervious to the malicious, look-me-down stares from snooty waiters, classy socialites, trophy wives and reproachful mother-in-laws.

As for the men-folk who were my colleagues and friends, I don’t even think they noticed the change in me – not the one from the young gauche girl I was, to the urbane woman I once became, and now the contented hag that I am growing into.

As my childhood crush looked at me yesterday, I could look right inside his brain, as his brain toted me up. Body – Fat and overblown. Clothes – Probably expensive but carelessly chosen and much worn. Teeth – dark and beginning to yellow, Chin – with a hint of the crone-like hairs that sprout on all 40 something women, Shoes – comfortable clods, that obliterated any style, Bag – the kind that most probably held at least 30 things in it, and definitely not Prada. I could see him evaluating me using the scales that were handed down to him by the Style-check gurus. Hmmmm – I could actually hear the conclusions his brain was coming to. This woman is not worth a second look anymore, he finally clunked to the conclusion.

I could not suppress a chuckle. It was sad to see him so disappointed. He was, no doubt, congratulating himself for not pursuing his love interest in me, way back then. I could see the way he desperately looked around to locate his classy wife, who looked amazingly young for her age and delicate. He surely wore her often enough to his office parties, and was surely envied a whole bunch. They made a pretty pair.

The wife floated by, and after the gracious introductions and the careful touch-but-not-smear-lipstick brush with my right cheek, she shimmered away, my childhood crush in toe. After a hurried conversation with him, she threw a furtive glance back at me as her husband looked on sheepishly. She probably slept with her corset on, I thought, as I struggled to suppress a grin.

So, that was that, I said to myself. This is what he looks like now. Do I want him still? He tempts, surely. It would not take much to fan his earlier unslaken thirst. But do I really want to?

No, I decided. It really isn’t worth it. Did I really want to get into the rigmarole of pleasing, attracting and holding men? It is painful, this beauty and holding-a-man game, Too much work, not much of a prize - even though I admit the man is a delicious hunk. There is’nt much more to him than being just a piece of forbidden, casual lust – is there? I will pass, I thought, I have better things to do, and I looked around for my giggle of girls.

They weren’t far away - my brood of youngsters, friends of my daughter, who were lounging close by, and smirking at some hunk of their size. I had agreed to chaperone them for this wild club side girls only party, and they seemed to be having a rollicking time. I heard one of them scream for me, "Auntie, come on into the water – it is cold!" - and I decided to indulge, taking off my frumpy dress to reveal a even frumpier frock style swim suit, to frolic in the water with them.

I prefer being a hag, I told myself, as I surreptitiously trod water behind the girls, wanting to drench them unawares. And did they scream when I did! That was fun!!

Let the Midnights Children Sleep!

I read the news about Deepa Mehta doing a movie on Salman Rushdie's "Midnight Children" with trepidation and horror.

Midnight Children is a book I read the first time when I was in my raw teens, during which time I did not understand much of it and flung it after the first few pages when I could not figure out how a nose could be so important. I read it with determination the second time - this was when I was at college, and it was a mark of dishonor to the group that I belonged to who prided themselves on all things literati - and was awed by the intricate ornate imagery the author wove, and its hugely metaphorical content to the birth of our nation. I have since then read it at least thrice, though not in recent years, and have fallen in love with is quirky characters - Salim Sinai, the hapless exchanged-at-birth child, the rumbuctious Brass Monkey, the rotund but sexy Begum Sinai, Mary Pereira, the ridden by guilt midwife, the Aunt Alia who feeds guilt and resentment in her pickles, the sinister Widow with her half grey head of hair - and the quirkier setting - the tetrapod laced Mumbai, the fortune-changing Mahalaxmi Race course, the breathtakingly beautiful Kashmir, and the dark murky hate spewing streets of Mumbai - and not to forget the stuffy Chothes Chest in the Sinai bathroom where Salim lay hidden, as he is hit by his first adult moment.

The book is rich in feeling and metaphor, and creates a world which dazzles, smells and shakes and has characters which cower, lust, love, fear, and take shape in ones mind, and stay with one, hours after the book is put down. Salman Rushdie is a masterful story teller. His story needs some telling, but for people who have the patience and the imagination to stay with him awhile, he amply rewards them with a world that is rich and suggestive, like real life. Like the famous Arabian Night stories, the Midnight's Children can be spun into a tapestry of another set of stories - in which each of the characters takes off from one point in this story, travels to another one, and then comes back to this one to take his rightful place.

And now, a story of this kind, the kinds that holds a world and many other yet-to-be-born stories inside is, is going to be played out on celluloid, and its fluid rich imaginative world will be concretized on reels. I hate it. Just completely abhor the idea.

It is not that I don't like Deepa Mehta - I also understand that perhaps this movie would give Salman Rushdie another spot of bright illumination in public life which the beleaguered man may or may not relish, and may give him some much needed money - nor do I mind the re-interpretation of the story in thousand different ways, which is what most good stories are for, anyway.

What I truly mind is the change of medium of the story. .

For, just how would the cinema capture the musty smells of the clothes chest in the Sinai bedroom as he views his mothers bottom? How would the camera capture the Sr. Sinai's falling-in-love-in-parts-by-part, and its completely apt metaphor to India being a country made up of parts? How would the camera manage to get inside the guilty purse of Mrs. Sinai as she goes horse racing, guilt ridden and shadowy? How could it capture the conversations-in-mind with all those many midnights children that Salim Sinai has, his falling in love with Parvati when she is just a nebulous presence in his mind.

The list is large - and I shudder to think what butchery would take place of my beloved story and my beloved weird characters as Ms. Mehta will apply her celluloid knife.

It would not be her fault, the fault would be the medium's. The tyranny of it being two dimensional - visual and audio, and that's it. No imagination, no smells, no in-between emotions, and the worst of it all, the tyranny of 2 hours! Stories of this kind are told over and savoured over days of indolent reading and telling, and the "Phir?" question marks that one goes to sleep with - and wakes up luxuriously to return to it again…

Ms. Mehta, please don't do this. Please do not put faces to my Salim Sinai, and the Brass Monkey and the virile Shiva Please do not tell me the color of the Clothes chest. Please do not tell how Bombay looked then - and how the Widow looked. I know them all in my minds eye, and I do not want to know them through your eyes. My eyes and mind are in great shape, thank you.

And Mr. Salman Rushdie, just how could you do this? Just how could you consent to the butchery that is bound to be unleashed on this magical story of yours? How can you kill all the other stories than can come out of Midnights children still? You are the father of this story, aren't you? Or have you too, tired of your creation, and are out to milk it for whatever its worth in gross coins you can touch, rather than thoughts and minds you can reach?

No more sitting on my hands!

Its been a while - maybe about a couple of years, when I have had to sit on my hands, and force myself to not write. There are things that I want to write about, rant about, wonder about, muse about, tell stories about - and I keep telling myself that this is not the time, some day later as the daily grind simply refuses to let go.

I just told myself today that this could not continue. I needed to stop sitting on hands. And so, here is the first post on the blog