Like last year, I took time off this May too, to recuperate, rejuvenate and restore some semblance of sanity in my life. We were lucky this year to finally make a return trip to the UK, five years after we relocated from that island. It was a trip not bereft of nostalgia, but the presence of our four-year old (on his first foreign trip)  kept us from going overboard with the waterworks.

Because we were travelling with a child, we did a lot of child-friendly things. Like visiting dinosaurs, going on lots (and lots) of train rides, picnicking in Hyde Park on a beautiful sunny Bank Holiday and of course, making a special trip to see the real, the fabulous, the very blue, Thomas the Tank Engine. I had very little occasion to shop, though, sadly. It is not easy to spend time in stores with a cold and cranky kid begging to be carried home.

So I came back home with souvenirs of creamy magnolia petals, cherry blossoms in impossible pinks, Pooh books from charity shops and vivid memories of a red fox who came visiting every evening.

A fortnight later, we are back, thrilled at having accomplished this planned-for-ages trip.

It’s still only the middle of May and I’m not yet back to writing full-time. How can I, with this lovely child at my feet, singing tunes from the ZingZillas, making up adventures with his trains and asking me constantly, “What did he say?”, where ‘he’ is the train or bus in question and the dialogues are mine to fill.

So I’ve been catching up on my reading, mostly online and with a few magazines for “research”. Writing is never far away, though. I’ve got an assignment to hand in before the end of the month, but most of the work has already been done on that, so working on it will not break my languorous mood. I’ve been working on ideas, making lists for next-month’s pitches, tidying up spreadsheets (have I told you how much I love Excel?) and most gratifyingly, painting. Both M and I are deep in primer and acrylics and are glad to have quiet, paint-splattered quality time together. 

I’m rather loving this downtime. I’m in bed by 10 these days, catching up on sleep, filling the reservoir for the coming weeks, when life will go back to the work-until-1-am routine. I wish we could tank up on sleep and call upon our reserves when we are worn out.

For now, we watch the sky and pray the rains don’t show up before our pre-monsoon preparations are in place. Hot and humid it may be, but solace can be had in darkened rooms, tall glasses with something chilled in it and a table full of only fruit for lunch.

When it is mango season, it seems like a waste of time to eat anything else.

The conversation tonight meandered to pianos and blue pianos, specifically.

Me: Have you seen a blue piano?

M : Of course.

Me : Where?

M : When I was born.

Me: Really? I don’t remember that. Who else was there? Was I there?

M : The whole world was there! You were there too.

Me: Oh. Maybe I forgot.

M: That’s because you were the last person to see me when I was born.

That stopped me in my tracks. Because it is true. And it is a hurt I carried with me for a long time. I was indeed the last person to see him. He was born and they took him away to clean him up without the courtesy of showing him to me. Everybody saw him – his father, his granny, the nurses and the helpers. Minutes, hours later, I was taken to my room where I waited wondering where this child was. Then they brought him to me grinning and asking, joking, if I wanted my son. I was so furious by then, already fuming with my doctor’s refusal to give me an epidural, the pain and humiliation of that perceived betrayal (we had discussed epidurals before and he had agreed, yet he didn’t call the anaesthetist). I kept that hurt in my heart for a long time and have never said anything to M (he’s 4, for God’s sake, why would I say anything to him?).

So why did he say this?

Today’s eerie moment reminded me of a poem that Samantha of Bentlily wrote recently and although M was talking of this life, it was one of those moments that makes you stop and forget to breathe. M does this so often; he comes up names and places that he has certainly never heard of before or talks about things “before I was born” with such certainty that I don’t know whether to laugh or question my sanity. 

Just when you think you have forgotten and laid the ghosts to rest, they come back with such a ferocity that the shards come unglued once again.

M, of course, would not be like that. He would be quiet, charming, attentive. At the most, he would swing his little legs in time to the music.

M’s first public concert was to Old Goa to see the famed Jesus College Cambridge Choir perform a Sacred Music Concert for Holy Week. Intense.  Because we were involved with the organising, we roped in M to help distribute the programmes. There, he was, at the entrance to the Basilica of Bom Jesus, dressed in his long pants and shirt, looking incredibly handsome and serious as he gave a programme to everyone who came in. My heart burst with pride, of course, but I had to keep an eye on him because he tends to lose his temper when people get too friendly, especially the women (don’t ask).

He soon tired of being polite and asked to go sit with his granny, while I continued to stay at the back distributing programmes. He stayed there quietly through the first half, through all the incomprehensible Latin and the high notes. He clapped enthusiastically when everyone else did and seemed to be having a good time. He began to get a little fidgety after about 45 minutes and I had to take him to the back where we sat quietly, away from the audience. We made it through the long concert without a tantrum, or noise. Score one for classical music.

The next week, we took M to a fundraising concert in aid of our charity Child’s Play. The Bager Trio, a flute-bassoon-piano trio from London were performing that evening. M was already familiar with the flute and bassoon from his favourite ‘Peter and the Wolf’ and we have a keyboard at home which he enjoys very much. At the door, he checked tickets, gave programmes and asked to go in when everyone else did. He sat through the first two works and then began sliding up and down his seat. And he began humming to himself. I had to take him out.

This humming thing has begun ever since Mr. L brought him ‘Oscar’s Orchestra’ a BBC cartoon series that introduces children to classical music through the story of a rebel piano who fights against an evil dictator who has banned all music. The classics form the background music and while M enjoys the action and the story, he has also imbibed the tunes of 1812, Holst’s Planets, Handel’s Messiah and a host of other significant music.

And he hums this ALL the time now.

We tried the concert thing again yesterday, where the Hungarian-French pianist Maraoun Benabdallah was performing at the Maquinez Palace in Panjim. M is showing an inclination to the piano so we thought it would be nice for him to see a world-class pianist in action. He was prepped, coached, sworn to silence. The first work went off without a hitch. M craned his neck into the aisle trying to get a good view of the piano (one of the problems of being so small is that you can’t see too well, especially if you’re sitting way back, hoping to make a quiet getaway should you need to). After the second work began, he began to get a little fidgety. He drank some water, swung his legs (quietly) and then, began to hum. I shushed him a couple of times and said we’d leave, but he said he wanted to stay.

And then hummed a little quieter. It was almost as if he couldn’t stop himself or didn’t realise he was doing it.

He’s only four, I told myself. Go easy.

So I said we’d get something to eat and got him to leave the auditorium. A rickshaw ride later, we were back home, enjoying the safety of familiar surroundings. And what did M do? He asked to see a little bit of Oscar.

And life goes on.

***************

We’re taking a little break from concerts until the public humming stops (he does it even at meal times and when he’s alone and when there’s company). The music isn’t going anywhere – his heart overflows with it already.

I wish there were concerts specifically for young children. How do you introduce them to the beauty of live music otherwise?

Have you taken a young child to a classical concert? 

It was late. The clock had fast-forwarded way past M’s bed-time and here he was, still tossing and turning. It was then that I noticed the boom-boom seeping through the old Dutch doors and its vintage, fragile glass right into the pillow. The vibrations echoed in my ear as I fought my rising anger. I could feel my heart racing, wondering what to do.

I left M on the bed with instructions to stay put and went into the verandah. A quick look out showed a fairly deserted street – rows of cars tucked away next to each other for the night, the orange glow of streetlights illuminating passers-by (all men), one of who did a little jig to the music as he crossed the street.

By the chapel at the end of the street, a maroon Maruti van was parked, its rear doors wide open. The music seemed to be coming from there. Three or four men stood in front of the car, talking. One man crossed the street towards them and did what can only be described as a step from a Bollywood item-number. To get their attention, I put the verandah light on, but they were too far or too engrossed to notice.

I went back in, changed my clothes, told M I’ll be right back and went downstairs. This involves opening several locks, putting staircase lights on, stepping out into a quiet street.

I was not afraid. Just very irritated.

It took me 15 seconds to reach the car. On the curb, two men sat, one with a red baseball cap on his head. I looked at him and asked in Konkani whose car it was. Mine, he said. Put that music off, I said. He took a moment to react. Put it off right now, I said even louder. The other guys reacted and I saw that they were ‘locals’ – motorcycle pilots who spend their days hawking their bikes and on this rare night, were celebrating something.

After my lecture on the decibel levels, the ‘pilots’ told the driver to shut the music down. I walked back home, still furious at having to do this so late in the night.

Back home, M was finally dozing. The boom-boom had stopped. Five minutes later, I could hear the car go away.

Why did this annoy me so much? We’ve been fighting noise here ever since we returned back, but that was just part of the issue. What made me furious was the stance of the men – standing in groups on street corners, playing loud music oblivious to the surroundings, being intimidating and well, playing the part of the typical Indian male to perfection.

If a woman (other than me – I know these guys) were to pass by, would they have ‘eve-teased’ her? Maybe not these men. But that’s just the point. If this were a bunch of strangers, there’s every chance that a woman passing by would have been harassed, verbally or worse.

And this made me angry. This fake ownership of the streets that men have, this arrogance that they own the pavements and everything around.

I’m thinking about this and I realise that in these last four years, I’m recovering a bit of my former self. That’s the person who would stand up to idiots, hit straying hands, complain about injustice. These days, the rage is about noise because it impacts us specifically so much. After almost four years of constantly complaining to the police, we’ve had a terrific response to personal complaints to the owners/managers of the cruise boats on the Mandovi. Now when the decibel levels creep up, we send an sms and action is promised. (If you need numbers, contact me.)

I’m not afraid to call the police in Goa. I’m not afraid to ask strangers to turn down the music at night. I’m not afraid to call the pub round the corner at 2 am asking them to turn down the volume or face the consequences. I’m fed up of the status-quo and it is time to turn the tables.

Today, as thousands of people around the world participate in One Billion Rising, I find myself thinking of the battles women face every day. The incident today was about noise, but it was also about safety and the right to a quiet life. We must reclaim our cities, our streets. Even if it means swallowing our fear and confronting people you’d rather pretend were invisible.

***************

It’s now almost 11.30. Midnight fast approaches and the electricity has just gone off. I have deadlines and without an internet connection, work is not going to be possible. Outside, the blackness is absolute. A car blinks its lights, then it is gone. M sleeps, tangled up in duvets, sprawled 90 degrees from where I had left him an hour ago.

I look at my sleeping son and for his sake and my sanity, I hope the rest of the night is quiet.

The Walk doesn’t seem to be offered anymore – I have queried the organisers and have not received a response. If you’re interested, please contact London Walks.

One hundred and nine years after he first arrived on the grey, damp shores of London, the city of Big Ben and the modern London Eye commemorates its links to Mahatma Gandhi in a unique London Walk.

London is a walker’s delight. London Walks are walking tours with themes – you can retrace the life of Sherlock Holmes, Jack the Ripper, Shakespeare, the Beatles and now even Harry Potter. Or if you fancy something more historical, take a Secret London walk, make your way through Westminster or take the ‘Distinctly Different Royal Route’.

Conceived by businessman Ajay Goyal, the world’s first Gandhi Walk traces Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s visits to London. Goyal invested £5000 into researching and planning the walk. This long overdue commemoration of one of India’s greatest leaders has won public approval and was also part of London’s celebration of 60 years of Indian Independence – India Now.

Much of the London that existed in Gandhi’s time no longer survives. Many of the buildings that he stayed in or visited were destroyed in the Second World War or were rebuilt. In the absence of any architectural connections, the Walk tells the story of what Gandhi would have seen and experienced during his stay in London.

M.K.Gandhi first arrived in 1888 as an eighteen year old student training to be a barrister at University College of London. He made further visits in 1895, 1914 and finally in 1931 as the leader of the Indian freedom struggle.

The two hour long walk begins at Temple underground station which acts as a meeting point for the guide and the participants of the Walk and is led by Sue, an enthusiastic walk leader who has clearly done her homework.

INNER TEMPLE

The first stop is Inner Temple, one of the four Inns of Court of London – a place where students came to study law. Inner Temple is imposing. Once owned by the Knights Templar as their English headquarters, the Temple church was built in the 12^th century. More recently it played a pivotal role in Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code. In 1601, the first ever performance of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night was performed at one of the Inns – the thought that he was standing on the same ground as Shakespeare must have thrilled Gandhi at the time.

Gandhi studied law here and would have spent considerable time in the secluded and serene buildings. He spent a lot of time in the Library, especially in the colder months, thereby saving on heating bills. Along with law, he would have studied Latin, English, French, History and Geography. He would have had to take Roman/common law exams which were in Latin.

The Knights Templar are now increasingly relegated to medieval thrillers. These days, two of the Inns – Middle Temple and Inner Temple –take responsibility for the Round Temple church and its maintenance.

As part of the duties of being a student, Gandhi would have had to attend dinners in the Hall. Dinners were meant to foster a sense of community and to help students learn from their elders.

Gandhi’s stay in London was compounded by the fact that he had promised his mother that he would not touch meat, women, or alcohol. Vegetarian food was extremely rare and uncommon in London and the young Gandhi must have had a hard time finding suitable meals. The difficulty was not helped by the requirement to have dinners at the Hall in the Inner Temple. As a result, he was hungry a lot of time.

This hunger led him to walking long distances in search of vegetarian food. He would have delighted in his discovery of nearby Covent Garden Market because it meant a supply of fresh fruit. Vegetarian restaurants were unheard of in those days and Gandhi would have struggled to find an exclusively vegetarian menu. No wonder then that he was absolutely thrilled to discover a book called ‘Plea for Vegetarianism’ by Henry S. Salt which became a turning point for him. The book gave him the ammunition and the moral conviction he needed to convince friends in London that this was not a passing fad.

He never touched meat after that.

FLEET STREET

Moving on from Inner Temple, the Walk moves towards Fleet Street, the home of London’s newspaper industry. A brief stop at Pump Court reveals the meeting place of the Anglo Indian South African Committee, a group that Gandhi would have addressed in his future visits.

Fleet Street of the 1800s was a lot more dark, foreboding and busy than it is today. 1888 was a historical year for London. It was the ‘Autumn of Terror’ a time when the notorious serial killer, Jack the Ripper caused havoc in the City of London. His exploits gave birth to a number of tabloids and Fleet Street would have been very busy at the time.

At the beginning of the street stands a gateway with a dragon on top. This marks the boundary between the City of London and the City of Westminster. It is said that Jack the Ripper eluded arrest by moving between the two cities; the police forces of those days did not share information easily, making it easy for him to hide.

The Royal Courts of Justice at the entrance of Fleet Street were just being completed at the time. Gandhi would have spent time in the newly constructed imposing building listening to cases and learning from other lawyers.

ESSEX STREET

A few minutes from Fleet Street near the Strand, lies Essex Street, notable for Essex Hall Unitarian Headquarters. This was one of the places where Gandhi met his followers and planned his campaign for the freedom of India from the British.

TAVISTOCK STREET

Gandhi moved into his first independent lodging in 1890 at Tavistock Street. The original building no longer stands, but the proximity to Covent Garden Market would have pleased Gandhi. As he was on his own now, he had to cut down on his expenses. His meals consisted of porridge and stewed fruit. He also cut his own hair.

During this time, he joined the Vegetarian Society. He also got to know Tolstoy, was impressed by Christianity (especially by Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount) and was asked to help translate a Sanskrit version of the Bhagvad Gita.

COVENT GARDEN

Covent Garden is now one of London’s most popular tourist spots. Always full of street performers, jugglers, mime artists and hundreds of tourists, this is also home to the Royal Opera House and streets of designer shops. Although equally busy in Gandhi’s time, Covent Garden and the Market area were then also full of the poor and the disadvantaged. It was here, in the heart of fashionable London, that Gandhi saw dire poverty and the contrast between the rich and the poor. He saw how the poor were ignored, stepped over, discarded and this would have a profound influence on his thinking.

SOUTH AFRICA HOUSE, Trafalgar Square

The final stop of the Walk is at South Africa House, an apt ending place for the Walk. Gandhi’s destiny was to change after he experienced racial discrimination in South Africa. His famous philosophy of non-violence developed during those days and led him to being imprisoned several times. South Africa House is the High Commission of South Africa in London and although the building itself has no real link to Gandhi; it is a reminder of the hardship and struggle he had to endure as a young man.

I AM WALKER…

Gandhi’s love of walking was honed in England. Not only did he walk long distances in search of vegetarian food, but later continued the habit as it allowed him to think. This habit became part of the Satyagraha movement in South Africa in India ending his famous act of defiance – the Dandi March – where he walked over 240 miles to make salt from sea water.

Gandhi’s love for walking was portrayed in the Oscar-winning film Gandhi by Richard Attenborough where the Mahatma tells a reporter in jest “I am Walker.”

The Walk shows us a unique and lesser known side of the young Gandhi, from his struggle to find vegetarian food, to his desire to ‘fit in’ with English society. Gandhi went to the theatre and also attempted to learn the violin, but gave up soon. He spent ten pounds (a small fortune at the time) to have a suit tailored at Bond Street, complete with top-hat. He took great care of his appearance and was eager to try out new hairstyles.

Through this two hour stroll through Central London, we get a rare glimpse into the early days of a young Indian lawyer who went on to capture the imagination of the world and ultimately became the Father of a Nation.

Photos courtesy Dr. Luis Dias

Accidental India: A History of the Nation’s Passage through Crisis and Change is journalist Shankkar Aiyar’s fascinating new book which examines the chronicle of India’s history through “seven turning points” in the country’s history. In the book, Aiyar argues that changes in the country since independence have not arisen through conscious decision making or planning, but have been accidental results of crises affecting the nation. 

In the preface, Aiyar recounts how he scooped the news of how, in 1991, the country had only enough foreign exchange to pay for seven days of imports and had pledged 47 tons of gold to the Bank of England  to borrow $400 million to pay its creditors. Working on this news report made Aiyar question

Why did we wait for a crisis to act?

This, apparently, seems to be India’s modus-operandi. According to Aiyar, “every major change in India has come about in the wake of a crisis”.

The book offers adequate proof. From the economic liberalisation of 1991, to the nationalisation of the banks,to the Green Revolution, to mid-day meal scheme and the software revolution of the 1990s, the book covers it all in carefully crafted chapters.

For the people, change is often a good thing; for the country’s rulers, change is often the threat.

Aiyar makes many such insightful statements in his book. Recent events continue to show us how India’s politicians will dodge new law-making proposals if they are affected negatively. What do you do when law-makers are law-breakers and have no reason to hurt their own interests by passing laws that might, contrarily, be for the country’s benefit?

Each chapter has a witty title – ‘The Hunger Games’ (The Green Revolution), ‘Das Kapital’ (The nationalisation of banks), ‘The Milky Way’ (Operation Flood), ‘The Da Vinci Code’ (The Right to Information 2005). Aiyar’s research is pretty thorough and impressive. The sequence of events is laid out in a lucid and engaging manner; some journalists might do well to study the chapters to see why it works so well.

In the Epilogue, Aiyar says, “What India lacks is the kind of political leadership that entertains risk and takes decision”. We continue to see this lack of indecision every day as the economy flounders and the spirit of India cracks open a little more. The image of India Shining wears off pretty soon when you read of an unabating stream of farmer suicides, malnourished children (one million children die every year before they are one month old), and a quarter of the population has no access to electricity.

The Epilogue offers a summary of solutions available to tackle India’s problems. Perhaps having them all condensed in a book might make it easier for our decision-makers to take another look at them.

Governance in India, in 2012, is a sham and a shame.

I found it fascinating to read a condensed version of Independent India’s history in this light. From the machinations of politics and politicians, to the inner scheming of bureaucrats, to a detailed glimpse into how the country is run, the book has its moments of suspense and intrigue. Written with journalistic fervour and peppered with great drama, this is not a book to speed-read or read over-night. I needed to take my time understanding the flow of events, ponder over the numbers, mull over these events in history. If you do that, you will enjoy Accidental India. 

India deserves better.

I recommend this book to anyone interested in the country’s history and how past events continue to influence the present day mess. 

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com . Participate now to get free books!

As the year came to a close, I felt like I have run out of time. There was no time to do anything but keep try to get through the day without yelling at the three-year old, without sacking the maid, without flinging something to smithereens, without cracking the fake smile plastered to my rapidly unrecognisable face. The person I see in the mirror  (mostly when I’m giving M a bath – where is the time to look, otherwise?!) is not Me. It’s an ugly, grumpy woman that I don’t like. She scares me.

A New Year is my favourite time of the year. It gives me hope that the next twelve months will be better than the last (and the last were definitely an improvement over the year before, so that’s proof). I strangely don’t have resolutions for 2013, but I’m sure I’ll have a concrete list by the week-end. That’s what January 1 does to me. It also makes me re-think where I want to go this year. Time, then, to think about my Word for the year.

Do you have one? Last year, I chose ‘Adventures’, but I didn’t have many of the kind I wanted. The year before, it was ‘Risk’, which was good, because it kind of pushed me with taking chances with my writing.

This year, I want to go back to being a marketing machine and have quality work coming out of my ears. I want to be busy writing. I want to have some structure to my writing life. I want to do some ‘serious’ work. I want to make lots of money (I do have a number written down in my beautiful Excel spreadsheet, with monthly goals, of course!), I want lots of by-lines, I want more F.U.N. I want more flowers in my garden and in my hair. I want to make friends. I want to meet new people. I want to see old and new places. I want to do clean-ups in my town and make it prettier than it already is. I want to go running. And I want to take those paintbrushes out, the ones that haven’t been unpacked since we returned to India in 2008.

I want to Begin Again.

But I don’t yet have a word for 2013.

Choosing the word is not unlike trying on shoes or gloves for the perfect fit.  As you try on several words you instinctively know the one that appears to invite you into its presence.

via Foxnews

There are a lot of nice words that other people have chosen and it is such pleasure to read the reasoning behind why they chose their words.  I liked ‘Home’, Light,  And Light again, Do (which would be a terrific prompt for me), celebrate (which I should really be doing more). Like me, Lindsey is still waiting for a word as well.

Here are my potential words (chosen from Ali’s fabulous list of words):

• Abundance (of ideas, of money, of time, of love),
• Act (don’t wait for deadlines to creep up, do that clean-up right now, shut up before it is too late, Smile),
• Flourish
• Less (less crap work, less anger, fewer calories, less computer time, fewer tears)
• Shine

Let’s see where this goes. Happy New Year, everyone. May the coming months be filled with quiet peace, good work and the freedom to live our lives the way we want to.

The Green Room
Wendell Rodricks
Raintree (by Rupa Publications)
356 pages | Hardcover

I was expecting The Green Room to be a glimpse into the inner world of the fashion industry. The book has that, of course, but it is more an autobiography of designer Wendell Rodricks. The Green Room begins with a prologue, a peek into the chaos and excitement backstage, just before a fashion show begins.

Then, Wendell takes us to Goa, where it all began. The story of his forefathers blends seamlessly into his own, in Bombay. The book is a detailed chronological narrative of Wendell’s life.  From his birth in a hospital in Bombay, we are introduced to his family and the convoluted, entertaining stories of their lives, growing up in a chawl in Mahim. Wendell’s life changes course, when, after a stint at the Taj in Bombay, he takes up a job in Oman, working at The Royal Oman Police Officers’ Club. We are then taken headlong into his story of love, as he meets Jerome and discovers a new world, where the finer things in life are enjoyed everyday.

And so it is that this book also turns into a travelogue where Wendell catalogues their many trips to exotic and luxurious destinations around the world. His memory for detail is impressive. Menus, clothes and little nuggets of information about the places he has been to and the people he met along the way flood the pages. It is a lot to take in a first reading!

Wendell’s prose, however, makes up for it. It flows like his garments, unhindered. The inside look at the fashion industry begins to happen once Wendell returns to Bombay and starts a career as a teacher and designer. His move to Goa (at a time when Goa was still just your aunty’s hometown and not the to-go-to place for anyone who could afford a plane ticket), the story of the house at Colvale and setting up a business in the state are entertaining (perhaps because the settings are familiar to me). The Goan gossip is entertaining too -  names of people we meet every day, friends and acquaintances – they all make an appearance.

Wendell is honest about his relationship with Jerome Marell and the impact it had on his family once he was ‘outed’ inadvertently through Shobhaa De’s column (following their PACS union in 2002). The family reacted badly, although the long-standing relationship (twenty-one years, by then) was no secret. It was the gossip and the reactions of other people that caused the friction (as it tends to do). It must have been a difficult time and this retelling offers yet another insight into a designer that we know so little of.

I love Wendell’s interpretation of the traditional Goan Kunbi sari and it is on my wish-list of things to own one day. Inspiring traditional weavers to take up their looms once again might be one of Wendell’s most significant achievements and I hope he can find the energy and the funds to sustain the project. I also want to reiterate Wendell’s long-standing commitment to the environment. His recent boycott of the Marriott hotel (Wendell has had a store in the Goa Marriott for years, which he has now shut) following the indictment of the mining families by the Shah Commission is praise-worthy. No one else of that celebrity stature has had the guts to do put their money where their criticism is. Go, Wendell.

A-rags-to-riches story, this book is lovely to read if you take the time to savour the little tales spread through the book. Rushing through the pages doesn’t give you a scale of his career, or his travels. It has been an interesting life for Wendell so far and one can only wish him luck for the future.

(This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com.)

Writing this morning as the sky lightens, waiting quietly for words to come rather than rushing and grasping to get something down on paper, I realize that what I’m really waiting for here is a glimpse of the thread that might lead me back to me, or at least back to the person I still aspire to be: reflective, aware, moving slowly and attentively in the world rather than racing through it, all sharp elbows and jangled nerves and oblivious hustle.

- excerpt from a recent blog post by Katrina Kenison.

When I write in the mornings, I feel the same way. Night-time scribbling or chasing deadlines does not have that same sense of beauty, of…holiness. Which is why Julia Cameron recommends Morning Pages and not evening ones.

A glimpse of the person who used to be me. I need that very much.

Keeping my fingers crossed
that you sleep on time tonight,
that the internet works in the shadowy
half-light of the bedroom where the
AC whispers ‘sleep, sleep’ and the light from
the creepy Mother Mary lamp shines on
your finally dreaming face.

Keeping my fingers crossed that the words
flow
that new discoveries are made, that vocabulary
does not fail me when my eyelids do.

Tonight, I’m keeping my fingers moving,
hoping they stay
uncrossed.
This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Image via Flickr