Books, books everywhere...

...and not a page read. I've just bought another book. It's been put under my bed. Or my side of the bed, rather. It's called the "dirty side" by the other half, because things have a way of accumulating under it. Why put the book there, though? Because there simply isn't any more room on the shelves, that's why.

Actually, it's been a while since there was any space on the shelves. And so, there's a small but growing pile of books under the bed. When I'm lying on it, I can bend down and look at them, and sigh in contentment. Or perhaps anticipation. Because, you see, most of those books have yet to feel my loving touch, or the tender caress of my eyes. In other words, I haven't read them yet.

Yes, I know the sensible thing to do would be to finish reading one book before buying another, but I can't seem to help it(This must be how women feel about buying clothes, bags and pretty much everything else). But before I can finish one, I come across another one that looks really interesting, and have to get it.

It gets worse. E-books are the scourge of my life. Not only can I read them on my laptop, but have e-book apps on my phone and my i-pod (the latter has three different apps). And I read tham all at the same time(Not together, obviously - only chameleons can manage that - but they can also hide in shame quite easily). At the moment, I am in the midst of seven different books. And that new one I just bought - it's calling out to me to be read. I think I need help...

Whatever happened to the good old days? The days where I lived in a place where the nearest bookshop was 80 kilometres away? And buying a new book was a bit of an occasion? And old books were read, re-read and read again until they seemed a part of me, but could still thrill? Of the books I have now, about half don't seem to be worth a re-read, and I have no time to re-read the other half because there's always something new.

Time to put a stop to it. Go cold turkey. Ban myself from bookshops, real and virtual, and concentrate on one book at a time. At least, until that pile under my bed no longer has snow crowning its top. Wish me luck.

Keeping a Commitment

It's been a while, hasn't it? Yeah...I've made plans to write, thought of subjects to write about, even created a routine to help me get on with it. Everything except actually write.

And now, today, I've decided to pull my finger out and actually write something. About nothing in particular - I can't seem to recall any of those interesting things I thought I'd write about. Don't get me wrong, there is a lot I can, and will write about. Lots has been happening in my corner of the universe. Some good, some bad, some very bad. That last one ought to be balanced by something very good. I have a vague idea this blog (and its yet dormant sisters) is part of it. We shall see!

Racism and Hypocrisy

Went out for an “Indian” with a friend and some of his friends. Apparently, a common chat-up line for subcontinentals in the UK is “D’you like a good Indian?” Nice one, that. Suppose it wouldn’t work for anybody who wasn’t Indian, though. “D’you like a good Pakistani?” isn’t quite the same.

The friend’s friends were these good old guys, salt of the earth types. English earth, that is. Judge for yourself what they were like, based on these remarks – “You’re not turning Muslim, are you?” – in response to something about the drinks being delivered by a waiter, not waitress. Or “How was the bomb-making course, then?”, when said friend mentioned he read chemistry (He wasn’t Muslim, just for the record). Or again, about disliking Thai food “Just don’t like anything to do with slitty-eyed people”.

Now here’s the thing. These remarks were made openly, addressed to my friend and me, both of who are obviously of south Asian extraction. I’m confused about how to react. Or if I should react at all. From one angle, it’s as if we were part of the “inner circle”, where one could make remarks like that and get away with it. Certainly my friend acted like it.

From another angle, one could interpret it to mean that the people making those remarks were prejudiced about Muslims and East Asians, but not Indians (The fact that we were at an Indian eatery and all of them were Indian food fanatics lends weight to this theory). But how do you know that they wouldn’t make similarly erudite observations about my type of people when there weren’t any of us present? (Difficult though it is to get away from us these days).

Third, and here’s where I struggle a bit – is it sheer hypocrisy for me to be disturbed by this? Back home in India, racism as defined here is so casual as to be mainstream. “Chinkies”, “Mozzies” and “Kalloos” pepper our conversation, and belonging to an “upper” caste carries with it a feeling of smugness. So should I interpret tonight’s remarks as healthy, just like it was back home, or admit to myself that back home is a place that is truly rotten to the core?

The Faraway Tree

Did you read Enid Blyton when you were young? If you didn't, and all you read (if you did read at all) were crappy manga comics, or whatever it it is that kids read these days, more's the pity.

I was suddenly reminded of a series of Blyton's stories that I'd glimpsed, and always wanted to read, but never gottten around to, Not even now, a quarter of a century from when I heard of them. The Faraway Tree.

A tree that grows way up into the clouds, and if you get to the top, you arrive at a magical land, one that's different every time you climb up. Not to mention the interesting folk that live on the tree itself, to be encountered on the climb.

I've always loved to travel, to explore places, to be surprised by what's round the corner. Made me wonder if my wanting to live here in the UK had something to do with it. Is the UK my Faraway Tree? My platform to launch myself into lands unknown, my personal metaphor for the folks that I'd meet on the journey, the Folk of the Faraway Tree?

Like I said, I still haven't actually read the stories; but I'm willing to bet that the folk of the tree are sometimes nice, sometimes nasty, some that help you up, others that chase you away. Life's like that. Great writer, Enid Blyton. She was probably trying to equip kids of her generation for the real world.

But back to what I'm doing here. Yes, part of the reason I'm here is to travel, see places that seem magical to me, places that I would only be able to visit by making the effort of climbing the Faraway Tree. I've done a little of it, and I'd like to do more. I've climbed to the top of the tree, and now I just need to wait for the lands to come along, and hop aboard. And on the journey up I've met all kinds, fair and foul, and learned from them. And I've helped up my companions and been helped up the tree by them.

Don't know if Enid Blyton mentioned this, but the faraway lands don't come by if you shut your eyes. Only when you open them, and shade them with your palm to look into the distance, do they come by and invite you to visit.

Gargoyles, art and history

Walking back to my hotel in from dinner, I stopped at the cathedral. For a couple of minutes, I was in a different world. A different era, maybe. Spatial and temporal distances blend into one if taken far enough.

Anyway, here I was, at the foot of the belfry, looking at the carved gargoyles, with their expressions of ancient evil. Why were they made to adorn a holy place? For the answer, you'd need to ask the same people in whose day the cathedral was a skyscraper, and the building of it a project not just of a lifetime, but that of several lifetimes, many generations.

Step back in tempora just a few minutes. Reluctantly rising from the warmth of a fireplace in the hotel pub, having realised the reason I want to travel. Apart from capturing exotic landscapes on film. What's this reason you ask? Even if you don't, I'll tell you. It is sitting by the fire and sipping ale, and have a total stranger strike up a conversation, and no ordinary stranger, but an elderly gent with long hair and flowing beard, a one-time sculptor and stone-mason, a man with the heart and soul of an artist, capable of discussing the morality of art, the history of Britain, and the recession.

I can't quote him verbatim, but here's some of the nuggets the evening's panning threw up. "If the recession affects me, it will". Followed by a long draught of bitter. "The mind is far more agile than the hand" (that was me - my companion's bushy eyebrows brushed his scalp).

What is it like to be a professional artist? "You become a bit of a whore". There are times when you pass by something you've created, and you have to turn away in shame. Because you compromised, followed the dictates of whoever offered to pay your bills and put food on your table. But also, rarely, meeting the ones that understood, let you have your way, and paid for you to create what was within you, not within them. Those were the creations you lived for. And also for the sheer joy of your craft, of feeling the grain of the stone under your fingers, or the click of the shutter.

I think what I wanted to ask him was "Was it worth it?", and I think he replied "Yes".

Okay, I said I'd write. So watch this space!