Party Crashers, Groupie Snatchers

The worst aspect about my psychological make-up is that I cannot - under any circumstance, pressure or otherwise - forget. Whether they be events or people.

Volcano face is no longer volcano face although its activities has certainly left permanent imprints on his already hidden face. With hair. I know, I know what you're thinking. Me pay attention to a guy who looks more like a Korean pop idol wannabe and thinks less like the religious man I've always pined for? Certainly the apocalypse isn't here.

Then what could it be?

I blame the wedding bubble. You see, in a wedding no matter how unwelcome its effects and its participants are tend to invade your life anyway, however temporary it might be. Honestly speaking, I never thought that the upcoming wedding would have such an effect on me. It shouldn't. But it is. Just a tiny little bit. Even though I know I shouldn't be swayed, I am. Just a little.

In my defense, these recent feelings (I hate that I'm using this word cause really - it hasn't gone that far as the word usually tends to imply) didn't materialize out of nowhere. I'm perfectly entitled to misunderstandings and I am hard wired to believe that what I'm thinking is merely conjecture or at best hallucinations.

But here it is. There's something fishy going on. Really fishy. Like 8 years haven't happened. Like I'm back in grade 7, except I'm really not. See? I'm already at a loss for words.


I really need to go sleep.

these pictures are taken from GRFX [Can't find the link to the site =( ]

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When the lights roll & parakeets sing

This is how A Suitable Boy got me. With its damn table of Contents. And since I give creativity a lot of credit, this deserves a lot. Which is why I chose to read it. For six years.

Browsing through the books, two students meet one day.

A mother mopes, a medal melts away.

A courtesan sings coolly through the heat.

A hopeful lover buys a parakeet. 

A couple glide down-river in a boat.

A mother hears that mischeif is afloat. 

Two men discuss the Brahmpur leather trade.

A pair of brogues (maroon) is planned and made.

Blood soaks a lane, and bullets ricochet. 

A legislative vixen baits her prey. 

A baby kicks; a bloodshot Raja yowls. 

A young man speeds downhill; a father growls.

Calcutta simmers in a stew of talk.

A cemetery affords a pleasing walk. 

Beneath the neem the village children play.

Worn cattle churn the burning earth to clay.

A desperate mother ventures to deploy.

Fair means or foul to net a suitable boy. 

A wolf-hunt is arranged; at Baitar Fort.

A cheated marksmen looks for further support. 

Old landlords sue the state to keep their lands.

Crushed corpses rot upon the holy sands.

A kiss brings fury, Twelfth Night sparks a snub,

And even bridge stokes tumult at the Club.

A child is born; wise women come to look.

A cobbler writes. A poet mails his book. 

The Prime Minister fights, and keeps his head.

Sad sons assuage the spirits of their dead.

The flames of Karbala and Lanka blaze, 

Igniting madness through the city's maze.

Calcutta Christmas lights festoon Park Street;

And at a cricket match three suitors meet. 

Someone is stabbed in Brahmpur, someone dies, 

While private shame is viewed by public eyes. 

One person, five, and forty thousand choose;

Some win, some draw, and - as must be - some lose. 

The curtain falls; the players take their bow

And wander off the stage - at least for now. 

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the boy who was suitable

He tuned his thoughts to electronic
Circuitry. This soothed his mind.
He left irregular (moronic)
Sentimentality behind.
He thought of or-gates and of and-gates,
Of ROMS, of nor-gates, and of-nand-gates,
Of nanoseconds, megabytes,
And bits and nibbles ... but as flights
Of silhouetted birds move cawing
Across the pine-serrated sky,
Dragged from his cove, not knowing why,
He feels an urgent riptide drawing
Him far out, where, caught in kelp
Of loneliness, he cries for help.

- Vikram Seth, The Golden Gate

Isn't this poem like the perfect verse for an engineer? Although what its alluding to is kinda depressing but it makes me happier that the profession I'm half-heartedly pursuing doesn't exactly make for a happy living. Not unless I love it of course. Which I'm not really feeling right now due to the natural disdain I feel at the fields and waves exam that managed to - like I predicted - pummel on my confidence like an elephants paw stumps on an ant.

It took me a whooping total of 6 years to complete reading this book - and I'm trying to imagine how the hell he wrote it for so long without taking some Valium. Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy is one hell of a novel. The content isn't that amazing as much as it is riddling and even though he tries vigorously to give his characters three dimensions, the sheer volume of detail he associates with each of them just plays with my head - and I usually don't have much trouble trying to connect with characters no matter how two-dimensional or deep they are.

I applaud him for his creativity for capturing the post-Independence atmosphere of the new India. Unfortunately for Vikram Seth, this book and its recognition will probably only be limited to its sheer length and perhaps its unique poetic and rather descriptive table of contents. I know that's what initially piqued my interest in the book, apart from the fact that I couldn't pick it up and or flip properly through its pages merely because it was so big.

Alright, I did once in a while fall in love with Kabir Khan like Lata did, cringe when her pedophilic and lusty maternal uncle approached her and even felt my heart twinge a little when Amit indirectly - or rather directly for his poetic character - confessed to loving her and enjoying her company, and even went as far to as feel slightly revolted at Harish for his less than rogue and rough practicality. But like any girl feverently reading the love story she was promised, my attention span only lived when Lata did, died when politics came into it. I'm sure the abolishment of zamindari system was an important and even a pivotal movement at the crux of independence but it just wasn't my boat. At least not the way he wrote it.

And like every book that is far too long, the knots are tied up all too quickly. It took him 1000 pages to come to a climax and only 400 to reach a conclusion. Bummer.

Sure, it was a good read, well worth the time. I now know more about the Indian consulate and senate system more than I know about my own nation's. I am not even sure Bangladesh even has a senate system that isn't rigged with corruption and stone hearted officials who are solely interested in lining their own pockets. For God's sake I know the Indian national anthem by heart. I'm guilty of not knowing more than two lines of Amar Shonar Bangla. My father used to be pretty amused at the fact until I pointed that it was because of him enrolling me in an Indian School that things turned out this way. Historically speaking Bengal was and still is an integral part of India. Anyway, you can't measure patriotism by knowledge of your own national anthem. There are other crucial characteristics that defines a patriot. Like food, clothes, beliefs..yeah I could go on and on.

Back to Vikram Seth. I've yet to read his other works but now I have finally finished this monster of a book, I'm pretty inclined to read Two Lives focusing a bit on the Holocaust which seems pretty interesting. Oh yes! And also Golden Gate which apparently tells the tale of young professionals residing in San Francisco. But before my reading list extends from here to the Great Wall of China, I should really get going on those holds that I have with the public library. Now, those people, they haven't seen me in a while. I believe it's time I owe them a visit.

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