The day dawned like any other Monday, only I was a little peckish, nursing an irritable mood. It was the day of the maha rally that the red brigade had organised, a show stopper of a rally that the ruling party was too eager to flaunt after the crushing defeat in the Lok Sabha elections. This meant that it would again be a day of disruptions—traffic snarls and such other woes that plague the daily commuter to Kolkata. Chaos and Kolkata were slowly becoming synonymous, I sadly mulled, where it was almost impossible to function seamlessly. Most metros in the country hadn't even heard of the hurdles that one has to overcome in the city everyday, let alone experienced them.
It didn’t help when I turned to the day’s newspaper. It didn’t help either when I took up the novel that I had been reading last night, a depressing account about convoluted Japanese psyche. I was about to give in to a day of restlessness, when as an afterthought I logged on to the net. I started surfing absent-mindedly, and before long I realised that I had arrived on the homepage of South China Morning Post, the English daily that is published from Hong Kong.
I do not why but I have always liked the name of this daily and have associated happy images with it. Quite curiously, the name to me is reminiscent of an early morning sun filtering through window slats, creating small pools of light on a century-old mahogany table, where a steaming hot cup of coffee gives off its freshly-brewed aroma. It’s amazing just how a few words or a phrase can conjure up images, in such photographic precision. And believe it or not, just that very instant, my mood started to lift up, as I visualised myself in that room sitting at the table sipping coffee with an early morning edition of the newspaper in hand.While I was lost in my own musings, the light outside had started to change. Soon it grew dark and thunderclaps resounded through the morning air. Within minutes the muggy morning changed its contours, broad brushstrokes of liquid hues airbrushed the sky and fat raindrops came lashing down. Suddenly, all was well again with the world! Is it not for this ability to spring such surprises that I love my Kolkata? And sure, for once, I was not complaining.
Life in the suburbs has quite a few luxuries: a room with a view of a lush garden is one among them. Days when I am not spending my time scurrying about, I usually park myself beside the window and eavesdrop on the lives of other inhabitants who also claim the house and the garden their own.
It’s seven in the morning on a lazy Sunday. The sky is laden with thick monsoon clouds. But as the morning sun spreads its first tentative rays, it’s time for the noisy parakeets to assume an important air and perch themselves on the branches of the guava tree. They are definitely the ones to devour the choicest fruits first before anyone else can lay claim. Breakfast done, they take off in the same vein, condescendingly giving way to the remaining claimants.Meanwhile, the dove has decided to linger a while on the window ledge. But a pair of robins is determined to break its morning reverie. Reluctantly, it shifts to the edge but feeling outnumbered, finally makes way for another pair. The mynah and its pair have decided to check out the rooftop flower pots first before venturing into the slushy foliage beneath. The monsoon rain promises a hearty breakfast, much more than they can stomach.
The day is wearing on, the kingfisher doesn’t consider it worthwhile to waste any more time. Perched decidedly with an intent air, it makes its first swoop of the day and comes out with a wriggling, glistening piece from the pond below. The woodpecker, meanwhile, sports a contented look as the rainy season has made its job easier, almost like bagging a free lunch.
Once the furry friends have feasted to their fill, it’s time for the mongoose family to start looking for breakfast. Mother mongoose, with two babies in tow, scampers through the garden and takes charge of its delights for the next hour or so. It’s now time for me to back off from the window—for Ma Mongoose has caught a mid-sized snake and would loathe to be eavesdropped—and leave them to their lip-smacking meal, while I go and get my second round of morning tea and perhaps a slice of that hot walnut cake which has just been brought out from the oven.
A nasty fall has severely restricted my movements and has kept me homebound for the past one week. The bright side of it is that I have been catching up on my reading, three hefty titles of which I have managed to devour only two. Two of the books have been discovered by accident (all good reads usually are) the third is a worthy buy after a recommendation. Below is a sneak peek at the covers and what lie between them.
The Gift of Rain by Tan Twan Eng (Myrmidon 2007, £12.99) Long listed for the 2007 Man Booker Prize, this amazing debut novel by a Malaysian novelist is set in the backdrop of World War II, in the lush tropical island of Penang. A story of trust and betrayal, state connivance and individual integrity, The Gift of Rain heralds a promising voice emerging from post-colonial Southeast Asia.
Map of the Invisible World by Tash Aw (HarperCollins Publishers India 2009, Rs 450) Tash Aw, another gifted writer from Malaysia, gained literary prominence when his debut novel The Harmony Silk Factory received a Commonwealth writer’s Prize for Best First Novel and was longlisted for the (2006?) Man Booker Prize. Set in post-colonial Indonesia, Map of the Invisible World, his second novel, documents the initial days of Sukarno’s regime through the lives of Adam, an orphan in search of his identity; Johan, Adam’s elder brother, who has been separated from him and now leads a life of decadent privilege in Malaysia in the care of his foster parents ; Karl, a Dutch who raised Adam and is captured by soldiers, a victim of Sukarno’s cleansing drive to rid the island nation of its colonial remnants; and Margaret the American anthropologist and a friend of Karl’s who’s caught up in the crosscurrents of events while trying to help Adam find Karl. A painful account of a nation in transition.
Recipe for Cherubs by Babs Horton (Pocket Books 2008, £5.24)
Many a time I have judged a book by its cover (literally) and haven’t rued my decision later. This book was one such, whose lovely cover, the amusing name of the author and finally the blurb lured me into picking it up. And wasn’t I only too glad. A sleepy Welsh village with castles and lighthouses, a 200-year-old part-recipe-part-Renaissance-art book from Italy and a 13-year-old can be recipe for such a good read that even a seemingly slow reader like me could finish it (416 pp.) in two days flat! Took me back to the days of under-cover late-night reading sessions, oh so long ago. It was truly yesterday once more!
