Around midnight

12-12

A bit of pleasing symmetry in what has been a pretty uneven year. Calling it uneven is being pretty British of course, when it has been wretched and frustrating for the most part. I should probably embrace being Indian and a Bengali and complain loud and proud. I do terribly want to do that. We must search for catharsis wherever we might find it. As long as we don’t end up passing on the pain to others, which too many people are doing these days, we are all entitled to find ways to be happy. So where were we? Still in 2016 obviously, still mired in the things we did wrong in 2015 and managing to find ways to screw up even more. I keep on harping on the same things, in my head alone, which is most considerate of me, but oh my, haven’t we become more self-absorbed, short-termist and dogmatic than ever before. I keep reading, of people and in places I admire (which means I read them and which also basically meet my slight leftist remit), that we must keep faith in humankind and that ultimate goodness will finally win out. I don’t believe them much anymore.

It’s been such a weird year. Quitting jobs, with the new job even meeting the expectations I had of it. But it all remains extremely unsatisfying. As I have written before, I am gradually coming not to expect any great happiness from any job I do or hold. It’s something necessary in the obvious sense that I need to earn to spend and there are societal pressures, so as to say, that it’s taken to be odd if you don’t earn at least 80% of what an average peer earns. A mild case of always being compared with leading to a fear of coming out worse in that comparison then is ingrained in your psyche I think. It starts pretty early and then you are conditioned to behave in a certain manner and be a certain way so as to not be considered a “loser”. Some people would, quite reasonably, say what is wrong with that? Isn’t competition healthy and interesting? Well yes and no would be my answer. I like competitions. I like fighting for some things. But, as well, there are certain things I really couldn’t give 2 figs about and I don’t want to be fighting over every silly thing (things that I consider silly, the list is pretty long actually). So that’s my whine really. As it always is. Is it so hard to understand that I don’t want to really have the nicest things? As Gordon Sumner well sang about the progressive leftist collective, “we are spirits in the material world” (I think that a version appears in an Ace Ventura movie as well). The things I really like are the things I have – books and songs and movies and art mostly. Spending money won’t give me talent or give me time – and the rest of things are quite not so fun. What about charity you say, clutching the shiny poster on a glossy sheet of a cherubic boy/girl with a so-so sweet smile? I say, I would rather teach a boy/girl than give money to a charity. And let’s admit it, nobody really wants to earn money to spend on charity (I know what I did there - made a straw man argument – well I just wanted to check if I could).

You know it’s a weird year when the government kind of reneges on its basic fiduciary promise. There are arguments on either side but at the very least it was an omnishambles in terms of execution (HT). There seems to be a short-sightedness among the sort of people you’d really expect to know better that is troubling. Everything reduced to catchphrases and easily parsed jargon, fed in easily consumable soundbytes and tri-colour syrup. We don’t have a political alternative at all and there is a trenchant feeling of anti-intellectualism that is almost despairing. We are blithely proud to be rude and crass, naked ambition and proud superficiality. You know that we are in for a tough time when the TIME man of the year is a reality show character (I couldn’t find a better word) and a failed businessman who shall get his small hands on the baddest nuclear  arsenal in February next year. This was a year which kind of finally proved the ubiquity of social media. I grow more and more distrustful of news; of outlets with always have an agenda to peddle. I loved the Guardian (and I probably still do), but I feel that there is an inherent bias in any news agency that has a political mooring (however far adrift it might have floated). I have a visceral reaction to anything that offends my religious, political, national and racial prejudices – and I realize that I definitely have my own prejudices and who is to say that it is I and my kind who deserve better judgment and faith. That leads me to dissociate from contrarian viewpoints, trying to preserve my own little bubble of low twenties temperature and easy muzak. I block the people (friends on social sites) who really like their tasseled sneakers and the occasional bursts of harmless jingoism. Keeps things polite and keeps me disconnected from a reality that I often don’t understand, definitely can’t shape and sometimes feel that I don’t belong to.

An orison

He woke up early. The pink Ajanta bedside clock with its faded radium hands indicated it was only 4:30. He could go back to sleep if he wanted to. It would be an easy trick – to think it was only around midnight and return to slumber – there was nothing stirring. Dawn, when he woke up usually, was still a good hour away. Even the drip-drip of the bathroom tap had curiously muted itself, ashamed perhaps to interrupt the exhausted sleep that came from 2 continuous days of preparing for the pujo.

Nandini was asleep, on her back, her right arm folded across her face, her lips slightly parted. Her familiar face was as dear to him now as it was 25 years ago, when he had seen her first, out of the corner of his eyes, young and highly aware. They had built a life together and while she might have not had all her dreams fulfilled, he had tried his best to be a good husband and an honest provider. It wasn’t easy nowadays, but he kept at it. He knew no other way and he had wanted no other way either.

He got up, slightly bemused with himself. If he was going to think, it would be better to think while getting some actual work done. That’s what his father used to say anyway. He missed his baba sometimes, on days like this. He was 51 now, only 5 years younger than baba was when he passed away. And sometimes he still wasn’t done growing up. He quietly left the room with the surefootedness of someone who knew the layout by heart, avoiding the jalchowki in the corner with its earthen pot, taking care not to wake Nandini.

Getting ready for the morning, he ran through the list of things that needed to be done mentally. While the devotees would usually get the sweets for the prasad and the incense for the aarti, he needed to get fresh water from the pond and also the produce from the bazaar for the bhog. Nandini had cleaned up the utensils and various receptacles that went into presentation last night itself. Bijoy had grumblingly scrubbed the gritty brass lamps and scoured the dhunuchi and prepared the coconut husk pieces and the cotton wicks which now ready to be dipped in ghee and lit.

He smiled to himself as he thought of his younger son. Bijoy was good of heart and despite his grumbles, would make a good priest. Joy, the older one was smarter, didn’t he get through the state engineering exams without a single tutor and had then gone to Jalpaiguri Engineering College. In his final year now, he had a good job as well waiting for him, in Infosys. Bangalore seemed a long way away but Joy was happy and Nandini was being a bit of a worry-wart surely. He was coming home this weekend. Bijoy was simpler and kinder, if a little impractical sometimes. He understood the prayers and the people. He understood that being a priest meant answering to a higher and nobler purpose, even these days and perhaps he even believed it and felt it. As a father, he could only hope.

The sun was beginning to brighten the eastern sky when he first stepped out of the house and onto the temple compound. To the left was the bigger Kali mandir while the Shiv mandir was to the right, with a decent-sized courtyard in between. They had cemented it some 5 years ago with donations and it was cool beneath his feet as he took the brass kalash and headed out on the short distance to the pond. He climbed carefully down the muddy slope, shivering as he stepped in the cool water and cleaned the area, careful not to stir up the water and filled the kalash with water, chanting the mantras baba had taught him.

The day became busier after that; there were a couple of trips to the bazaar. He was absent-mindedly debating whether to take another hibiscus garland and some more loose flowers for the pushpanjali when he ran into Mrinal, the newspaper guy. He seemed to have completed with his morning rounds and was carrying a couple of Anandabazar Patrika and contentedly sipping tea from a kulhar.

“So, rounds done?”

“Yes. The train came in a little earlier with the papers. I got done earlier. Best really.”

“News I should know?” He asked, more habit than anything else.

“Nah. The usual politicking over Gorkhaland, Ghisingh was arrested yesterday. But party has called for a bandh and there are some talks of roads, specially NH-34 being closed”

“Hmm. Come to the pujo in the evening.”

“Hmm. Will come before as well. The wife has asked for an offering to be made, board exams for the son and all.”

“Hmm. Visit.”

The day continued normally. Mrinal visited. As did didi from the local bank. Her sons were both grown up and gone away and she visited every Saturday and prayed for them. She handed over the usual box of sweets for the Goddess and then sat in the courtyard and prayed. Nandini and Bijoy took care of the morning puja these days, though he did all the anjalis and the main puja. He tried calling Joy once to check if he had crossed Karandighi, which was about halfway through. It had gone unanswered and he hadn’t called back, which was un-characteristic of him. Mrinal spoke with him before leaving.

“The bandh has turned violent. Some pahari was killed. A couple of buses were burnt, maybe some travelers died. Has Joy called?”

“I didn’t know. With the puja and all. Joy hasn’t been answering his calls.”

“Don’t worry dada. Joy is a smart boy, he’ll be okay.”

Joy simply wasn’t like that. Nandini was distracted. She kept looking at the clock and then at the gate. He had to call for her attention a couple of times when he needed her help with the arrangements.

It was evening now. The puja was about to commence. The devotees had first come in a trickle which had increased to a rush as the puja hour came near. The courtyard was full now with couples and parents and squalling babies. He had already delayed the start enough. The hour was passing.

He started. He prayed. All the hopes and wishes, longing and dreams. Of people sitting silently with their heads bowed. Nandini staring fixedly at Devi. A mother wishing for the one thing she always does.

Om kali kali mahakali kalike papaharini

Dharmartha-moksade devi narayani namah-stute

Devi smiled.

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Not very happy with this. I keep thinking how much more proper the conversations and the sentences would be in Bengali. Something to think about I guess.

Akshay Tritiya today.

Sign o' the times

A bit of a homage. And since it does feel like closure, I will get back to it at the end.

What have I got to say today about the world? I had an usual holiday (weekend) which is to say that I did nothing much. I read, I listened to music and I looked for interesting books and bits which is what I do. And I was glad to do that. I read today's Mint lounge (link to the piece that most appealed to me here, but do read the entire set) and I owe a bit of gratitude to the editors and writers who made the issue happen. As these things are designed to do, I essentially spent the rest of the morning morose and mopey and melancholy. I know that I will probably never go back to the place where I grew up but I know I will always miss it. What Nehruvian socialism left a significant section of our middle-class generation with would be memories of growing up in townships that sprouted around industrial developments, the public sector undertakings that even today form a massive part of the infrastructural backbone of our country. A childhood spent near enough to the countryside to take in yearly floods, kalboishakhis, starry nights, prickly yet scented grass you walked barefoot on, massive rivers and long rides in unreliable public transport. You ever feel that you could never really envy anyone too much? I only envy myself, in the childhood and the lazy joy I had without knowing what I had. What would you promise me? I had books, I had sunshine, I had cold foggy mornings, I had hours understanding whatever I wished to, I had everything I had imagined of. The only thing that makes me sad, and it does make me incredibly sad, is that I will never return that place out of time, and I won't be able to make someone else understand what I felt, or how I happy I was or that I can't make someone experience it. Thick glasses, childhood drama, teenage angst, all these things remain indelibly tied with the experience of the place itself. But then we all make our own memories and maybe that's how it is supposed to be, each experience colored in the shade we infuse it with. I just wish then that I could relive them sometimes you know? Not in a Total Recall kind of way (that's another fantasy and that just not me), but on weekends like this I really want to just escape into my head. A solitary retreat of happiness and warmth. Tell me you don't want that. Tell me you can promise me more than that.

A billion and quite a bit more. That's how many people are crammed in, ass to cheek, in this country of ours. A hardscrabble battle to grow food in a country that depends so pathetically on the monsoons should be unacceptable. Two years of below average rainfall and drought like situations in four-five states already is shameful. We are living in a world teetering on the brink. And we as a country are going to be so woefully underprepared. This is going to be different from the times when greed/corruption/poor governance (all synonyms really) killed people (like the famine in 1943). Think of a world which is just not enough to meet the requirements of all its people. Simple pigeon hole principle. Some of us, quite a lot of us, are going to be nonviable. Its weird isn't it. We are consuming more and more, growing bigger and fatter and more conceited and demanding, all the while picking up speed and rushing to the point when everything will be taken away. Its already more difficult to buy a house and ensure a decent education for your children than it ever was (these are things that a 30 something guy is supposed to worry about, right?). Sometimes I think that the only option is to give it all up, this false striving for the promised land of vegetarian gravy and soy lattes. But then I need my caffeine fix and I smile at my foolishness. So what if everyone's a patriot and all you think of is the collective delusion of jingoistic masses who care of whatever stimulates their primitive medulla. It is the only way. And therefore it is the right way (it is, just don't argue).

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So onto things more recent and the movies, music and books I feel I should tell you about (and keep a memory of). 

Movies first. Two tonally similar movies in that there was a focus more on the action than on the actors in them. There's hardly any 'acting', no mannerisms that are exaggerated, no drama, no pathos (except for the deep bleakness in both of them and how people react to that). Both movies about people doing their jobs. Journalists working in an non-glamorous setting and doing almost menial work, focused on details as they seek to uncover a scandal. Based on true stories, as these things often are, Spotlight is truly worth watching. The other movie had more memorable acting with Emily Blunt being the strong kick-ass yet fragile FBI agent who rides shotgun with Benicio Del Toro, who's playing a Mexican/Columbian hitman, the titular Sicario.

I haven't read a lot of books. I am trying to remedy that. I have gone through the first 2 volumes of Fables (Legends in exile & Animal farm), the first volume of Sandman (Preludes and Nocturnes, in dead tree format no less). And I have read Alex Ross' Justice (mostly for the art, I am shallow). All these comics I have liked. I have a few books I am in the midst of reading. I will write about them when I am done reading them I guess.

Onto music then. Its been a sad few months. You are 10, then you come home and play a cassette and then there's a song called Purple Rain and you are never quite the same. You don't really understand the words at first and then you pay attention and try to understand the lyrics and it still doesn't make sense. It never will make sense but you know that Purple Rain makes you almost shake with longing for something (you are 10, remember?). Weird stuff, all in all. So, listen to the Purple One's songs whenever you can. He could be operatic and melodramatic and sweet and his craftsmanship was truly without compare.

1. Prince - Sign O' the Times (his people take the music down most times but this is a song well worth seeking out). Utterly relevant even today. Stripped with a electronic background beat, his voice melds beautifully with occasional riffs of guitar. Also suggest listening to Purple Rain (duh), When Doves Cry, Little Red Corvette... etc etc (buy a Best of compilation maybe?)

2. Eagles - Take it easy. The one song I would karaoke to if I needed to escape being shot or something. These songs form the soundtrack of our lives (if your life involved going to a college anytime between 1980 and 2005 or if you had decent friends).

 

3. The Glitch Mob - Starve the Ego, Feed the Soul. I end up coming back to instrumental tracks. All new music isn't bad.

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#findyoursentence

P.S. In case you want to know...

Kalboishakhi (credit)

I watched platform no. 2 being built

Them's the breaks

You feel invincible sometimes. Not all that often, not often enough to mess up your ego. But there are some mornings, you bounce off the bed and just feel good. You tend to remember these days now, notice them more. They come by much less frequently now. You tend to not notice your body when it works the way you want it to. You punish it with late nights, awful eating and 'other' habits. And then it slowly starts to quit on you. Joints pop, you let out involuntary hisses of pain when you make sudden movements, muscles seize and cramp. You turn to those trusty white pills, the new prescription that the nice doctor gave (along with the warnings, of course) and trust the relief modern medicine grants you. Its bliss, its comfort, its better than any oblivion granted by any other drug. You feel invincible again. Its a rush. And you keep pushing.

Anyway, you don't mind it. Its a body, and you think its just a vessel for the mind. Terribly conceited of you. And you know that you are wrong. You have had nights when you felt like clawing your brains out if it just meant not hurting anymore. You have had days like that. You know that but you forget. And its understandable. The mind wants what it wants. And it usually gets its way too. But there's a comfort that a body that is yours to command gives you. The blind trust that you can have in it. Of getting somewhere. Of reaching someone. You could run, scale those mountains like you always wanted. It would stop distracting the mind then, the nerve receptors signaling pain. But what would the mind do then with all this free time, all this focus? Well it would figure something. Not just worry about what's broken, maybe for ever. It needs to not fret about the troubles and just go about creating its own bubble of synthetic reality and then decorate and renovate that space to its specifications.

Anyway, that's its for today. Stretching the fingers a bit. Inconsequential non-sense. Which all non-sense is. I think.

A mild case of anglophilia

What is it that I like about Great Britain? That's what really what this post is supposed to be about. And during the dueness of events, we will venture into why I have been thinking about it. Well, not why I think generally, per se if you will, cause the post involving psychoanalyzing myself is the one I am saving for later (like for the last one, well... apart from the fact that every post in a way is really me analyzing myself), but the reason as to why I am thinking of Britons and of English and other things that, to an Indian of limited knowledge, are essentially brit. We will be determinedly ignoring the negative things that might otherwise need to be included in the argument for fairness and justice and equity. Apologies for that, but that's that really.

Well, the first and the most obvious thing is obviously the language itself. English is the lingua franca for most of the world ain't it? To look for historical roots wouldn't require us to look too far back either.

Little Bengal

There was a front-page article on The Telegraph the day before yesterday (link) on a panel of economists which questioned the current state government's "hands-off" land policy and populist schemes (including promotion of small and micro-industries). The panel included India's chief economic adviser and rather pointedly talked about the 'fetish' for small and the elevation of smallness that permeates Bengal. Let's leave aside for the moment the fact that economists are subject to biases and political motives themselves (which becomes pertinent in light of the state elections scheduled next year and the fact that the current national government (and part of the state opposition) has a much-touted industrial development plank), I wonder to myself about the price development really demands. 

I have been home for a week now and I like the fact that the air is cooler and cleaner, the pace is unhurried (comparatively) and there's usually a lake within walking distance. I will probably go stir-crazy in the next three days and I dislike the fact that there's a fucking queue for everything and the fact is that I can't really imagine enjoying the general convenience of things that I do have in Bombay, in Calcutta. People leave the city, nay the state, for opportunities and that's a sad indictment of what has come to pass in what I really believe is one of the best bits of the country in terms of pure potential. People comfortable with a mediocre existence and fostering modest expectations, easily herded and kept content in a nation of sheep. It is easier to manage expectations when such expectations are tempered by ignorance, of not knowing what is possible and what is to be demanded as a right. When the basics are withheld and compromises are made daily, you don't really expect or feel that you deserve more or indeed that there can be more. What we are developing (yes, developing is so the wrong word) is a state where people are being made to accept that aspirations are wrong, hopes are unwarranted and that progress is a filthy four letter word. A medieval mindset that parleys narrow fears of religion into electoral gains in such a short-sighted manner needs to be questioned and changed and if necessary, uprooted.

Anyway, not really my point. And not a fight I really want any part of. Its just such a shame that any economic and social change depends on political will and patronage. I think democracy makes it so, power to the people and all that. But maybe we, as people, can only define ourselves by what our forefathers had accepted and decreed themselves. We accept roles, as parents and as children, as plebs and as middle-class. And so it goes on, a non-life of setting and meeting middling non-expectations, passed in the dull and comforting opiate daze of ignorance and smugness. And this post was originally meant to be about the things that make Bengal unique and interesting and that could probably highlight what it actually can promote and develop and at the same time retain its identity and yet not remain in its current position as one of the has-beens in the Indian context. I think most of those things will keep for another day and another post. 

In my week at home, I encountered a few things that I think lie rather low in a non-Bengali's awareness scales. They are rather cultural, even folk-ish in nature and they piqued my interest now, even if I have known about them since forever basically. Things like baul-music which I recollect from my daytime travel in the local trains. Curious half-sanyasi, half-beggars, the baul musicians would board the trains with their ektaras (and often with khartals and manjiris) and sing songs of Lalon-fakir while they collected their alms. Numinous yet gratifyingly earthy, mystical and curiously non-denominational, I was reminded of it during a three-day festival of folk music that happened too close by to ignore. It was rustic and simple and honest and painfully charming for the half an hour I was there. Apparently, Tagore was greatly influenced by them and you can probably find signs of the baul-culture in his songs and in Shantiniketan as well.


Then there is kirtan that I caught a few surprisingly rousing performances of (on TV and yes I wasn't looking for it) and there was a chhau performance that I missed at Princep ghat. These things, the intangible cultural heritage of the state needs to be showcased and appreciated better. We got some things, pretty baubles, intricate masterpieces and these are things to be proud of, even if they aren't really enough to stake entire futures on.

I want to get into sanskrit literature - I need to find out some suggestions and some accessible translations. 
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Peace and hope.

Past time chronicles

I am happy to report that I am home for the holidays. Home now means a specific location, it means family and an address. I don’t think of the city as my home really, I have been gone quite a while. The longest period at a stretch I have ever spent in the city is three years, during my graduation and I have been away, save for the occasional visits, for much longer, more than ten years. But I still quite like this city of faded yet undoubted charms. There is a need to recharge and renew at the end of the year, an year that’s almost done with and I am here to do just that. Not a noteworthy year really, time spent doing uninspiring work with little spared for enjoyment and learning. I would be at a loss to describe the things that were different this year from the last. Not exactly a perfect state of affairs, is it? But the weather is thankfully cool now, with the hint of a fog in the nights and sweaters brought out from storage. I like the winter, always have, the sun bright and warm and delightful in the mornings where it manages to find skin. A delightful contrast to the tents you make at night under sprawling blankets while you read books on the e-device of your choice (brother gave this for a birthday, a proper surprise and a gift I was extremely glad for). And breakfast was cakes and oranges to go with the time of the year. So yes, I am content today.

I have been trying to read again. I find it difficult to work up the energy and the enthusiasm at the end of the day or at the end of a work week to do a deep-dive into a book or a lengthy article. You end up barely glancing through the newspapers, ignorant of even the most important things, unaware and stupid and shallow. I hate it. Hate everything that people seem to be accept as inevitable, even as I learn to accept them as inevitable myself. I understand that there are other ways of processing information these days, through snippets on social media, snatched conversations around the water cooler and jingoistic peddlers of unadulterated nonsense. I feel like running away from it all most days. I read a few books these past weeks, one on Tintin and Herge, which I will talk about in greater detail later, then there have been a couple of others on basic maths and a Michael Lewis book. Also found a great site (WaitbutWhy) which is premised on an idea that I would have been so proud to come up with and execute. So the intention is to keep the reading habit going and trying to find other things that are somewhat fulfilling and trying to find the time to do those things. Things need to be changed, quickly and with decision. It is a fool’s errand to look for satisfaction and contentment in activities that preclude creativity and inhibit originality. Spending twelve hour workdays trying to manage insane workloads involving inane activities is not my idea of any kind of life, let alone a perfect one.

There isn’t enough time now to spend on useless things. I am past thirty and am pretty sure I will not be one of those people who are active and vigorous even when they are sixty. I am reluctant to waste time these days on undeserved and unwarranted politeness and pretenses. I hate arguments, if only because they require me to spend time and energy that I am loathe to. The same really goes for all my interactions, if not interesting, I prefer them to be non-confrontational and non-demanding and short. I do make allowances if my interest is piqued though. Its the only thing that really counts, am I better or at least not lesser, because of the time I spent. Was anything of minimal value created? Is it something I will remember, even subliminally, five minutes later? I can’t remember the last time I wanted to linger over a chat, when I was excited and challenged over the conversational gambits that signal furtive interest and a shared excitement (I am discounting the incredibly rare times I get drunk these days and even then I get excited about topics and imagined interests from others that I usually forget the next day). I would rather curl up with a good book and a cup of tea. Or maybe I would write something non-angst-y or paint a bold sketch in black. I would rather cook a perfectly nice meal for myself than have a tortured and banal conversation. I could travel, take the weekends to nearby places and walk a bit. I would like to do that. The family has been about town a bit this weekend, we visited Princep ghat and the Dakshineshwar Kali-bari and it was good to get out and see a bit of the history here.

The year is nearly gone now. The change gathers pace. We live in such great times, incredible times. Radically different world perspectives are developing. We shouldn’t be happy choosing to be on the sidelines, waiting for the dices to be rolled and finding out where our fates land. This has been a crazy year for the world, the rise of religious fanaticism on a world-wide basis to levels unseen since the crusades which led to large-scale human migrations, development of religious states for the first time in living memory, eradication of major diseases in the poorest countries, legalization of same-sex marriages (and subsequent setbacks too), technology developing to help realize the dream of interplanetary travel etc. We are in the cusp of so many paradigm-shifting changes and the world that’s coming into definition now is going to be unrecognizable from the one we grew up in. We need to lay down our markers and choose our battles and ideals. Isn’t it going to be a shame if we didn’t do what we should have done, could have done. Ain’t nobody judging us but ourselves. Nobody else holding us back either (yes yes, all this psyching up is for my benefit alone).

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For the books I want to mention today -

1. Tintin: Herge and his creation by Harry Thompson (http://www.amazon.in/dp/0340564628) - Tintin forms a significant part of the childhood of Bongs of a certain age, including me. I have read the books (most of them certainly) in a variety of formats. The Bengali translations that were serialized in Anandamela (the bi-weekly magazine), the soft cover editions from Mammoth and Methuen which I got on birthdays from Diyama or rented from the local library or the hardback ones in the school library which collected four stories apiece. It was my earliest introduction to foreign lands and foreign people (along with books by Enid Blyton) and I guess I got my start in reading from these books. I had kind of been out of touch with Tintin, apart from the Spielberg movie obviously and then I happened on this book (though I still felt foolishly arrogant if there was a Tintin related question in a quiz). Lucidly written with sections named after the various books in the order they were written (Red Rackham’s Treasure following The Secret of The Unicorn, for example), the writer narrates the life of Herge with the backdrop of the books and the world war and charts his growth as an illustrator and as a storyteller. I am re-drawn to the stories after all this years and have found great joy in searching out the panels that Thompson refers to in the book and re-reading the entire thing ultimately with the backdrop of the book.
2. The Big Short by Michael Lewis (http://www.amazon.in/dp/0141043539) - I had read Liar’s Poker (which is kind of a mandatory MBA read) and Moneyball (after watching the Brad Pitt movie) and I had liked them. The financial world he describes is familiar enough to not be too off-putting and its high-finance enough that it plays into your fantasies. So with the new movie coming up (no idea if its out in India yet) I decided to read the book. The book doesn’t really break new ground in terms of what we now know about the 2008 financial crisis but it does introduce you to real life characters who predicted and profited from the meltdown. What the book does provide in terms of its message is the fact that a lot of transactions and entire financial systems in fact, are predicated on questionable judgment and incomplete understanding of the risks involved.

Apart from the above, I would definitely recommend checking out Here’s looking at Euclid by Alex Bellos (http://www.amazon.in/dp/1416588280). Its a beautiful book on a beautiful subject. There is a bit of history in it, never a bad thing. I read it over a month’s worth of weekends. It made me remember why I loved maths in the first place and makes me want to reconnect. So, gotta make the time for it now. And I really want to read The Hero with a Thousand Faces next.

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I haven’t really been listening to songs much. Here are a few that I think I have been listening to recently -

1. Zero 7 - Destiny - So bright and so fresh and so the aughts. And it has Sia in it (she’s undoubtedly got vocal chops). Easy listening.

2. U2 - The First Time - a big fan of U2 (I haven’t really mentioned that before, have I?). Nobody does big sound as well as them and I still remember the goosebumps I got when I first played Joshua Tree on the home stereo-deck (I was young but the experience was no less honest). This is one of their songs that I get the lyrics wrong to and everytime it makes a different sort of sense to me. A quiet song building to a wailing harmony at the end. Perfect.

3. X Ambassadors - Love Song Drug Song - a new band. Haven’t really heard too much of them apart from this. They can’t even be called a one-hit wonder seeing as I don’t think even this song counts as much of a hit. However this is such an awesome song with stripped vocals, easy rhythm and a sax solo at the end that I need to put the song here.

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So that’s pretty much it. I did watch Episode VII: The Force Awakens with the rest of humanity. Star Wars and George Lucas and Disney are all going to make a shitload of money. JJ Abrams did an acceptable job of maintaining a familiar/comfortable plot-line whilst setting up the trilogy. No standout new characters for me (BB-8 doesn’t count) though I have hopes that the Poe Dameron character will turn out to be more interesting.

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There was a Communist plenum in Calcutta today.