tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7916359909226852532024-02-02T16:00:08.799-08:00The Mr. Bandookwala Blog<b> Mr. Bandookwala, M.B.A., Harvard </b> <br><br>
He designed Facespook, but he couldn't manage Pinnacle Constructions Ltd.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-59710651691680422552015-08-04T00:36:00.003-07:002015-08-04T00:36:18.642-07:00Is It Right to Boycott the News Media?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">Because of their anger and loathing for the
news media, several of my friends – writers themselves – have turned against
the media. This is manifested by their boycott of newspapers, news televisions
(sometimes, televisions altogether), and sundry other media. I am disturbed by
this. True, news can’t be believed any more, it could be paid news. There is
pollution of media by big interests who don’t stop at anything. Which must be what
Obama meant when he said, “I like it that you cover news from all angles,
because one of them might turn out to be accurate.” Cynically said, with a
pinch of Obama’s brand of humour.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">These people who have knowledge and
awareness who should have interpreted the news for us mortals have given up trying
to catch what is going on. Instead it’s the liars, plagiarists, cheats, thieves
and forgers that we are getting to hear these days. I can go on but I don’t see
the reason why I should. And, the feeling is not quite nice. Okay I can
understand your sentiments, I sympathise with your sense of outrage. But how
will you writers write when you don’t understand the world around you? Even a
technical writer needs to know the product about which he is writing, else, how
would he write?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">How then will you know what is going on in
this world? I am not a big fan of today’s news media, but I do read the papers
(three) and watch several news channels. (For news on the USA I go to Russia
Today which has the best news on the USA and none about Russia itself. Is it some
remnant of cold-war propaganda? I don’t know.) The BBC is the BBC is the Beeb.
Perhaps, they should show more programming than their in-house ads, which I
have by heart, committed to memory. I feel most of their programmes are cut and
edited to suit the time slot. So the words “We live the news” and “wall of sound”
will be forever embedded in my mind, thank you BBC.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The world is moving into a kind of anarchic
state. All our best leaders are gone, and thinking about it, they wouldn’t have
been leaders if they were alive today. The leaders of today are people who go
to any extent to project their personalities. It doesn’t help if all our
thought leaders become silent and don’t have a medium to express themselves.
The media is playing a sinister role by excluding these thought leaders. So
what’s the solution? How can we make you read more, discuss more, debate more
without resorting to violent protests, which the world is going through? How
can we bring you back to reading?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The television screen is full of violent
protesters these days. I can see occupiers, sloganeers, card holders, and stone
throwers in the thousands. That’s due to the extreme deprivation these people
face. The Middle East is a powder keg, just shutting our eyes won’t help. The
US thinks Iran will stop the ISIS just like it thought Pakistan will stop the
Talibans. And that’s not going to happen.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">So, as they say, watch this space.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-5626927591835378382015-07-23T04:19:00.004-07:002015-07-23T04:19:33.224-07:00THE MORNING WALK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">Woke up in a haze today. Don’t know why, but some days are like that. Went for a walk. I couldn’t pinpoint the reason for my rage but I felt rage inside. It was tumultuous, engaging, and riotous. It seemed everything was coming at me at the same time: the betrayals, the snide remarks, the failed connections, the rejections. The rage deepened over a few hours. Then I saw a video of this South African comedian imitating an Indian, especially our accent. That lightened the rage. I felt free for some time. Walking helped. I saw a rain-swollen canal, water in it flowing smoothly. It was turbulent, but had a contained sort of turbulence, like the one inside my head.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Then it lifted. What was it? What had made me so mad? I had woken up late, was that the cause? No, it can’t be. Was it the rain drumming against my windowpanes, its beats like drums gone crazy, a rhythm gone mad? Don’t know. Some days are like that. I feel rage, I feel helpless. The comedian lightened things, that’s the magic of comedy, to involve you, make you warm and fuzzy in the head. Music uplifts me. But my ipod lies idle because I read that wearing the earpiece increases bacteria a hundred times. Some such nonsense. I like to hear nature when I walk: the bird sounds, the sound of the stream, the rain pattering on the road, the bark of dogs, the insistent call of cuckoos. I find it soothing, uplifting. It’s calm where I walk, there’s a pond, lot of greenery, some uninhabited temples, and some slums coming up on the opposite side of the pond.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Ever since I acquired a paunch I have been the object of ridicule. I tend to retain water in the stomach. People laugh at me, or, tease me. I tell them it’s because of too much beer. South Indians tend to have big bellies sticking out, which is no consolation. But the doctor says it’s because of the salt I ate and the medical condition I have. Every day in office, in the thick of work, I used to feel the pangs for something to eat and I would send the peon for those hideous salted potato chips. I was working for my family, to pay my bills, is that a reason for ridicule? I have tried everything to get rid of the nasty bulge. But it stays, as if it were the Holy Grail, my holy grail. I hide my paunch with jackets from Fab India. They are expensive.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Then I got used to the ridicule. It doesn’t matter to me; it’s absurd to be so concerned by it. I have better things to do. I see a thick carapace forming, the hardening of my skin, the callusing. It doesn’t rain when I walk, though the sky is overcast. I return to my den after reading the newspapers. That’s when I thought of writing this.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-74183663694082943532015-07-01T02:10:00.002-07:002015-07-01T02:10:59.299-07:00Now Comes the Hard Part<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">Here comes the hard part. The final
sub-editing part, where I correct grammar, spelling without actually going too
much into the story or the presentation. That’s all settled and cast in stone
by now. I’d rather not change that. It means a lot of heartbreak because of the
disgust of having to sit for long time in one spot and having to concentrate.
Many times I reach for the desktop where I have internet and log-in to
Facebook. Should I? Shouldn’t I? My hand is poised, hovering, approaching the
mouse, withdraws and then in a decisive move I move the small rat-like
contraption and “Click.” Another few hours lost. That’s my Facebook addiction. I
can’t avoid that from happening. At least the novel is about the man who
started this addiction, which I have named Facespook. It’s because the man who
initially steered the idea of Facebook, or, its precursor Harvard Connect, was
an Indian. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-14394687047505268872015-05-01T06:23:00.003-07:002015-05-01T06:23:56.203-07:00Writing a Novel Is Like Putting a Universe Together<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">Writing a novel is like putting a universe
together: constructing its foundations first, living in it for days,
acquainting with the people, and then letting it go. It’s a very slow process
that requires immense patience. But once you are good at it, there’s a lot
going for you. Recently I completed my novel and now, horrors, I am submitting
to those whom I trust for a first look. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">But then why do writers take this arduous
journey to nowhere. Half the time – when you are writing - you are wondering
what the critics will say. You are in turmoil, you don’t think straight, your
narrative may falter, in which case – God forbid – you go back and rewrite. All
along, you are not being compensated for your time. You are in constant dilemma:
will my character say this; will he behave thus? Yes, in western countries you
have grants, which you can avail while writing a novel. Yann Martel was on a
grant when he wrote Life of Pi. But in India you have nothing. Zilch!</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Yes, there is something. Aha! You get a lot
of shit thrown at you if you read a chapter at a writer’s community. You sink
into perdition once again. People in Indian write in their own language plus English
(own language + English). I mean, Malayalis write in their English, Tamilians
write in their English, you get the drift, right?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">My effort has been to steer away from
stereotype to portray a stereotype. In <a href="http://mrbandookwala.blogspot.in/">Mr. Bandookwala</a> I have written
about different communities and the different ways they talk English, without
identifying the community. It becomes obvious which community I am talking
about, and at the same time, a foreigner can laugh at the quaint way we talk.
It was a tough task. But, now that it is done, I have the jitters again.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-84839104827705919492015-04-03T03:11:00.003-07:002015-04-03T03:11:52.838-07:00Miracles Happen, with Yoga and Exercise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is from my main blog, reproduced here so you know what's happening in my life:<br />
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The doctor went through the reports I gave him and smiled, “your reports are good, come let’s examine you.” Usually he has a grim expression on his face and rarely smiles, and, therefore, this must be good news. I lie down, he examines me. “You have made good progress; your problem is under remission, so we are taking you off the surgery list.”<br />
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Warmed the cockles, ventricles, the aorta, and whatever else there is. I thanked my Lord and saviour then and there. I was praying for a breakthrough, and now that I got it, I will keep working for it. For a doctor recovery of the patient is his ultimate reward and I could give him that, I am proud to think. My wife would be happy with the news. She has been through a lot since my last illness. I would have to continue with medicines though. I agree. He fills out a new list of medicines.<br />
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For the past few months I have been maintaining a strict regimen of meditation, yoga, weights, and walking. It’s not easy and is a tough regimen, which I followed because of the seriousness I felt about my situation. I have many more things to find closure to and the thought was troubling me. Even if it took my entire morning hours I didn’t deviate from the schedule. First comes meditation, which brings my mind and body together and prepares my body to tune up, as musicians do on their instruments. The body, according to me, is like a machine that needs tuning so that it can work continuously. Then I do pranayama, deep breathing, for about 45 minutes to one hour. This is essential to get oxygen and blood to the unreachable parts of the body, ergo, I have the abovementioned tuning effect. Then the ultimate of all yoga postures, the Surya Namaskars, which is a combination of several asanas in one. I can do only five of them, because it is difficult. It involves every muscle groups in my body and it has given me a lot of flexibility. It gives my body a lightness which is needed to prevent arthritis and falls.<br />
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I don’t put the fan on, because sweating is what I want to do. By the end of this routine I start sweating. Then it is to weights, two four-kilo weights in either hands, so that blood thumps through the arteries and I feel the abdominal muscles move. The skeletal system is better controlled by muscles than fat. Then it is breakfast and the newspapers before I go for my morning walk. I walk, in sunlight, may be, two or two-and-a-half kilometres, on an undulating road swinging my arms. Here also I sweat a lot. I hear the chirp of birds, I look at the greenery, I listen to music on my ipod, and I feel the freedom. I have made progress, which I have been praying for all these days.<br />
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It’s a lot better than being in an ICU which should be re-named Intensive Carelessness Unit. All the outside world is screened off, you can only talk to the nurses, the wardboys, and your own wife. ICUs are dull places, where there is no sunlight, you are fixed to machines that go, “blip, blip, twing, twing, twing,” those machines have a life of their own. Though you are spending a ton of money, you aren’t getting any humane treatment back. This must be the only industry where they are careless towards a high-paying customer. You are treated with callousness, you are just another patient about to conk off. The machines keep you awake in the night, and, therefore, you get no sleep. Then how will you recover?<br />
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I am writing a longer piece on my experience. Something called, “Would you trust your life to the medical professional?” Or, something such. India needs good doctors of which there is a shortage, especially general practitioners. The country needs good trained nurses who have a holistic and humane touch for treatment, and not a big attitude problem. The new lot of nurses can’t even give an injection properly. They aren’t paid much because hospitals are money making businesses. Well, most of them are Mallus, from my native place.<br />
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My advice to all of you dear readers. Exercise your bodies, do yoga anything that stretches those idle muscles. Medicines can’t cure everything.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-17921558057343296482015-01-24T06:30:00.001-08:002015-01-24T06:30:22.848-08:00How I Got Rid of "Ester Nutzer"<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafz3EbGOQRLLqsn69v1V6c-KVSS9LO9kpZZNm0Y839vLTiSCxlzIOMlSP2VJhg_DExMx0yp1bxgVWqs5m_Zidbaq5rn5vzpPQttIW8U95rBKaSilz1pyM_pvj9RbB9HgC-AtIaLL11Zcy/s1600/ESTER+NUTZER-722849.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjafz3EbGOQRLLqsn69v1V6c-KVSS9LO9kpZZNm0Y839vLTiSCxlzIOMlSP2VJhg_DExMx0yp1bxgVWqs5m_Zidbaq5rn5vzpPQttIW8U95rBKaSilz1pyM_pvj9RbB9HgC-AtIaLL11Zcy/s400/ESTER+NUTZER-722849.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6107915187398452898" /></a></p><div dir="ltr">For weeks it sat on my browser - Chrome - two words I had no clue about. "Ester Nutzer." I didn't know what it meant. Was it Malaware? Was it a spying program? Was it one of those phishing things I hear about.<div class="gmail_default" style="display:inline"><font color="#073763" face="monospace"></font>Though reasonably tech savvy I had no idea what this was.<font color="#073763" face="monospace"></font></div><br><br>I was completely at a loss.<br><br>I put a message of Facebook. The replies weren't encouraging. I searched the net and found that "Ester Nutzer" meant first user<div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:monospace;color:rgb(7,55,99);display:inline"> </div><div class="gmail_default" style="display:inline"><font color="#073763" face="monospace"></font>in German<font color="#073763" face="monospace"></font></div>. Well I am the first user of my computer, who else could have access to it?<br><br>I downloaded a Malaware programme, which was of no use to remove those two hateful words. Again, the sense of loss continued unwittingly. I have too many documents of importance on the computer to want to lose anything. <div class="gmail_default" style="display:inline">Only now have I realised the importance of backing up my data.<font color="#073763" face="monospace"></font></div><br><br>We live in an age devoid of privacy. Whatever we do is available and visible to someone sitting somewhere. I was thinking of this: is he reading my mail, is he deleting my files? Who is he? And<div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:monospace;color:rgb(7,55,99);display:inline"></div>, interestingly,the US administration says they have a right to snoop into our emails in the greater interest of humanity. I know the security of the human race comes before anything else in this beleaguered world, but what about my security? Is there no guaranty<div class="gmail_default" style="display:inline"><font color="#073763" face="monospace"></font></div> for that?<br><br>Then today I went to the settings of my browser. (It is the icon with the three horizontal lines right at the top end of the browser.<div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:monospace;color:rgb(7,55,99);display:inline">)</div> There again I find my friend "Ester Nutzer" sitting above my name as the first user. What the heck<div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:monospace;color:rgb(7,55,99);display:inline">?</div>Get away, off with you, man. I don't want you snooping on my computer anymore. There was a small button to delete him. I did it.<br><br>Mercifully now my browser doesn't have his august presence imprinted on it. I can rest content.</div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-41788650848791925102015-01-08T02:16:00.001-08:002015-01-08T02:16:25.013-08:00Finished Fourth Round of Editing on Mr. Bandookwala, M.B.A., Harvard<div dir="ltr">Finished the Fourth Round of Editing on the Novel<br><br><br>Coming to the end of a long journey is filled with forebodings. It's like the disembarkation after a train journey, where you are a bit shaken and the ground beneath you seem to weave and your head is fuzzy with the sights you have seen. Yeah, something similar. What next? Your steps falter, you find it hard to adjust to the light, and you think what's bleddy wrong with me. You were never like this before. What's this feeling of emptiness?<br> <br><br>The thought that is troubling you now is: how do you push this down the publishing shaft where a lot of talented writers have perished? Will it disappear into nothingness or will it be smooth sailing? A sense of danger abounds, you feel the vacuum building.<br> <br><br>Let us end this waffling. First things first, the fourth editing of your novel Mr. Bandookwala, M.B.A., Harvard has drawn to a close. You are immensely satisfied by the work you have done. If anything, this novel will define your writing, your oeuvre. The last month, after the hospitalisation, has been a very productive phase in your writing. So many days of waking up at 5 a.m. has helped. You think morning is the best time to write.<br> <br><br>But what lies ahead? Heard the literary scene is bitchy and bastardy. So much so that all the big slots are taken; and whatever is left is being filled up fast by those smart kids with their laptops and spreadsheets. Yeah, spreadsheets for plotting. What chance do you stand? What if your novel meets with failure? Face it. Every movie director encounters it on Friday; every author has to reconcile to the eventuality on the launch date.<br><br><br>Right now there are a hundred doubts running through your mind. You are confused. Will it succeed? Won't it? Will it be accepted, rejected, ignored, panned? Will there be polemics, will there be vehement opposition, will there be an extreme reaction?<br><br> <br>You have heard it said that the author has to let it go at some point. But you hate to let go of your baby. You are the possessive kind. You think you will have your say on the book cover. You already have sketches of how it should look. You wish you had a good agent who can push your work. Ah, that would be nice, and then you can relax. Anyone?<br><br> <br>You think the system is biased against new authors. Somehow there's this set notion that a new author takes long to be established in the market. Is that true? Anyone?<br><br> <br>Meanwhile, after the fourth round of editing, you sit and fret. Is there anybody out there? </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-57805299368722037642014-12-27T06:43:00.001-08:002014-12-27T06:43:09.199-08:00Making Progress on the Novel This Christmas<div dir="ltr"><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:monospace;color:rgb(7,55,99)"><p style="margin:0px 0px 6px;color:rgb(20,24,35);font-family:Helvetica,Arial,'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:14px;line-height:19.3199996948242px">Posted this on Facebook. Re-posting it here.</p><p style="margin:0px 0px 6px;color:rgb(20,24,35);font-family:Helvetica,Arial,'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:14px;line-height:19.3199996948242px"><br></p><p style="margin:0px 0px 6px;color:rgb(20,24,35);font-family:Helvetica,Arial,'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:14px;line-height:19.3199996948242px">Another Christmas has come and gone. Just like that. There were carols, cakes from Bangalore Iyengar's Bakery, who, by the bye (by the way, is wrong, just look it up), make the best rawa cakes. Spent time with wifey at home since I still have a few issues of health to be sorted out. Find that I need sunlight more because of some bug caught from hospital, which is causing itching. So caught a lot of sun, in fact, I walk with no shirt on the walking trail near Artist Village, j<span class="" style="display:inline">ust like my forefathers did. No one is around when I walk. What if anyone is around? I think the sun is the best guarantee against infection, better than any antibiotic. I am paying more attention to Yoga and doing it the way it was meant to be done. All the western Yoga teachers get it wrong, because they don't integrate Yoga with meditation. I find meditation is crucial to the success of Yogic exercises. I do my own research, in addition, I have the experience of Yoga as done in the Yogashram in Cochin. Hope to throw away my afflictions and be fully myself soon.</span></p><div class="" style="display:inline;color:rgb(20,24,35);font-family:Helvetica,Arial,'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:14px;line-height:19.3199996948242px"><p style="margin:0px 0px 6px"><br></p><p style="margin:0px 0px 6px">Meanwhile work on the novel continues at 5 a.m. I am happy with the progress. Hope to give you some good news soon.</p><p style="margin:6px 0px"><br></p><p style="margin:6px 0px">Tada, take care of your bodies. Don't over drink or over eat.</p></div></div> </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-34282485356569044912014-12-23T06:00:00.001-08:002014-12-23T06:02:38.282-08:00People Say the Wrong Things in Hospital<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
During my recent illness, I was toying with painful idea of giving up on my novel I am writing Mr. Bandookwala. This may anger some and make some go "Ah! So he didn't make it, yeahn?" "So much wasted effort." "Thank God, I won't have to bear his prattle of what stage the novel is in."<br />
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Yes people say wrong things. I know, I know, you deny this right? You can see this at funerals. There would be a group of uncouth dregs of society laughing on the solemn occasion. The reason I didn't want people to visit me in hospital was this. People say the wrong things and you can't stop them from doing so. There is one fellow parishioner who I suspect has necrophilia in a very advanced stage. Whenever he speaks he will bring out the medical condition in which people he knew died, along with descriptions in gruesome detail. Imagine him visiting me in hospital. I would have a tough time handling him. I suspect I would collapse. In hospital a patient is thinking of his recover and along comes this tyke, this moron, who talk so casually about medical condition and death.<br />
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So I said no visitors, please. A hospital is not the best time to meet me. Drop in at home; we will have a coffee and a chat. I am unshaven and have not slept for six days, what would they think? They will pronounce the end of the road for me.<br />
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I thought I had a lot of fight left in me. I still do. I used to play football and was in the college team. Though – smarting from hurt pride – as an extra, sitting on the bench.<br />
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After coming home and seeing the manuscript my heart melted. I said to myself I can't let this go just yet. I love this story. I have spent six years of my life on it. Some publisher will surely see it for its quality and publish it.<br />
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So I switch off the television at 10 p.m. and say our family prayer and I am in bed by 10.30 p.m. or, at the most, 11 p.m. I am up at 5 a.m. and working, sipping on hot green tea. Hope to give you the good news that the final copyediting is over and done.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-40647541750925783532014-10-18T03:22:00.001-07:002014-10-18T03:22:51.494-07:00The Last Stretch of Copyediting<div dir="ltr"><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Ah, to some good news at last! This is after the </span>tremendously boring news I have been posting so far. Beg your pardon! I am happy to say the novel is in the last stretch of copyediting, which has been a painful process. It feels great, I feel as if the effort has been worth it. Fie you! Negative thoughts. Don't come near, I warn you.<br></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;background-image:initial;background-repeat:initial"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Copyediting makes a difference, it surely does. It's not easy it's tremendously hard. It requires concentration, willingness to research, keeping mind clear – even isolating yourself - of distractions, some skills with the computer. Why do writers look haggard all the time? As if they needed a shave and a bath? It's because the mental process is too involving, time consuming.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Surprise! Today I met the writer and editor who taught me a few lessons in editing. He is a consummate practitioner of the word and his editing lessons were truly outstanding nuggets. Yeah, to think about it, I met him today. I won't name him, as I don't have his permission to do so. We talked about this and that and how we had enjoyed working together and parted.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I was editing a difficult piece for the online news domain I was working for at the time. He was my senior editor. He gave me time, which was the best part. Most editors these days don't have the time to give to anyone; they are so busy with their own work. But this guy, younger than me but more talented, sat with me on the manuscript I was working and showed me some tricks.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">He read out a sentence and said, "This is not what they actually mean. You have to understand what you are trying to say."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Then he edited it and said, "Yes, now it reads fine." He read it out and then, "this is what they actually mean. See, how simply I have put it and brought clarity. It's the amateurs who think they are too smart and write recondite English."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">This got me. How is it that people mean one thing and write another? Yes, it happens. So often I am bewildered by what I have written in my earlier days, when I chance upon them accidentally. This happens to people also. They have this beautiful thought and since they don't have writing or editing experience, when they write, it comes out as jumbled and incoherent. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">That's why writing and editing is an art. Woefully, an art that is ignored by people, going by the bloopers our newspapers have these days. For example:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">"I-T probe on Qureshi slams CBI ex-chief"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Glaring caption in a leading newspaper. From reading it you aren't aware what the writer is saying, or, meaning to say. How can a probe slam somebody? Shouldn't the word be "implicate"? Just to illustrate what my friend taught me at that small session beside my computer. Thank you friend.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Meanwhile let me come to what I was about to report about the novel. Yes, I am on my last stretch. That doesn't mean I am hurrying. I am taking it slow and deliberate. So, shall we say, watch this space.</span></p> </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-3116478313933985382014-10-09T05:15:00.001-07:002014-10-09T05:15:31.187-07:00Visit to Kerala<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU0Pn-Z-1oafnz6ZZDMQz1pXzHJhU52rqEJxWbhmRRNDmpoSmqFWEBU1nG7mxE4ZVjCqiLa7lV6XDu4Shlg43G5KQPIC3PvUYog7Ryc6T6DYo5o5f6Y5BK5zPkGcNUtelBiUdtcg2j0_Uc/s1600/IMG_20141002_110543-731187.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU0Pn-Z-1oafnz6ZZDMQz1pXzHJhU52rqEJxWbhmRRNDmpoSmqFWEBU1nG7mxE4ZVjCqiLa7lV6XDu4Shlg43G5KQPIC3PvUYog7Ryc6T6DYo5o5f6Y5BK5zPkGcNUtelBiUdtcg2j0_Uc/s400/IMG_20141002_110543-731187.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6068174314825746546" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzt8Gii1c5og0p24CzwWEASLNRnkl-05D2jkR-lbiULHb-6fgOLqWF_-LJccrOmAbSbWnKqJ_kkH1jqkwkR47U3kIO9df8Wzl3mMaRpyVtj0PTYfd1EL8UsVcNXvV36yw3JXVGpwn7n37m/s1600/IMG_20141002_092920-734191.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzt8Gii1c5og0p24CzwWEASLNRnkl-05D2jkR-lbiULHb-6fgOLqWF_-LJccrOmAbSbWnKqJ_kkH1jqkwkR47U3kIO9df8Wzl3mMaRpyVtj0PTYfd1EL8UsVcNXvV36yw3JXVGpwn7n37m/s400/IMG_20141002_092920-734191.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6068174326998635618" /></a></p><p dir="ltr">My return journey coincided with Gandhi Jayanti and I saw students at this station cleaning the platform. Quiet touched!</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-86140063254320791812014-09-13T05:38:00.001-07:002014-09-13T05:53:29.198-07:00Tips for Writers, i.e., If You Are Serious about Writing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The progress on the book is slow, creepingly slow. I feel exhausted after a few pages of editing. I don't know why. The net is full of suggestions for writers and editors. Most of them by writers themselves. Shows that all writers find writing difficult, and there's not much help coming. And, if you post on your blog or facebook, feedback, useful ones, is also scanty.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elmore Leonard's Ten Rules of Writing</td></tr>
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I have a few friends who religiously reads my blogs and they do comment, most often. Surprisingly, the majority of people for whom I have been very generous with my comments and likes do not reciprocate. This is rather mind-numbing, innit?<br />
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It's hurting also. Yeah. But what can be done? So you cut your nails, polish the tips of them, those hardy accretions on finger tips, (this is quite essential for the fingers to tap in words on the keyboard and also to hold down strings on guitar frets), and with nose slightly in the air, with a demeanour of a Shakespeare in Love, go ahead and add some tips for writers to your blog.<br />
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So, um, here goes:</div>
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Decide the best time to write and write religiously in that time. Keep away diversions, manage chores around these times but keep your mind focussed on putting some words on screen. This may be early morning or late in the night.</div>
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Have your own space, uncluttered, where you are comfortable. If you have a back problem put a cushion behind your back. This is your holy sanctum sanctorum, your pavitrabhoomi, whatevah!</div>
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Sit straight and don't bend over the keyboard. Posture is essentially everything.</div>
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If you are a snacker have plenty around so that you don't have to get up and go to the refrigerator.</div>
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For providence sake, stretch those cramped muscles once in a while.</div>
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If phone is a disturbance, switch it off when you try to write. That's what I do. Calls can always be answered later using missed calls facility.<br />
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If you are a social media addict, well, tear off the internet cable or turn it off. Social (what social) networking is the bane of writing.</div>
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Remember you are a writer, so look like one. Keep that beard, grow your hair, look like a writer. Your idiosyncracies will be forgiven. Sorry, I forgot women, keep your hair extra short, that androgynous look, right baby?</div>
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Don't blame others for your own lack of success. You will get some critics early on in your writing career who are hard to assuage. So ignore them. </div>
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Don't be too happy when something clicks. When I had my first success with a short story, a lot of my network friends turned against me.</div>
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Take long walks, there's nothing better to calm the mind and get new ideas.</div>
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Always keep a notebook, the more expensive the better. You will carry it with you if you pay a bomb. My Moleskine (unruled) notebook costs me one grand. That makes it Rs five a page. So I am careful about what I write in it.</div>
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Above all, follow Elmo Leonard's ten rules of writing pasted above.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-29549242105228839502014-09-04T06:06:00.001-07:002014-09-04T06:06:02.728-07:00Ganeshotsav Has Come and Gone, Some Thoughts<div dir="ltr">So a Ganeshotsav has come and gone. I almost miss the din and the sound of drums, which used to have me in a tizzy sometimes. Now, why I got into a tizzy is because I couldn't concentrate, and hence, couldn't write. Couldn't write means couldn't edit also. Editing requires more concentration, more contextual thinking, more care for language, et cetera. Writing is done just like that. <div><br></div><div>But I feel as the late writer <a href="http://johnpmathew.blogspot.in/2014/03/the-man-in-light-bulb-is-no-more-rip.html">Khushwant Singh</a> did that religious fervour is growing in India and according to many it is quite meaningless. There is no devotion, no dedication, and shows an absolute lack of discipline. Two families in our cluster of houses had Ganeshas in their homes and the noise through the day and night was tremendous. Is this a sign of saffronisation of India? A hard-core Hindutva friend once told me that he thought such fervour was misplaced, misguided. </div> <div><br></div><div>The two families I mentioned must have spent one lakh each on the idol, the food, the priest, and other miscellaneous expenses. Can they afford it? Did they take a loan to celebrate the festival? Lokmanya Tilak "popularized Ganesh Chaturthi as a national festival in order to bridge the gap between Brahmins and non-Brahmins and find a context in which to build a new grassroots unity between them, and generate nationalistic fervour among people in Maharashtra against the British colonial rule." Are these principles being observed?</div> <div><br></div><div>Well, questions will remain. </div></div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-12193098182670836882014-07-28T05:24:00.001-07:002014-07-28T05:24:46.535-07:00Today's Maid: a Case of Reverse Exploitation<div dir="ltr">This is something I am writing with great reluctance. Cases of people abusing/overworking their maids are many. But our maid has been abusing us and taking advantage of our, well, erm, good nature. Today, we live in a smart world: a world without principles, loyalties, old-world bon homie. Therefore the concept of the household maid who comes, talks politely, does work, and leaves is no longer applicable. Or, so we feel. <div><br></div><div>We pay her the prevailing rate for sweeping and swabbing (floor only) and a bonus on festivals. The beginning, a few years ago, was encouraging. Then, insidiously, from coming every day she started coming every second day. We said okay because every time there was a valid excuse. Then it became every third day. The work also started deteriorating. She wouldn't sweep or swab the balcony and only passes the wipe perfunctorily over the floor. Some room she doesn't sweep, only swabs, assuming it will take care of the dust and fallen hair. (We are people in our fifties and a lot of shedding happens.) The whole job hardly takes ten minutes and she is out of the door after that.</div> <div><br></div><div>Then, horror of horrors, she started coming once a week. The stories were the same: fever, chills, cough, back pain, and long wait at the local doctor's clinic. We realise we were being exploited. Cheated. In a month she comes only four times and takes full pay. Imagine!</div> <div><br></div><div>We hold consultations - wife and I - about what to do. She is an old hand, and, being sentimentally attached, we don't want to be rude and ask her to leave. God forbid who comes as replacement. Stories abound about maids stealing gold, giving information about valuables to boyfriends, even killing house owners.</div> <div><br></div><div>We are not decided about the exploiting maid, well, not so far. But she will have to go for the way she has been taking advantage of our leniency. I didn't know exploitation happens both way. Duh!</div> </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-50618223016981010192014-07-07T05:23:00.001-07:002014-07-07T05:23:04.361-07:00Some Progress! A Brief Note on the Magazines of the Seventies and Eighties.<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh79VXTshBfw9tGHpQdJSiOviT_uQHJa0N17_8oJs3QTc_85TOyq7p0jis3YP2jo7pFsfyH-f7HvsT0hyv2St2Ld09wLcb-boFzjwqAOstWU1zFu91aDMjU1hlLfRQzpF-kK58Jn3Mnff0c/s1600/debonair-784362.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh79VXTshBfw9tGHpQdJSiOviT_uQHJa0N17_8oJs3QTc_85TOyq7p0jis3YP2jo7pFsfyH-f7HvsT0hyv2St2Ld09wLcb-boFzjwqAOstWU1zFu91aDMjU1hlLfRQzpF-kK58Jn3Mnff0c/s400/debonair-784362.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6033294253373404930" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30yVVLvtRI05ssoFoFskwqSfEu86iEABQTLnHIFqmwwRtC47A-i0wKOEp2e3lRZKGP8idqV2oBatLlnHrE-f9LhwIlraHGU6fx6CORpRO79DG9Tl9FqkDmY_Qfsa_Zu2G5bBNkbEWkckT/s1600/illustrated+weekly-787207.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30yVVLvtRI05ssoFoFskwqSfEu86iEABQTLnHIFqmwwRtC47A-i0wKOEp2e3lRZKGP8idqV2oBatLlnHrE-f9LhwIlraHGU6fx6CORpRO79DG9Tl9FqkDmY_Qfsa_Zu2G5bBNkbEWkckT/s400/illustrated+weekly-787207.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6033294267344942786" /></a></p><p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VsYOkFzGksS07QCSNdQ4-SWS-7KB8Jt1OjDw9GdE6S7IGSyA0ZiZnmFfexJTFSrQ26LFnKRRRuDkWQ3xprCoZORJU2OtEQpQjRspfgUmtJYbGCEIV3Im3jfHpRnjFwnW4oUQDK1WyMKQ/s1600/imprint-789717.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VsYOkFzGksS07QCSNdQ4-SWS-7KB8Jt1OjDw9GdE6S7IGSyA0ZiZnmFfexJTFSrQ26LFnKRRRuDkWQ3xprCoZORJU2OtEQpQjRspfgUmtJYbGCEIV3Im3jfHpRnjFwnW4oUQDK1WyMKQ/s400/imprint-789717.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6033294274831709362" /></a></p><div dir="ltr">There's some progress on the novel's side, at last. I am to glad to tell you that the painful sub-editing, copy editing (call it what you will) has finally reached the half-way mark. It has been slow progress because I could do hardly four pages a day, that too, not on all days. Some days, football came in the way. Yes, football. Other days, a lot of things: sundry maintenance work at home (e.g. protecting against the rain), poetry submissions (that don't bear fruit), Sangam House submission (a mystery), a short story submission to New Yorker (which they said would automatically not qualify for a reply). So that's understandable. With so many submission they must be tired. There are so many people writing, especially short stories, and all the markets have died out. <div><br></div><div>I remember those days - Illustrated Weekly, Youth Times, Mirror, Imprint, Eves Weekly, Sunday Review, Debonair, Beautiful - all had space for short stories. Illustrated weekly and Youth Times had two pages for poems. My God! Those were golden days for short fiction. None of these magazines exist today. I would send out short stories and poems to all these publications and keep a watch if they appeared, while waiting in the barber shop. Yes, barber shops then had quite a few of those magazines in their racks. Some of them were published. But, then I was a poor documenter of my successes. All of them got lost in the movings I have done.</div> <div><br></div><div>Today these magazines have been gobbled up by bigger media. The big newspapers shut down their smaller magazines, as they made no profit. These magazines were the hotbed of intellectual discourse in those days. People actually wrote letters to editors, bereting them for bad issues, congratulating them for good issues.</div> <div><br></div><div>Where are those magazines? Where are those heated discussions? Football, anyone?</div></div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-18078901656972949862014-06-29T03:00:00.001-07:002014-06-29T03:00:03.061-07:00On Reading Jeet Thayil's Novel "Narcopolis"<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUkAzmAHvQ1GLq3pjM__MMignP_8GPGeKl5jdg7iLFEn4mbs8esRX7QCTQBhlwk-GBauvImuALcSAr2BH0PlzBK5xMRpVQdpo5ZRKAEelP1ZizO0gG_0-M3JOBrMboRWtUq1pG3u2GWva-/s1600/narcopolis+cover-703062.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUkAzmAHvQ1GLq3pjM__MMignP_8GPGeKl5jdg7iLFEn4mbs8esRX7QCTQBhlwk-GBauvImuALcSAr2BH0PlzBK5xMRpVQdpo5ZRKAEelP1ZizO0gG_0-M3JOBrMboRWtUq1pG3u2GWva-/s400/narcopolis+cover-703062.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_6030288715665745186" /></a></p><div dir="ltr">After a long time spent in prevaricating, I have gotten down to reading Jeet Thayil's Narcopolis. No, this isn't a case of hero-worship (Jeet is actually younger than me) for a person from my community, but a frank appreciation of a novel which is set in my urbs prima, Bombay. I know Jeet Thayil as an essayer of fine prose and poetry, and even our native places in Kerala aren't far from each other.<br> <br>Narcopolis is a many-layered piece about a man castrated to be a eunuch. I guess this is a system that is prevalent in India, only in India, that is. Here we have the eunuchs come to our home and if the child is born with inadequate sexual organs he is castrated to be an eunuch. A eunuch thus castrated can only become a beggar or a sex slave. Nothing could be sadder than a story of an eunuch (nowadays called transgender) in the class- and community-conscious Indian society. The transgender Dimple also works in an opium den set in the seventies when Thayil came of age and what is interesting is his re-creation of those days.<br> <br>Through his exquisitely crafted prose – having the ring of poetry – Thayil recreates an era that has been forgotten. Those days in Bombay opium was easily available. There was marijuana in every street corner; there were the dons of Dongri who managed the narcotics business with diligence. Today the dons are on the run and drugs aren't easily available. The opium dens of those days have closed down; the curtains have come down on an era of hedonistic excesses. Commissioner JRF Ribeiro the supercop and his brave men have seen to that.<br> <br>The author moves easily across boundaries and time lines as is seen from Lee's – a top-ranking Chinese official – story. Lee is marking his days in Bombay and is Dimple's customer. Dimple is employed by Rashid in his opium den and Thayil reels out a stream of slang terms which stands for the use and abuse of the narcotic. Rashid is a man damaged by the profession and indulges in excesses of sex and gluttony. He seems like a man beyond redemption.<br> <br>And, of course, there is the six-page opening sentence which as Thayil says "is a good sentence." I find nothing wrong in that since Joyce has a page full of outdated degrees and qualifications in Ulysses.<br><br>The famous Malayalam writer MT Vasudevan Nair has said that every novel puts across a novel concept, a novel idea, something for the society to ruminate on. I can't fish out the original Malayalam words, but he said as much. True Thayil has presented the unrecorded past of Bombay as a novel idea of which we may be unaware, but in which surely have played a part.<br> <br>My only complaint with Narcopolis is that it ends too soon. I would have liked to see some more resolution and closures. I would have liked to read more about Dimple's life and about Ramesh, Rumi, as he is called. He has some interesting quotes ascribed to him: "This chooth country, this cunt country, how the fuck are you supposed to live here without drugs?" But then a novel has to end somewhere doesn't it? </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-58508358454785215302014-03-17T06:42:00.001-07:002014-03-17T06:42:38.906-07:00Working Hardly on the Novel - Love Writing; Hate Editing<div dir="ltr"><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148)">Sorry for not being in this space for some time. It's that I am reading the novel on my Kindle and have noticed a lot of printer's devils - hm, the abominable creature's guts - in them, which I wouldn't have noticed otherwise.</div> <div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148)"><br></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148)">I love writing. But it's the editing that I hate, no, detest with all my being. While writing keeps you entertained and innovating, it's the editing that kills. I have edited the novel four (repeat four) times and I guess there is one more editing to go. </div> <div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148)"><br></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148)">So there goes me, a doddering old idiot, a tottering fool, a cranky and bankrupt writer back to another editing. I should have gone back to painting which would have been more lucrative. Ho, hm. </div> <div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148)"><br></div><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148)">Wish me luck, because, sorry folks, it's going to take a while.</div> </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-88217951575961436062014-02-10T06:35:00.000-08:002014-02-10T06:36:00.443-08:00Not Been Blogging for a Long Time. Now I Know How to Upload My Writing to Kindle<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEy3Y46Eb4dGF0r-O9CJoZNKvorWqYFVkNDGWbzuqItX3G3Mtuh0UK574UZFfCs3zs_tZOgAC1dwEOMB8F4gBQCE0FcLkPS-HxYM_BXaEBelDWOkUR4i18mlq2oj19hKxpgfT6VERwgG_G/s1600/kindle-760444.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEy3Y46Eb4dGF0r-O9CJoZNKvorWqYFVkNDGWbzuqItX3G3Mtuh0UK574UZFfCs3zs_tZOgAC1dwEOMB8F4gBQCE0FcLkPS-HxYM_BXaEBelDWOkUR4i18mlq2oj19hKxpgfT6VERwgG_G/s400/kindle-760444.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5978778990313528690" /></a></p><div dir="ltr">Yeah, I know, I have been so involved with my Kindle that I have not been blogging these past days. After all, it's a brilliant invention and I have been reading loads of stuff.<div class="gmail_default" style="display:inline"> I carry it wherever I go and am a bit smitten by its dark and pretty looks.<font color="#0b5394" face="verdana, sans-serif"></font></div><br><br>Now what I have done is upload my novel to my Kindle and, there it is, as if it (read I) have already been published. The formatting is as of a published book and everything is so presentable, it makes me wonder why I didn't buy a Kindle earlier.<br> <br>Of course, during the reading I am watching for bloopers in the plot and the language, <div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148);display:inline">"</div>little, little inconsistencies here and there, no,<div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148);display:inline"> "</div> as Catherine, Dinshaw's mother would say. It helps that the novel is one big file and not many small files, so that I can browse whichever portion I would like to edit.<div class="gmail_default" style="display:inline"> <font color="#0b5394" face="verdana, sans-serif"></font>Also, a printout wouldn't give you the feel a book, the font for instance, as the Kindle can.<font color="#0b5394" face="verdana, sans-serif"></font></div><br> <br>How I went about it is as follows:<br><br>When you buy Kindle you get a Kindle email address, something like <a href="mailto:you@kindle.com">you@kindle.com</a>. This is just a concept email and don't try to open it on your Outlook or elsewhere. When you mail your documents to <a href="mailto:you@free.kindle.com">you@free.kindle.com</a> you<div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:verdana,sans-serif;color:rgb(11,83,148);display:inline"> r</div> documents will be transferred to your Kindle device for free [Advise: you should be logged in to Amazon and should have a wi-fi connection.]. If you want it transferred without wi-fi you will have to pay a fee for their document transfer network, Whispernet. <br> <br>Simple? Do let me know if it works for you. Just imagine the joy of having hundreds of boring documents in a free-flowing Kindle format for you to read in trains, in cars, in monrail, in metro, <div class="gmail_default" style="display:inline"> <font color="#0b5394" face="verdana, sans-serif"></font>doctor's waiting room,<font color="#0b5394" face="verdana, sans-serif"></font></div>well, whatever!<br><br>I think Amazon and kindle should pay me for this recommendation. Yeah they should. </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-21304601744047556852014-01-23T03:57:00.000-08:002014-01-23T03:57:05.808-08:00Hmph! Copy Editing the Novel Was Tough!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Another landmark! No, nothing to do with Landmark, the bookstore, of which we are a regular visitor and fan, though we have seen the area for books shrinking, of late. Last time we were there we bought an expensive leather shoebox which we intend to use as our toiletry box. An expensive toiletry box from a book store? Dumb us! Why are we a bibliophile and not a clothesphile, or, toiletryphile, for starters?<br />
<br />
We finished another painful editing process on the novel <a href="http://mrbandookwala.blogspot.in/">Mr. Bandookwala, M.B.A., Harvard</a>. This time it was copy editing, removing silly spelling mistakes, respecting word territory (we make this mistake too often, i.e., using same words repeatedly in close proximity), removing needless footnotes (there were too many, in the final copy we intend to eliminate all footnotes), deleting self-indulgent passages (of this there were too many), eliminating literary flourishes (Ahem!).<br />
<br />
All this because, in the madly competitive world of today, where anyone owning a laptop is writing a novel (ya know, "am writing a novel" is the best pick-up line there is, beats "I have seen you somewhere"), publishers depend too much on literary agents to turn out publishable manuscripts. And, this is the sorry part, literary agents won't look at manuscripts that have simple flaws, no matter how good they are (they receive too many submissions that are utter tripe). We don't blame them, poor fellows, much harried as they are about copyrights, territories, and suchlike.<br />
<br />
Now, boo hoo, we have to sit down and carry out all those corrections, 350 pages of them. Writing sucks. Why weren't we a painter, an architect, a musician?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-1039773353223307002014-01-20T02:44:00.000-08:002014-01-20T02:44:01.138-08:00Singing and Strumming at a Christmas Celebration<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
The occasion was Kairali Belapur’s Christmas celebrations and
friend Henry wanted me to sing a song. So I dug out an old Christmas song I had
written and composed, changed a few lyrics, and sang. The change in lyrics was
because when I actually stood and sang there appeared to be some tunelessness,
some mis-match in the harmonies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhahfcCEwsEyvwryucD3MoiIXM-7kKjfoDfgdAETlmU0voYcWVKWFnadgJ0RF8Ro8ukyFZqnK_AVGWh9RySJAHzOG7_AU9WeAV7O98fti_xOqVCwYQ2F96ibfxCNePvYEyn7wIVnhd38_gy/s1600/kairali+christmas+celeb+singing_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhahfcCEwsEyvwryucD3MoiIXM-7kKjfoDfgdAETlmU0voYcWVKWFnadgJ0RF8Ro8ukyFZqnK_AVGWh9RySJAHzOG7_AU9WeAV7O98fti_xOqVCwYQ2F96ibfxCNePvYEyn7wIVnhd38_gy/s1600/kairali+christmas+celeb+singing_resized.jpg" height="320" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's tough... standing and strumming. My right hand is a blur!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there was the situation, the stage fright to be thought
about. My son said, “Papa, don’t make an ass of yourself, one mistake and they
will laugh at you for ages.” He is my biggest critic. Son, Papa can handle all
that, I am, sort of, well, used to all that. Son didn’t come for the performance,
so as not to be ridiculed by friends. Wifey was supportive. But then, can I do
it? What will those Malayalis whom I meet everyday think? They don’t even know
I write, write poetry, sing! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I had a lot of butterflies in my stomach as I sat through
the program. There was a lot of Karaoke singing, which is acceptable these
days, I guess. Then my turn came and I went on stage, after some backstage
shenanigans. One of the singers, a pretty young lady was so overcome she
refused to sing despite a lot of coaxing by her mother. Then – for the first
time in my life – I sang standing up strumming my guitar. Hitherto, I had only
sat and played the guitar. Must say standing up, playing the instrument, and
singing is tough. You have to concentrate on so many different things. But, I
managed fine without nervousness, well, not much. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Midway through the performance I felt my strumming becoming
unsteady. Haven’t I rehearsed this for three days? Panic. Overcome by singing
the choral part twice, no, thrice. Then it was time to say “Thank you, God
bless,” and go off stage. Wifey says applause was deafening. A woman sitting
beside her wanted to know how I do it. As if wifey knows how I do it. Hehe.
Takes hundreds of hours of practice, lady. I am self-taught, so, it’s all the
more harder. All those lonely hours you would be watching television serials, I
am strummin, and singin! Nothing in life is easy, really, nothing.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-32914046294449729842014-01-17T04:18:00.001-08:002014-01-17T04:18:05.739-08:00The Art of Being a Published Author<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXWLTNlUG5LYVI9bdzKQzSeM_Zo-x1Y8Ab884OkaqrTcl-3qinEpXX5fpVLfepRkq1v-mqEmhJnKPi8bftbRmtuzPgYTGrjChKS6zWcygjO4wcE5eFps8imCIO8169P-kFr8NgxpAD8-GS/s1600/writers+block-785739.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXWLTNlUG5LYVI9bdzKQzSeM_Zo-x1Y8Ab884OkaqrTcl-3qinEpXX5fpVLfepRkq1v-mqEmhJnKPi8bftbRmtuzPgYTGrjChKS6zWcygjO4wcE5eFps8imCIO8169P-kFr8NgxpAD8-GS/s400/writers+block-785739.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5969837407733813874" /></a></p><div dir="ltr"> Reading<a href="http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/nyrblog/2014/jan/11/writing-to-win/"> this article</a> by Tim Parks in <a href="http://nybooks.com">nybooks.com</a><div class="gmail_default" style="display:inline"> <font color="#0000ff" face="courier new, monospace"></font>, I<font color="#0000ff" face="courier new, monospace"> </font></div>couldn't but make me hang my head, in contrition, and think. About myself, the novel I am writing and the effort it takes. Yes, it takes a lot of effort to put a book out in the market, or, to be euphemistic, on the bookshelves. I was at Landmark, Vashi, yesterday and saw that they had removed all the stools they had in the book aisles. Was this deliberate? Were people seriously browsing with intention of buying, as I was doing, or just passing time? The book section had shrunk to quarter the floor space and the shop was dominated by video games, cell phones, and knick-knacks. There were children, unruly ones, running around screaming loudly. One felt nostalgic about bookshops one knew: Strand Book Stall in Fort; Nalanda, at the Taj Mahal Hotel (one has to pass through security check now, so I don't bother), the old Chetna book shop at Kala Ghoda (closed down); Mani's book shop on Colaba Causeway (which is now Search Word, or something such); they were all about books and books alone.<br> <br> <br><br>Now I was meaning to write something about writers. When a writer gets published for the first time, the whole scenario changes. No longer is he the reviled loser, trying to cobble up a novel, trying very hard to appear decent (though it is difficult as he doesn't have a steady job), trying to mingle with the so-called literati, caferati, whatever. In whatever circumstances he/she is working there are the often assumed lines of distinction being drawn such: can write/can't write to save his/her life. This is the bane of all writers, copywriters and technical writers included. If a majority sees you one way then you are doomed to that way for life. That's the politics of writing.<br> <br> <br><br>However, a transformation occurs when one gets published. The whole slam-dunk has been achieved and one needs to pontificate, act the moralist, or, the rebel as the case may be, as one is a published writer. One is asked to literary events, to speak at literary festivals, one's opinion is sought by newspapers and magazines. This can kill the writer in you and make you into another charlatan; all those one book wonders can tell you. One no longer suffers fools (aspiring writers) gladly and put on an inscrutable expression at gathering and even being nasty is excusable. After all, one is a published writer. Ain't it? Hm.<br> <br> <br><br>Nothing is greater than the disdain of the published writer for the unpublished (I typed non-published, which is an Indianism I should try and avoid: non-Indian, non-Malayali, non-Bengali, non-Brahmin, non, etcetera.). The published writer is all about being a winner, being somebody greater than the other writer (who can't write to save his life), who can write the next big Indian, or, world novel that will shake the world and sell millions of copies. Success can go to one's head faster than Tequila shots, and when adulation isn't coming one can go to desperate extents to get them. The haste to produce the next best-seller is so urgent that publishers put down the condition of delivering three books in a tight deadline of three years, which often stifles creativity, in fact, kills it.<br> <br> <br><br>Of course, when one is being feted around the world, when one offers one's sound bites on television, one can't be bothered to talk or write to a hapless struggling writer offering critique that could save his (writing) life. Writers of yore had secretaries who were writers themselves. These secretaries answered letters and brought interesting talent to the attention of the writer. These days who wants secretaries when one can type an email oneself and tweet inanities when eating noodle.<br> <br> <br><br>And, while I am at it, one final advise to struggling starving writers. Don't go so much after post-publishing celebrity-dom and self publish your novel. That's a trap. You will neither be called a published author nor be called to chair a session at the festival with a suffix like that. You will be condemned to eternal damnation as a self-published author.<br> <br> <br><br>The views, of course, are personal and not intended to hurt anybody. </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-19377079590393810292013-10-23T01:14:00.001-07:002013-10-23T01:14:10.698-07:00We Are Back!<div dir="ltr"><div class="gmail_default"><div class="gmail_default"><font color="#000000"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif">We are back, as said by Arnold Schwarzenegger in the terminator movie. But he said I will be back. What difference? None. </font><br> </font></div><div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000"><br></font></div><div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000">At once all computers at home conked out. Our laptop, son's desktop, both decided to strike. Our laptop was beyond repair, the repair centre girl sweetly told us, noting the pain on our face. We realised then that laptops are delicate little things - like wives - and we were pretty rough on it. Our work and pictures and artworks were saved in disks and and something called "dropbox" which is amazing, so check it out. In the retired state that we are in, we can't afford to invest in a new laptop, though we hear the thingamajig costs a lot less than before. We had paid two salaries to buy our laptop and had starved to make ends meet. Well, ahem!</font></div> <div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000"><br></font></div><div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000">So, sonny has gone and upgraded his desktop, which working fine, thank you. Being a computer scientist he knows the insides of the scrawny thing we are writing this on. What we see as a mass or wires and blinking lights hold meaning to a computer scientist because, like a doctor, he can spot what is wrong. "The Hard Disk is corrupted," he says. While we know of corruption in high places we don't know what corruption has to do with computers. May be, the hard disk borrowed some money from the mother board and didn't pay it back. Which brings us to mother board, whoever thought of mother as a board is plain sick in his thinking apparatus. This one has a good stereo attached and listening to music is a wonderful experience. Not quite the experience we have had yesterday when we listened to the Bose stereo at Croma in Belapur. That music was so good, the guitar chords so pure, it brought tears to our eyes and a lump in the throat. (We always listen to guitar chords, as we play the instrument, at least, try to.)</font></div> <div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000"><br></font></div><div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000">Be that as it may, we were warned to be extra careful while using this desktop, don't download anything, said sonny. And who bought this contraption in the first place? Okay, we let it pass.</font></div> <div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000"><br></font></div><div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000">The landmark of our completing ten years of blogging has passed and no one took notice. We asked the newspapers who we know to do a story on us (so it will help with the novel) and none of them responded. Who wants to feature a pony-tailed blogger? Hm, the world has other things to do.</font></div> <div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000"><br></font></div><div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000">The pony-tail is growing fine despite the barbs aimed at it. We have drawn stares, comments, denunciations, anger, surprise, laughs over our pony-tail, which is also fine. Guess it will take some time to get adjusted to. Shahrukh sports one is our constant excuse. It looks different and writers should look different. We grew it to remind us that we have a novel to complete. We have not edited it for the last three days, which is being lazy. But our financial worries overtake our writing, which needs calm and intense concentration. Will we be able to give it (novel) that? What's the purpose of all this if it will be rejected? Should we go on? What difference will it - the novel - make. Will it alter our complacency, that smug all-knowing world where things are swept into the past without a thought? Does society need someone to document its stories? Isn't it futile considering there are hardly anybody who attends book readings? Aren't we wasting time as the industrial worker from the oil company living next door thinks. (He has a car, two bikes, a bungalow lots of gold, Diwali bonus, what have you?)</font></div> <div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000"><br></font></div><div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000">A barrage of such questions almost floored us yesterday. Sometimes the loneliness of old age can be excruciating. Doubts can overcome one and cast a pall of gloom on our very existence. </font></div> <div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000"><br></font></div><div class="gmail_default"><font face="arial, helvetica, sans-serif" color="#000000">But we plod on regardless. As Ram Chander the securityman at the nearby newly-opened hospital in the neighborhood says, "din kat raha hai." We became acquainted on our morning walks. Meaning days are "being cut" from the gross total of our living days. That's a clumsy translation, but we will let it stand. We are hungry and lunch is waiting.</font></div> </div> </div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-68098321112781337002013-10-02T03:09:00.000-07:002013-10-02T03:09:18.887-07:00Why We Don't Have Good Copyeditors?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We recently read a few pages of an anthology, one in which our short story was published. Then we put the book down and winced. Winced because there were a lot of mistakes, that even the most underpaid sub-editor (a tribe of which we used to be a member) would have discovered. We wondered if the copy has been "subbed" at all. That hurt us because it was our book, one we made our debut with. It made us feel like dirt. To our horror, we discovered later that these days publishers don't employ the tribe called "su-editors" or "copyeditors". They do an editing online and then it goes to press. There is lot of difference between editing online and correcting proof on paper. Online you tend to scan and not really read, many, many, errors thus get overlooked.<br /><br />We think this was the horror story which was waiting to happen, putting the computer to work where it couldn't be of any help. A story that has killed the demand for good copy editors, which, partially, contributed to our downfall. The copy desk, once the privilege of well-read, all-knowing, grammar-proficient sub-editors who really controlled quality is now dead, as an institution or otherwise as a profession. That's why Indian novels turn out to be of atrocious quality, you turn away in disgust at the mistakes. Pick up a Bhagat or a Trivedi and you are spot on. Combined with this is the fact that there aren't anything called fact checking or research and the book becomes a poor cousin of those produced abroad. <br /><br />In the mad scramble for releasing titles, publishing houses are forgetting a very important ingredient of the publishing process, the copy desk. No, this is not self glorification, this is the plain truth. Everyday we have to wince through the growing number of mistakes in newspapers and magazines and, believe us, the online media isn't free of them either. You don't have to skim deep enough, you will find the bloopers floating on the surface itself. I have a novel before me which begins "Only one death reported in the press," in the second line. It seems as if one death rose from some graveyard and reported itself to the newspapers concerned.<br /><br />Don't worry, the meaning is clear, no? Why bother with grammar or syntax as long as meaning is clear? True not all writers (including us, yes, we need a lot of editing) are perfect, but a second opinion is what the publisher must seek and what could be better than the in-house second opinion of the sub-editor? I have worked under brilliant Chief sub-editors (the leader of the copy desk) who could point to a mistake though the entire team might have overlooked it.<br /><br />Ah, those were the days! Could we bring them back please!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-85389389081226322322013-09-26T22:07:00.001-07:002013-09-26T22:07:32.329-07:00Fwd: Sitting in a Mall and Wondering What Went Wrong<div dir="ltr"><div class="gmail_default" style="font-family:courier new,monospace;color:#0000ff">Now that we are retired from corporate life - ostensibly for writing (ah well, the novel is chugging along) - we spend a lot of time in malls, just browsing, seeing the branding, reading books in the bookstores, and generally bumming around. We see a lot of branding material, which used to be what we were doing when we threw it all away to devote time to writing. We see displays, standees, shopsigns, shopfronts (vinyl, acrylic, plastic you name it), we see flexes featuring bloopers ("ends of season sale", "Upto 50% discount" and in a luxury brand store "100 % genuine leather"), we see them and think of our days in marketing. There were exhibitions, events, kiosks, promotional brochures (leaflets) to be written and designed, websites to be populated with content, ads to be written and released, all great fun till you burn out with the urgency of it all. Everything is wanted with great speed and accuracy, everything is decided at the last minute. And there were ad agencies and suppliers to be paid and kept happy, which they were not, a swollen-headed tribe that they are. <br> <br>We were at this mall today and we see another veteran like us - a statesque grey-haired sardarji - also studying the landscape sitting on the bench where we sat. We wanted to reach out and ask what he did during his lifetime and how he is doing. But seeing the ominous silence he was enveloped in we demurr. May be, a tragedy has ocurred, may be, something he doesn't want to discuss. We let him alone and we sit in silence. People pass in different states of being occupied - mobiles, music, talking into their devices, playing games on tablets, texting, whatsapping, whatever that means. And there is silence, broken only by a toy train that whisks children around the mall, playing a tinny tune, resembling a real train's sounds. Chuck Berry's "Johnny B. Good" had an entire verse on trains:<br> <br>He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack<br>Sit under the tree near the railway track<br>Engineers would see him sitting in the shade<br>Strumming to the rhythm the drivers made.<br><br>Well the song is our favourite and ranks among the top ten songs of all time, and Chuck Berry is a great singer. He is still alive. We like to imitate him singing the song but can't capture his vitality, his mojo, his stage presence. The singer in us has died. <br> <br>Where were we? Okay, at the mall, we sit in silence, now that we are retired, studying life and what went wrong and how it could have been corrected. We - the Sardarji and us - aren't mobile addicts. We regret certain mistakes of our life, which might have, hypothetically, contributed to global warming, religious extremism, the recrudescence of superstition and blind beliefs in people's lives. In Nairobi, Kenya, a mall was attacked and people died. A mall as the one we were sitting. In India a man who fought superstition was killed. A cousin's son died at the age of 38 in a desert kingdom. What wrongs have we done to be thus?<br> <br>What went wrong with the marketing and branding of our country that we have to think of selling our family jewels to save our currency? Are we no longer the outsourcing back office of the world? What went wrong? What?<div dir="ltr"> </div> </div><br></div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-791635990922685253.post-81179677014681604492013-07-27T04:59:00.001-07:002013-07-27T04:59:16.191-07:00Fwd: Another Weekend<div dir="ltr"><div class="gmail_quote"><div dir="ltr"><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>Just another weekend and we thought we would share some things on this blog, our own sacred space, our own world we inhabit. <br> <br></div>We have got a job after a long time in a small advertising agency started by our friends and former colleagues. We are there as the copy person, so we can work at home and only go out for meetings. That suits our working style though our novel may be delayed. <br> <br>Also, we are working in advertising which pays rather well. Our friend Sujit was one such, a ponytailed copywriter with our agency of the time. We envied his ponytail, which was thick and lustrous. He told us he drew a salary of Rs 4 lakh a month. We were incredulous. How can it be possible? With that kind of money he might be having a dream life.<br> <br></div>No, all wasn't hunky dory in his life. He lived in an upscale area which cost a bomb, his wife and daughter left him because of his drinking problem. Yes, he drank. He invited us several times for a drink and we told him that drinking is not good for him, as we ourselves had given up the habit. <br> <br></div>But habits die hard. Very soon he was in trouble and had to be admitted to hospital. The man who admitted him was his agency head, not his wife or his father. At hospital he made progress and soon was discharged with the admonition that he should give up drinking, which was spoling his liver.<br> <br></div>He came to our office for meetings looking pale and emaciated. He jokingly called us "Jesus Christ," for whatever reasons we don't know. Being Mallus we shared a few Mallu jokes (or jocks as a Mallu would say). He was a fountain of jokes and sayings and we loved all of them. <br> <br></div>Then his agency head called us one day to announce the death of Sujit. He had started drinking again and this time the drinks took him. We were shocked. How can it be? It can't be, surely he was there somewhere and this must be some kind of prank.<br> <br></div>But truth was, he was dead. Though highly paid he had an unhappy life. One of his last jokes went thusly:<br><br></div>An ad man after dying went to heaven. God gave him the choice of heaven or hell. St. Paul showed him heaven and Satan showed him hell. In heaven he was shown a few men in white with some angels playing the harp. Then Devil took him to hell where men in white had scotch in their hands and the angels were playing hard rock.<br> <br></div>So the ad man chose hell, seeing as how he loved drinking. But when he was led deep into hell he saw fire, icy mountains, and weird creatures. Drinks were not available, not even water.<br><br></div>"This is not what you showed me," he told Satan.<br> <br></div>"Oh, that was just the advertising and marketing, this is the truth."<br><br></div>Rest in peace Sujit, my friend.<br></div> </div><br></div> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12219760381898565039noreply@blogger.com0