We the Write stuff.

My favourite part of London is how almost everyday is a burst of bibliomaniac joy.

Its the small stuff, like having manic 10 hour classes, and running home to grab a few hours of shut-eye before another class at 8pm, only to be kept awake by doors slamming and loud laughing from the kitchen, only to slam my door open to lose my temper at whomever I see first, to find that a flatmate has wedged a whole pile of packages from Amazon under my door. For me, me, me.

Its the big stuff, like trudging sleepily in the rain in my pajama's to get some coffee, only to find my tattered copy of "Howl" that I'd given up tearfully for lost, placed next to the coffee machine, with a post-it saying, "I dont know which building you're in, but I see you hovering around here all the time, so I thought this would be the best place to return it. I hope you actually find this, and if you're not you, then sod off, this doesn't belong to you"

And then its the truly perfect stuff, like becoming an accidental and active participant of BookCrossing.

I'd heard of BookCrossing in one of my first Publishing classes, where 60-odd book geeks including myself, gathered to talk about how reading is a community - a dying community in some respects, but for those who love to read, an exciting community nonetheless.

BookCrossing, essentially, is the "the practice of leaving a book in a public place to be picked up and read by others, who then do likewise." I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard of, and it gave me, and the other people sitting around me, goosebumps just thinking about it. We all told our professor, that it sounded almost too good to be true, and it was probably just one of those things, like the Tooth Fairy, who you truly believe is real, just because you want to believe it, when deepdown, you know its a parent who is the real Tooth Fairy. She nodded wisely, and said, "Wait and see, you won't see it coming"

And then, a few days ago, I got onto a bus and sat on a book. I hardly ever do this, since books are my personal God and religion, and well, you don't normally sit on your God. When I got up, it was a much worn copy of "The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop", which is one of those books you've always thought you should read, but it was either out of stock, or too expensive, and along the journey of all the other books you've wanted painfully, you sort of pushed it at the back of your mind. On the book, was a note stapled to the cover, "Read this and pass it on" and on the title page, were the initials of all the people who'd read it and the dates they'd found it.

I forgot I had a tottering pile of textbooks to wade through by the next day, forgot that I had groceries to buy, food to cook, laundry to do, trash to take out. I forgot social commitments and Skype dates. I forgot that it was raining and that my heater wasn't working and I was, to put it mildly, freezing. I forgot about Stoner Sam and his Stonery Sammy ways. I had been crossed with a book and nothing else mattered.

I passed it on last night. I left it on a table at the cafe I usually frequent. Before I left, the proprietor grinned at me and said, "You've picked prime property there, honey. That book knows that table well"

That book, knows more people and places than I do. And Im grateful I got to know it, and that it has KM 4-10-2010 permanently embedded in its pages.

Note: A very Appy Birday to the old man of the blog, Harry from WetheUs and well, everyone who reads us etc.

It’s true. French women have always been unfairly slender, with unfairly perfect skin, and even the sloppiest of French women are born with an inherent grace that most of us can’t even begin to fake. We can buy Chanel clutch purses , use Crème de la Mer, and even master the art of rolling our “R’s”, but there’s something about the French that we can never achieve.

Which is why, when I read a review about Mireille Guiliano’s “French Women Don’t Get Fat”, my attention was immediately aroused. It was an extremely funny article, about how the French are the only ones not overly affected by the scary “R” word. They drink as much wine as ever, and take longer lunch hours than they ever did. In fact, this particular journalist, pointed out that the reason the French aren’t so hit by Recession is BECAUSE of their long lunch breaks. It makes sense. The French will wake up as late as they like, they’ll have a leisurely breakfast, and get to work. But, when they reach office, they are so relaxed and rejuvenated, they give work their 200%. While in the US and the UK, people will scramble out of bed, battle with ties and pantyhose, and drink at least 5 venti lattes by the time they reach work. Then they’ll proceed to update their Facebook/Twitter, play Solitaire, meet colleagues at the coffee machine and productivity is basically nil. The article was so brilliantly written, with such marveilleuse insights, that when the journalist briefly mentioned “French Women Don’t Get Fat”, I knew I HAD to get my hands on it.


The logic that Guiliano presented to the world appealed to me because Ive been following it all my life : Eat whatever you want, whenever you want. Eat butter, white bread, chocolate, drink wine - just do it in moderation. If you feel like eating chocolate, and you immediately get your hands on it, you’ll end up eating a few squares. Your body’s demands have been instantly satisfied. However, if you try fighting your desire for chocolate, your body not only gets cranky, there comes a point when you stop fighting and youre cramming bars and bars of chocolate into your mouth like a crazy person. Never let yourself get hungry. Then you will never let yourself get stuffed. It is sound logic, and it seemed refreshing after all the calorie counting and banning of foods that other diets have strutted out.

Unfortunately, when Harry hunted it (and its sequel) down for me and it became my “Welcome home!” present, the book didn’t live upto my expectations, its review or its status as a present. While it’s a more entertaining read than most diet books, and its underlying logic is extremely sound, theres that certain something lacking that leaves the reader untouched. Its sequel on the other hand, “French Women for all Seasons” is a beautiful book, and one of my many books with a broken spine and many folded down pages. Guiliano seems to have put more of her heart into her sequel, with more personal histories, beautifully told with the occasional French phrase thrown in for poetic measure. While her first book tells you what to do and how to eat (including weekly menus!) her second book tells it like it is, which makes it even more a pleasure to read.

However, despite my criticism of “French Women Don’t Get Fat”, I hail her moot point as genius. It is a relief to finally have the ultimate non-diet book that dictates “the secret of eating for pleasure” One of my favourite chapters in the book, is one dedicated entirely to chocolate. Apparently, many French women say “Je deprime donc je chocolate” or “When I’m down, I chocolate”


It was a refreshing chapter to read in a so-called diet book, and so, as a tribute to the chapter and my father, I decided to try one of the recipes : Chocolate-Espresso Faux Souffles. A very simple recipe, I think Guiliano has made it so many times, she forgot that most people attempting are doing so for the first time. I followed her recipe perfectly the first time round, and had to discard it and start from scratch, switching around steps. And while I spent the night cursing her and her book, this morning I got up and actually tried the soufflé. I died, and went to heaven. Unlike my parents who gobbled their unset soufflés last night, I decided that all my exertions deserved to let it set properly. It was good that I did, because its perfect. Firm on the outside and molten chocolate inside. The kind of chocolate that makes you want to open chocolate museums (which apparently, the French have already done, thanks to recipes like this)

To quote Guiliano, who quoted Colette, a table of food should be seen as un rendez-vous d’amour et d’amitie (a date with love and friendship) Enjoy your food, savour it, eat for pleasure, and you may never have to worry about getting fat again.

I have wanted to do a post of Anne of Green Gables for the longest time, but the timing was never right. To do proper justice to Anne-with-an-e Shirley and everything she represented, there had to a proper time, place and feeling.

I discovered Anne of Green Gables when I was 10. I had borrowed an abridged illustrated copy from a friend and I felt hopelessly in love. An orphan who was sent by accident to a brother-and-sister, she managed to transform their lives as well as the pretty Canadian town she lived in. Between the ages of 10 - 15, I managed to track down all 8 of her books - dating from her childhood, to the lives and loves of her own children. My collection of Anne Shirley's life has and always will be one of my most prized possession. She was and is one of my best friends. Her colorful imagination, her lyrical flights of fancy, and her all encompassing sense of love makes her far more than a mere fictional character. The fact that she was far from perfect helped too - a perfect person would never manage to dye her hair green, her nose blue, get her 11-year old friend drunk, bake a cake with anodyne liniment etc. Anne Shirley creeps her way into your heart because she is so...human.

One of Anne's pet theories, is one of kindred spirits. A kindred spirit is much more than just a friend. A kindred spirit, is someone who understands unconditionally, without even trying. Someone who becomes a part of your life without even trying, whether you like it or not, because somehow or the other, she/he just knows what you're saying/thinking/feeling. That someone will not only tolerate your incessant ramblings but will manage to acquire the underlying sense behind it. That someone gives you far more than love or friendship - that someone "gets" you, which is much harder to find than love/friendship.

Since Anne Shirley explained the concept of kindred spirits to me, a decade ago, I have been on the lookout for them. And I have found them, perhaps not as much I'd like, but I love the ones I have with a deep deep devotion. My kindred spirits shared a flaw however. They never understood the concept of kindred spirits. I could explain till I was hoarse, I could attempt to shove poor Anne down their throats, and they never really got it. They liked the way it sounded, and thought it amusing that it meant so much to me, but never really understood the significance of a kindred spirit the way Anne did.

But recently, I found a new kindred spirit, one I have never even met. It is surreal in the nicest possible way knowing that you and someone can "get" each other, without ever having met. But this someone, when told she was my kindred spirit, knew enough to exclaim"Anne of Green Gables!" This someone knew what being a kindred spirit meant, and understood enough of Anne-with-an-e's own spirit to know how yay it is to find one. This particular kindred spirit excites me more than the others I have, because if we can "get" each other when we have never met, I would love to know what it'll be like when we DO meet.

At age 10, Anne Shirley became a kindred spirit for life. One of the few fictional characters in my bookshelf to hold that title. But more than that, she paved the way for me to find kindred spirits of my own, apart from her. She taught me that once you find someone like that, you keep them. She taught me that an imagination can be the greatest comfort when you are "in the depths of despair" and she taught me it doesnt hurt to dream, even if you have freckles and red hair.

And most importantly, she taught me to always look at the bottle before you attempt to dye your hair. Green hair is not...becoming.

“Kindred Spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. Its splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world" - Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables

Ive always been a reader first, a movie watcher second. Thus, watching a movie that has derived life from a book can sometimes be painful, often heart-wrenching. Many good books are massacred to make a good movie, descriptions and characters faded in the process of making the film a worthwhile one. On the other hand, many a character have been brought to life by celluloid in a way that paper never did justice to. The following is a list of the good and the ugly of paper becoming celluloid.

The Good:
1) The Godfather. The book was good, the movie was a classic. Marlon Brando gave life to Don Corleone in a way the book never fully did justice to. The book didn’t reek of power and vengeance the way the movie did. Brando was a true God.
2) Gone with the Wind. I had the good fortune of this being the first love story I ever read. As a result, all the men in my life are measured by Rhett Butler, i.e Clark Gable who spent years mastering the sneer that MADE him Rhett Butler. In Vivien Leigh, it was like Scarlett O’ Hara had stepped out of the pages of the book to act in the movie. The book was brilliant and the movie was a tribute to its brilliance. God help anyone who decides to remake it. There was only one Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara in this lifetime, and Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh were them. There is something very grammatically wrong with the previous sentence.
3) The Harry Potter Series. Books were awesome, movies are good. No, seriously. The special effects in the movies are a tribute to J.K Rowling’s imagination. There are times when I wonder about the casting, but to each his own. To some people, Daniel Radcliffe is Harry Potter, to others he’s very…”I don’t know…” Overall however, I think Transfiguration, Quidditch, Hagrid, and everything to do with wands, more than make up for the films shortcomings.
4) Bridget Jones’ Diary and Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Bridget Jones is one of my favourite characters in literary fiction and Renee Zellweger. The otherwise svelte actress, made herself put on pounds of weight, perfected her accent and her walk to become the life, soul and chocolate and cigarette consuming Bridget Jones. She is Bridget Jones in all her voluptuous flesh.

The Ugly:
1) Little Women. Oh My Good Lord. I have the misfortune of having this movie on tape. It was a 12th birthday present and it was so bad I cried. The book is one of the most beautiful examples of literature on the planet and Louisa May Alcott must have turned in her grave at Winona freaking Ryder playing Jo March, the girl whose only real beauty was her hair. Jo March is not physically attractive in any way. She’s downright plain. She’s got a temper, a personality, a talent. Looks, she does not have. Why would a pretty woman be cast as Jo March, the principal character of the book? The book REVOLVES around Jo March. Did the makers of this movie never READ the book?
2) Chocolat. This book should never have been made into a movie. The mesmerizing magical descriptions of chocolate that Joanne Harris weaved so beautifully into words didn’t show up on screen. With the book, the story took you places, with the movie, it just stayed flat. Disappointing. Also, a waste of Johnny Depp’s awesomeness.
3) Pride & Prejudice. With Lizzie Bennet posing the same casting problems as Jo March (interesting, intelligent, but not in-your-face attractive), Keira Knightley was a very okay choice. Matthew Macfadyen as Mr. Darcy was also a very okay choice. But. Aha, if youre smart, you knew that was coming. Mr. Darcy and Lizzie Bennet are two of the greatest, most enigmatic characters in English Literature. Okay doesnt do them justice.
4) The Da Vinci Code. Awesome book. Very average movie. Yes, that’s it.

The Opposite Effect: Movies so beautiful, I have to read the books.
1) The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
2) A Beautiful Mind
3) The Horse Whisperer
4) Forrest Gump
5) Horton hears a Who
6) Fast Times at Ridgemont High

Women can't do without their daily/weekly/monthly fix of fashion magazines, despite the fact that the skinny models and overpriced handbags plague them no end. This is common knowledge. Why do they buy? Because its like looking into another world, a world that eludes and fascinates them/ Publishers have taken advantage of this by churning out magazine one after the glossy other, to add to the obsessions of women. Two of the greatest fashion/couture magazines in the world today, have not only been around for decades, theyre a household name in many a woman's mind : Vogue and Harper's Bazaar.

Before I continue, let me elucidate. When I lived in Abu Dhabi, I couldnt afford either magazine, priced at over and above Dhs. 40-60. Thus, my criticism and compliments to the magazines lie in Vogue India, and Bazaar India, both priced at a fairly reasonable Rs 100.

Editorial Content: Bazaar India wins hands down. Bazaar India has done something that no other fashion magazine in India has done so far. Instead of inviting guest writers from the industry, they've made the editorial team the industry. Thus, every feature, every editorial, is written by someone who not only faces high fashion on a daily basis, but can also really understand the highs and lows of wearing couture. Vogue India, on the other hand, is severely lacking in terms of editorial content, focusing instead on expensive photo shoots of expensive products and clothing with short descriptions. How helpful. That aside, Vogue India seems hellbent on interviews/actresses/models from abroad. Case in point, I could just buy Vogue International if I wanted Michelle Obama on the cover, or if I wanted an interview of Katie Holmes.

Fashion Coverage: Grudgingly, this goes to Vogue, but a very small margin. Vogue takes pride in its fashion coverage; its glossy photos of truly bizarre fashion that no self-respecting working woman would ever wear. Or spend thousands of dollars/rupees on. Do I sound bitter? Yes, I am. Fashion coverage is good and all. What pinches is that very few readers can actually afford to buy the fashion you're covering.

Design and Art: I think the whole world knows of Vogue India's fiasco in terms of fashion shoots and art. Of all the possible creative ways to conduct a photo shoot, using beggars to accentuate the luxuriousness of Burberry is just cruel. Obviously, Vogue India didnt learn anything from the worldwide criticism: Their last edition has a feature of bikini-clad women prancing in front of burqa-clad women in the desert. Are you honestly saying there is no better way of portraying fashion? Bazaar, on the other hand, while playing it safe, doesnt break the boundaries of creativity. Their art is good, the look of the book is good, the design is good. But since when has good been good enough for the ruthless world of fashion?

Overall, in my opinion (note the my), Bazaar India wins hands down, in terms of "I would rather spend Rs100 a month on this magazine." While it doesnt dazzle me with its wowza, at least it doesnt make me angry like Vogue India does. I'd rather read a magazine strong in editorial content, than buy a magazine chock-full of Louis Vuitton and Burberry ads, which will just remind me that Im very very far from earning that kind of money.

On hindsight, however, I can think of better magazines/books to spend Rs100 or less on.
1) The Economist (the smartest magazine in the world)
2) Frontline
3) Outlook
4) Femina (yes, affordable fashion, and the magazine is only Rs30!)
5) Any Hercule Poirot by Agatha Christie (yes, I know, I digress from the point of this blog, but such awesomeness I cannot ignore)

Note: Next on this debate: Why would women buy fashion magazines to feel not-so great about themselves, when they can buy an Agatha Christie, and think "Wowza! This was one scarily smart woman!" Yes, my next blog will most definately be a tribute to the great Mistress of Crime.

While I spent most of high school trying to pass the wretched subject, The Algebra of Infinite Justice by Arundhati Roy was a book I’d been looking for over a year. It’s sad that only her fictional The God of Small Things will haunt shelves, while most of India is ignorant to the fact that this lyrical author is one of the greatest political revolutionaries we have today. And no, I’m sorry. Im sure Salman Rushdie is a wonderful writer, but minus Midnight’s Children, the man is the greatest alternative to sleeping pills. So, in my book, while he might have a brilliantly heightened political opinion, it isn’t one I can wade through.

Arundhati Roy has conversations with her readers. You forget you’re holding a moderately heavy paperback and listen and converse with a writer who really knows her politics. A student of architecture, Roy’s words have a beautiful symmetry. Roy took the best possible thing from her prestigious Booker: supreme confidence to write whatever she damn well pleases. Of course, Im sure the money and autographs didn’t hurt, but confidence and a sense of self can take you to pinnacles of risk and help you survive. Her scathing poetry rips America’s mission of “Infinite Justice” to shreds – a mission where the most powerful country in the world is slowly and steadily transforming the world’s poorest into dust. If that isn’t infinite justice, what is?

However, someone in the Pentagon must have felt some misgivings. “This doesn’t sound right”, he must have thought. “Where’s the justice in this whole operation?”, he must have thought. Sadly, he didn’t think any of these things, for the operation was renamed “Enduring Freedom”. Basically, as Roy points out, the US has put these two words together without the slightest awareness of the human effort of struggle. In a reality far from US cruelty, “Enduring Freedom” actually means that the Afghanistan population is enduring what the White House and the Pentagon call freedom. How infinitely just, no?

Arundhati Roy doesn’t say “we should do so and so”. She says. “this is how it is, this is how I feel, now you have facts and an opinion. Come up with your own opinion and do what is right”. She makes her readers face intolerance and make sense of global confusion. She makes them understand what it means to be completely alive and fully awake in the world, and “getting close to and listening to those for whom this world has become intolerable”.

A year ago, one of my best friends told me what being fully alive meant. After reading Roy, I understood where she got it from. It’s the focal point of the whole book, and when put alongside the infinite justice of the US, the beauty of Roy makes you cringe. Roy puts forth that “the only dream worth having is to live while you’re alive and die when you’re dead”

Meaning?

“To love. To be love. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never complicate what is simple or simplify what is complicated. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget”