Masters of Rome

Those who know me well have been privy to my frequent obsessions. When assailled with one, there is nothing much I can do except sail along until the obsession wears thin.

I have been obsessed with people (living and dead), theories, fields of study, schools of thought and activities. Nowadays with Wikipedia, the Internet and the easy accessibility that Singapore affords to to gorge myself, I get over my obsessions fairly quickly. In less enlightened times, these obsessions could last for years while I scoured libraries and books and classes.

Now and again I get enamoured with a historical period. Over the years, I have been obsessed with the Tudor period in England, the French Revolution, the Khmer Rouge period in Cambodia (go figure), England under Richard Lionheart (and his father before him and brother after him), the Crusades (in all its permutations including the Children's Crusade), France under Louis the XIII and Louis the XIV (fine fine, the Three Musketeers period if you must know) and India under the Mughals. I remember freaking out the 17-year old nephew of my Aunt when I was 12 by happily naming the Mughal kings in chronological order. Yeah, the obsessive trait started pretty early :-p

But one era of history I have never quite gotten over is Rome circa Caesar (and no I have not read the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, nor do I care to - I didn't care about the EMPIRE as such).

I can't quite figure out the attraction. Was it Caesar himself? I don't really think so as I was never completely taken with the whole Rome-had-become-too-big and-needed-an-Emperor-to-rein-it-in thesis. Was it the culture? (What culture really? An amalgamation of Rome in the time of the Kings and Greek culture at best) Was it the preponderance of long names? (Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus was my favourite. I remember fondly a boyfriend who would recite like a litany the FULL names of all the famous Romans).

I don't rightly know. Self-awareness has never been my strong suit :-p I do know, though, that there has never been a more exciting canvas on which so many incredible and larger-than-life men and women have been painted. After all, Caesar must have had something in him such that he is still deified in movies and books more than 2,000 years after his bloody demise.

So, when I came upon Colleen Mcculough's Masters of Rome series, I was completely enthralled. Finally an account of those wonderful personages! In palatable novel-form no less.

Mccullough's research was painstaking and she painted her numerous characters with a deft hand. In the appendix of each of her books, she even gives reasons for her decisions to depart from historical norms (it could be argued that creative licence was taken, but I agree with Mccullough in that history was not complete and occasionally we had to fill some gaps based on the information we were given) e.g.:

1) What exactly did Caesar say when he crossed the Rubicon?

2) How exactly did Caesarion die? (in McCullough's books he dies by the hand of the reluctant-to-kill-him-but-realises-he-must-if-he-is-ever-to-rule-Rome Octavian)

3) Was Cleopatra's and Anthony's famous sea-battle accurately rendered? After all the victors do re-write history and what we know could have been manufactured by the politically-savvy Octavian.

4) Why did Gaius Marius and Sulla have such a good relationship (initially at least)? How could such different characters (the soldier-politician and the bisexual-metrosexual-politician) meet and become such good friends? McCullough invents (quite plausibly) a younger sister (another Julia) to Marius' famous wife Julia (Caesar's great-aunt) who marries Sulla. So for a time there were brothers-in-law and HAD to co-operate

5) Why was Servillia such a bitch? Perhaps an abusive childhood had the same effect in antiquity as it does today.

In total there are 7 books in the series:

The First man In Rome (1990); spanning the years 110-100 BC

The Grass Crown (1991); spanning the years 97-86 BC

Fortune's Favourites (1993); spanning the years 83-69 BC

Caesar's Women (1997); spanning the years 67-59 BC

Caesar (1998); spanning the years 54-48 BC

The October Horse (2002); spanning the years 48-41 BC and

Anthony & Cleopatra (2007); spanning the years 41-27 BC

Mcculough had originally intended The October Horse to be her last novel as she opined that the Roman Republic ended with the Battle of Philippi and Brutus' death but fans (including the Prime Minister of Australia, apparently) lobbied for another novel.

In any case most historians are of the opinion that the Battle of Actium and the death of Mark Anthony truly sounded the death-knell for the Republic.

Frankly, I hope Mcculough goes on with the series and writes about Rome's first 5 emperors. Octavian (known as the Emperor Augustus) has always interested me more than Caesar anyway. A puny non-soldier-like asthmatic who purportedly hid during the Battle of Philippi; he went on to launch the Roman Empire.

Also, the scheming and intrigue during the time of the Emperors Augustus, Tiberius, Claudius, Caligula and Nero could rival any modern day soap-opera.

A case in point was Tiberius - strangely enough Tiberius was not even Octavian's (hereinafter Augustus) son. He was a step-son, the son of Augustus' wife, Livia Drusa with another man. Augustus fell in love with her when she was pregnant and despite the fact that both her father and husband were against him. The marriage lasted 51 years and Augustus cherished Livia Drusa and deified her as "Augusta", elevating her two sons from her previous marriage to his heirs (Augustus and Livia Drusa never had any children).

Anyways, back to Tiberius - he was groomed very early on by Augustus and proved worthy both in the arena of war and that of politics. He was married to Augustus' favourite general and best friend - Agrippa's daughter Vipsania Agrippina. The marriage was successful and the couple loved each other dearly.

Unfortunately, Agrippa died in war leaving his wife, Julia free. Now this Julia was a prize catch as she was Augustus' daughter (not by Livia Drusa, of course) and her husband would be the next Emperor of Rome. Augustus, out of love or the tyranny that he was soon to be known for, ordered Tiberius to divorce his beloved Vipsania, marry Julia and become his (Augustus') heir.

Apart from being the Emperor of Rome, Augustus was also the "paterfamilias" and his word was law. Tiberius did his bidding but he was never again happy ( he once even famously "ran away") and his governance of Rome after Augustus' death reflected his conflicting emotions.

The story is that Tiberius once ran into Vipsania again, and proceeded to follow her home crying and begging forgiveness; soon afterwards, Tiberius met with Augustus, and steps were taken to ensure that Tiberius and Vipsania would never meet again.

Julia turned out to be the original "whore of Babylon" flaunting her lovers in front of her father and her husband and thus began the decline of the Roman Empire - almost as soon as it was born.

One can only hope that Mccullough will one day decide to write about "Caesar's Descendants".

Addendum: Mccullough also does drawings and sketches of the characters based on descriptions or busts of the period which I should upload here but I am too lazy to :-p

Addendum2: When I first heard about Rome, the TV series, my excitement knew no bounds. But within a couple of viewings I was disillusioned. The liberties taken with history was just too much and worse still merely for the purpose of enticing viewers; it was not a case of piecing together discordant information to make a coherent whole. Really; Atia was the "whore of Babylon and had a relationship with her future son-in-law, Mark Anthony who she continued to sleep with after he married her daughter, Octavia? Atia who was known historically as the exemplarary mother. Well there is more but this is not a post about "Rome" so I shall quit snivelling and hope I have gotten Rome and the cunning, wily, beautiful Octavian out of my system once and for all.

Somehow I doubt that.

Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth

Lahiri's voice is still. Rising and falling with a quietly confident cadence that I sometimes imagine her native Bengali must sound like. An educated guess at best. To my knowledge I have never heard Bengali :-p

Lahiri does not write action. Hers are the quiet walks on stormy uninviting beaches, long aimless drives through small town america and extended dinners Indian families excel in (where the silence is so profound you can detect who is eating what from the different timbre in the chewing sounds).With her latest book, Lahiri returns to her strongest form - the short story. A structure first seen in her Pulitzer prize winning first novel - Interpreter of Maladies.

At the beginning there are 5 stories. Each contained within itself. I could say a pearl within an oyster but the stories are not pearls or gems or any other pseudo-metaphor. They are interesting and a little bit strange but only strange in their mundaneness.
Plot? Dramatic contrivances? Exposition? What is that?

A story is what happens when we sit around waiting for our stories to begin. Its called life. And so we have them- a widowed Father spends some time with his pregnant married daughter's family in between the holiday tours he has made his life's purpose after his wife's death, a young couple befriend a lonely university student in a foreign land, yet another young couple attend a weekend wedding together, a ne'er-do-well brother visits his sister's new family, a young Indian lady shares accommodations.

Lahiri allows us to be voyeurs - peeking into people's lives for a moment or two and then sending us on our way. Her accomplishment is singular in making us care for these people, flawed and often unlikeable. In the brief moment we meet them, we wish them well. After all, they are our brothers and sister, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, sometimes they are Us.
Her final three stories are actually one story seen from the perspectives of 2 people. It purports to be a love story of karmic proportions, though the usual trappings of a love story are largely absent. There is no Happily Ever After. There is no sense of resolution or affirmation of our faith in love.
And yet at the end of the story, when I closed the book, I could only say to myself - This is a True Thing.

Desperate Housemates : Episode 1 - Nitin v the Eveeel Hammock!!

Its just another beautiful night at Cassiopeia.

The stars are twinkling in the night sky ( as much as they can in Singapore)

while the wind-chimes tinkle merrily in the evening breeze (more like gale)

Nitin hums softly to himself as he sets up the prety red hammock Saad had just gotten from Carrefour - la di da da

Hold still Eveeel Hammock, let me get in!

Arrrgh!! Help the Eveeel Hammock has me!!

Who's your daddy now Eveeel Hammock?

Splutter*Splutter* [Eveeel Hammock throws Nitin into the flower bed]

Tara: This is better than TV!

Let me show you how it is done...

[Eveeel Hammock: Me is loving Tara!]

Pictures Courtesy Saad

Gaeta's Lament

• Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man
• With my three wishes clutched in her hand

• The first that she be spared the pain
• That comes from a dark and laughing rain
• When she finds love may it always stay true
• This I beg for the second wish I made too

• But wish no more
• My life you can take

• To have her please just one day wake

Desperate Housemates - Pilot / Cassiopeia

After months of searching in a ridiculous house market and being turned away because we were...wait for it...Indian! We gave up.

Its true what they say though, once you stop trying....things work out..


It was pretty much love at first sight...you had me at 'em white picket fences and huge verandah

The spacious living room gives Nitin an idea

They don't make balconies this huge no more

The view from the balcony/soon-to-be outdoor living area christened "10-Forward"

cosy common corner conceptual conflict collaborative cohesion center consideration [~saad]

Looking into the kitchen from the living room

The Sunny Yellow kitchen was a wee bit tiny for such a huge place but we figured we would not be using it much :-p

We tussle over the Master Bedroom. Stuti wins

Cliffhanger ending : Can the Nitin and the Netto be homies without killing each other?

Photos Courtesy Saad

Watch this Space....

In which is found updates of the new place....

http://picasaweb.google.com/saad.caffeine/Cassiopaea?authkey=Z5Jf1ouYwuc

Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go

It didn't help of course that I knew the basic plot and was pretty "spoiled". It never does with Ishiguro. One is still unable to hold onto one's decorum and preserve a sense of self. Invariably and inevitably Ishiguro reels you into the lives of his characters may it be a butler motoring across England or a soul lost in the eastern theatre of World War II. You end up fighting their fights. Aching their aches.

"Never Let Me Go" starts off very much like "Remains of the Day", with the seemingly random and harmless reminisces of the protagonist's time at an exclusive boarding school. But very soon one realises that this is a very different book tackling entirely new ground (for Ishiguro at least).

Among the series of dystopian novels that emerged around the same time (notably Atwood's The Handmaiden's Tale and Oryx and Crake), Never Let Me Go stands out in its restraint and subtlety.

And therein lies its strength (apart from the brilliant writing, of course). Not for Ishiguro the dreaming up of elaborate conceits of a future/parallel-world (although that does exist and proves the framework on which he hangs his tale). Rather he focuses on what he does best - portraying people and their interactions with each other in deft masterful strokes. And in doing so he performs a profound sleight of literary genius. By showcasing her innermost thoughts and actions Ishiguro gifts the protagonist her humanity in a world unwilling to afford her that status. By eliciting our horror to her life and tale he gives us, the readers, the continued assurance in ours.

It has been about two weeks since I finished the book and I still walk around with voices in my head railing at the injustices suffered by the "children" at the exclusive Hailsham School. Underlying it (I suppose) must be the fear that this could possibly be our future. And even more horrifying that it is a future I might have sanctioned in the very recent past (albeit with certain precautions and limitations). But mostly I walk around with a sense of utter and total gratitude that it is not our PRESENT and that decision making of this sort will perhaps fall to the next generation.

Passing the buck I know but do read the book and contact me if you would like to discuss what constitutes being "human" and having a "soul".


[Also posted on my Shelfari page]

Proud Mary

I caught a lucky break.

To have ended up with Kelvin as my brother.

If it wasn't for him, I most likely would have been an utter nerd. As it was, I basked a bit in the "cool" afterglow he gave out.

I had no idea when it happened, of course. One day we were stealing fruits on our way back from Sunday School ...and suddenly when I lifted my nose out of a book - there he was, utterly cool.

Because of him I got to know and love reggae and rock and blues (although I never quite took to Heavy Metal). And tried to take it in my stride when all the cool boys in school stared at me in total and utter disbelief that I could possibly be Noel's sister. At school we moved in different circles, back home we watched Grease a hundred times together.

It all came back to me again when I was at his place over Chinese New Year and we were watching the Grammys together. Tina Turner and Beyonce came out and sang "Proud Mary" together. And my brother sang along with them. WORD PERFECT

That was another thing. I aced the music exams, he had the musical ability. Picking out tunes on my piano. Knowing all the words to a song after listening to it once or twice. I could never remember lyrics. When I heard a song, I only heard the music. Lyrics were meaningless gibberish to me. Only certain words in certain songs came through . Most of Andrew Lloyd Webber's songs, some of Alanis Morrisette p'raps.

After Beyonce and Tina were done. He turned to me and started talking about the song. Who sang it originally etc. Then he talked about the boat "Proud Mary" and the river on which it "rolled". I was back to being a child again. Listening to him talk about Bob Marley and his music. Eyes aglow with newfound knowledge but mostly with complete adoration for the coolest brother that every lived.

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air,

I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean,

leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling

I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

Maya Angelou

What Flower Are You?

I'm a Foxglove

You really want to be a good person, but you have this little mischievous streak that seems to get in the way.

Deep down you mean well, but you are just so good at being just a little bit bad

'Twas Several Nights Before Christmas

And all through Anne's place not a mouse was stirring 'cos they were 'fraid of the Cat

So Saad was left to decorate the tree in peace (Nitin and I had forgotten the lights - but my never-say-die-attitude came in handy as I managed to find lights in Chinatown at 10 p.m. on a Saturday night, although they were technically not "Christmas" lights as such)

Toasts were drunk with Saad's eggnog (he made it all by himself and it was de-li-ci-ous!)...

...though some of us could not withstand its potent effects

Anne was the brilliant hostess...

with Pei Li assisting ably

The boys, though, had to work for their supper

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Dancing

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance

Never settle for the path of least resistance

Living might mean taking chances

But they're worth taking

Lovin' might be a mistake

But it's worth making

Don't let some hell bent heart

Leave you bitter

When you come close to selling out

Reconsider

Give the heavens above

More than just a passing glance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

I hope you dance

(Time is a real and constant motion always)

I hope you dance

(Rolling us along)

I hope you dance

(Tell me who)

I hope you dance

(Wants to look back on their youth and wonder)

(Where those years have gone)

Christoph - I miss dancing with you!

Sol - Stop slamming yourself against that wall!

Someone Who Loves My Sneezes More Than Anyone Else's Kisses

Whenever I board the train to and from Malaysia, I would have this thrill of anticipation- maybe this time it would happen. I would find my seat by the window (always a window seat) and wait for my seat-mate.

You see I had this secret fantasy that I would meet the love of my life on the train and we connect and engage in witty banter (albeit with the trademark twinge of sarcasm on my part) all the way to our respective stations, where we would part in an understated (yet dramatic in what followed) fashion and meet once more after a series of serendipitious events. Occasionally, my fantasies would involve getting left behind at some unearthly hour in some obscure station (Kulai perhaps) and having a string of adventures where we encounter Malaysian culture, society and kindness close-up and discover we were soul-mates in the process.

After 13 years of travelling up and down in the same 7-8 hour train journey, I have sat next to old guys, wailing kids, elderly aunties, idiotic chappies and all other manners of specie but I am still yet to have My Great Train Adventure [though in the interest of full disclosure, I did meet this Nigerian chap, but thankfully Renu made short shrift of him].

So when I first saw Richard Linklater's Before Sunrise with Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke, I was furious at myself - here was my story transplanted to Vienna! Why hadn't I written it first?! It had all the elements of my fantasy -the chance meeting on the train, roaming a strange city, meeting strange local characters (I loved the fortune-teller!), the witty banter, the forming of connections, even the need to leave their tale to serendipity.

It was a simple movie really, relying mainly on the charm of Julie Delpy, the streets of Vienna and the conversation between the young idealistic French girl and her jaded-before-his-time-but-still-open-to-the-wonders-of-meeting-a-beautiful-french-girl-on-a-train, Amerian new-found friend/lover.

Celine: No, then it sounds like a male fantasy. Meet a French girl on the train, fuck her, and never see her again.

But mainly it relied on exhilaration. The exhilaration of the audience as it echoed and followed the exhilaration of two young people connecting with each other - almost against all odds. A connection we all search for but so rarely find - and when we do, we can only wonder and bask in it for as long as the connection lasts, though frequently it is too brief. As with Jesse and Celine, who have one night before Celine leaves for Paris. But they promise to meet again 6 months later at a specific time and place and on that note the movie ends leaving us to wonder at the outcome of their tale.

Celine: I believe if there's any kind of God it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.

Their conversations through the streets of Vienna meanders through the profound, the inane, the ridiculous, in fact through the unusual nooks and crannies that two people who have met each other for the first time take. We all love that blank slate of a new person- to have the opportunity to paint ourselves in the hues that we have always seen ourselves in. Far too often, in the people we already know, these colours get tarnished, soiled and muddied turning into a painting we do not recognise and most times even abhor.

Jesse: There's these breeds of monkeys, right, and all they do is have sex, all the time, you know? And they turn out to be the least violent, the most peaceful, the most happy, you know? So maybe fooling around isn't so bad.

Celine: Are you talking about monkeys?
Jesse: Yes I'm talking about monkeys.
Celine: Ah, I thought so...

Thankfully, we were not left to wonder about the fate of Celine and Jesse too long, Linklater and his two leads collaborated and came up with Before Sunset nine years later. Unsurprisingly, in a brilliant move of cinematic conceit, Jesse and Celine meet again - nine years later. Through a series of unavoidable events, they had missed each other at the designated rendezvous point and since they had not taken each other's respective contact details (they tempted fate and fate rarely rewards such disrespect), they never found each other in the intervening 9 years. That is until Jesse comes up with a brilliant idea to write a book about his one-night encounter with Celine and is soon a celebrated writer (ironic since Celine is the writer/dreamer of the pair). He has a reading in Paris which Celine comes to. His expression when he sees her again for the first time in 9 years says it all.

Jesse: You want to know why I wrote that stupid book?
Celine: Why?
Jesse: So that you might come to a reading in Paris and I could walk up to you and ask, "Where the fuck were you?"
Celine: [laughing] No - you thought I'd be here today?
Jesse: I'm serious. I think I wrote it, in a way, to try to find you.
Celine: Okay, that's - I know that's not true, but that's sweet of you to say.
Jesse: I think it is true.


The movie is filmed in real-time and covers the 1.5 hours until Jesse's flight back to the States. The pair wander the streets of Paris much as they did Vienna all those years ago. They go on a boat-ride on the Seine and despite the myriad of emotional defences constructed in the last 9 years - connect, much as they did before. It is quite obvious that though Jesse is married with a child, Celine still fills his mind.

Jesse: In the months leading up to my wedding, I was thinking about you all the time. I mean, even on my way there; I'm in the car, a buddy of mine is driving me downtown and I'm staring out the window, and I think I see you, not far from the church, right? Folding up an umbrella and walking into a deli on the corner of 13th and Broadway. And I thought I was going crazy, but now I think it probably was you.
Celine: I lived on 11th and Broadway.
Jesse: You see?


On Celine's part, though she has moved on from that night in Vienna, life has not been as kind as she expected it to be (remember the fortune-teller?) and she is more brittle somehow - almost blaming Jesse for their not having met and her life after that, even though the fault lies with her. That was hard for me. She was so much the cooler character in Before Sunrise. The one more open to the possibility of magic and love, though faintly wary as well. It was almost a relief to realise that she was just protecting herself, really, from Jesse - trying not to show how much she cared. But even that was kind of sad. That life had battered down this wonderful, luminous, talented, beautiful woman.

I wondered, do women become bitter and brittle if they do not find/ lose the love of their lives? God knows we try not to be.

Celine: The past is the past. It was meant to be that way.
Jesse: What, you really believe that? That everything's fated?
Celine: Well, you know, the world might be less free than we think.
Jesse: Yeah?
Celine: Yeah, when given these exact circumstances, that's what will happen every time: two part hydrogen, one part oxygen, you get water every time.
Jesse: No, no, I - I - I mean what if your grandmother had lived a week longer, or, you know, or passed away a week earlier, days even. You know things might have been different. I believe that.
Celine: You can't think like that, it's...
Jesse: No, I mean, I know you shouldn't on most things, but - It's just, on this one it seemed like something was off, you know?

But the wonder and amazement in Jesse's eyes whevever he looks at Celine, almost exactly the same expression he had 9 years ago in Vienna, gradually bring Celine out. Her poison spent she shares with him her hopes and fears. And as Before Sunrise resonated so much in that it actualised my most cherished fantasy, Before Sunset vocalised my deepest secrets...

Celine: I was having this awful nightmare that I was 32. And then I woke up and I was 23. So relieved. And then I woke up for real, and I was 32.

P.S. : This post was actually supposed to be about the new Julie Delpy movie, 2 Days in Paris in which she writes, directs, co-produces and composes music for (seriously with such talented people in the world, one might as well kill oneself), but trust me to get distracted. In her latest, Delpy plays a French photgrapher from New York (Marion) stopping by Paris with her American boyfriend (Jack) on their way back from Vienna (yes it is very similiar to the "Befores" but a completely different movie!). Hilarious shenannigans abound, especially when Jack meets Marion's parents (Delpy's real-life parents) and her various ex-boyfriends. But it also a rather touching and poignant picture of how despite recognising that we are extremely flawed beings we keep believing that we are deserving of love and go on trying to find and keep love in this day and age. And how that is an extremely courageous act indeed.


Marion: It always fascinated me how people go from loving you madly to nothing at all, nothing. It hurts so much. When I feel someone is going to leave me, I have a tendency to break up first before I get to hear the whole thing. Here it is. One more, one less. Another wasted love story. I really love this one. When I think that its over, that I'll never see him again like this... well yes, I'll bump into him, we'll meet our new boyfriend and girlfriend, act as if we had never been together, then we'll slowly think of each other less and less until we forget each other completely. Almost. Always the same for me. Break up, break down. Drunk up, fool around. Meet one guy, then another, fuck around. Forget the one and only. Then after a few months of total emptiness start again to look for true love, desperately look everywhere and after two years of loneliness meet a new love and swear it is the one, until that one is gone as well. There's a moment in life where you can't recover any more from another break-up. And even if this person bugs you sixty percent of the time, well you still can’t live without him. And even if he wakes you up every day by sneezing right in your face, well you love his sneezes more than anyone else's kisses.

P.P.S. : These days I take the bus

Of Pampering Oneself

The general consensus was that I had been through one of the worst traumas in my life.

Initially, I fully subscribed to said general consensus and listened/obeyed avidly as those around me attempted to comfort me and revive my spirits.

I laughed dutifully at the jokes a cousin whom I adored told me to “lighten the situation”. Thankfully, the jokes stopped as the said cousin eventually decamped to the “other” side, even though he had professed to be impartial – but that is neither here nor there.

I listened dutifully as the Madame de Montespan to my Louise de la Valliere rang me at all hours purportedly out of concern but mainly to vent her spleen in thinly disguised catty remarks such as – Would you like me to find you a boy Sunita? Instead of saying F…U and slamming the phone, I explained patiently and sincerely that marriage per se was not exactly my raison d’etre. Naturally, conversations between such diametrically opposed personalities/psyches/specie were bound to escalate into recriminations and tears on her part and much stuffing of one of my Winnie-the-Pooh days-of-the-week handkerchiefs into my trap (look, it was hilarious to me that in this day and age, one could be so … stupidly parochial for lack of any other way to describe it) on mine. Thankfully, my good-sense emerged out of its hiding place (where did you go?! I missed you so!!), and a swift change of phone numbers stopped the unnecessary pseudo-bonding.

I also obeyed, dutifully, instructions from my Surgeon-Uncle all of 10,000 miles away to consult with medical personnel of the “lobotomising” sort, as repeated onslaughts from various regular church-goers who do not seem to practice what they purportedly espouse, brought about physical chest pains, asthma attacks of colossal proportions (such that I had not had since I was a child) and anxiety attacks (such that I had NEVER had before). Thankfully, I promptly lost all the appointment letters.

But the prevalent tag-line was – Sunita you got to PAMPER yourself! Numerous suggestions were mooted, the prevalent one being some sort of edification by route of spa-ification (sigh, look if I could rhyme or write poetry in any form this would have been some sort of poetry blog ok? Just go with it – will ya? On that note, I will take this opportunity to do a shameless plug for my much-talented, much-prettier and loads-smarter poet-sister’s blog. Please do pay a visit to http://nebulasquill.blogspot.com).

And so like a lamb to the slaughter, I went to the spa/beauty parlour.

Although, I could probably decant my spa/beauty parlour experience (henceforth consistently to be referred to as “spa-ification”) into a chapter-long hilarious piece of prose worthy of a Pulitzer (or God forbid, A Man Booker!), in the interest of the sanity of my sparse and meager public – I will heroically desist. Instead I will merely let slip that after 6 hours of being poked, prodded, scrubbed, varnished and fleeced, I emerged with disgusting red-hued nail polish, (whenever I do deign to wear nail-polish it is NEVER any shade of red, I believe my last colour was green. Am a nail-polish rebel and proud of it!) and RM$300 poorer. But most of all, I was utterly disgusted that I had wasted a day that would have been better spent with my little niece, Isabelle, learning the words to Rihanna’s Umbrella (Isabelle would teach me as she is practically word-perfect. Am thinking of getting her started on “American Pie” next, in preparation for a Battle of the Cool Babies with Sol’s Gabby).

Thankfully, though the spa-ification was undertaken in Malaysia so I did not need to beat myself up over the moolah - an equivalent treatment would have cost me a pretty penny in Singapore, although Malaysia really needs to know how to do ‘em Brazillians properly. As is, I felt that ‘em prisoners tortured and deprived of their rights in Guantanamo had it better than an Indian girl with an excess of …

Anyways, it took a little more while of listening dutifully to various parties (Forgive! Forgive! intoned my other Uncle, only 3,000 odd miles away, or so I gathered from his long, rambling several-hour long pontifications. Aside: forgiveness is not an issue, I cannot keep a grudge to save my life, try as I might. Hence the frequent shoe-marks on my person as people take me for granted and utilise me as a doormat), before it hit me. Literally.

A book dropped and hit me on the head.

I was going about this thing in the wrong way. Yes, I was traumatized but not as much as all that. And yes, I needed to pamper myself but I had NEVER considered spa-ifications to be comforting or edifying in any way. At best I thought it a necessary evil to partake in so as not to appear like a descendant of the Yeti (have you seen my eyebrows in its natural glory?) and scare off potential clients. So why was I indulging in a form of torture in lieu of pampering myself?

I picked up the book - I believe it was When We Were Grown-Ups by Anne Tyler (said book that had fallen on my head –duh. Keep up with my rambling will ya!)) and since that day I have not stopped.

I generally am a pretty voracious reader but now I am practically inhaling books. On Fridays, I hit Kinokuniya in an orgy of book-buying Before the week is out, I am done. Lately, out of desperation I have resorted to going to the bookshop on Thursdays, yet even so I run out of books and re-read the millions I already I have.

In my defence, my hermit-like behaviour caused by the said so-called traumatic incident did not last for very long and I have ventured out briefly to catch movies, catch-up with friends over coffee or on a rooftop, even a party or two! Nevertheless, the self-imposed partial-exile in aid of the book-ingestion continues. Heh, at least I will never be constipated :-p You know books are made of paper - a form of fibre. I said I am ingesting said books...OK OK Crappy Joke. I Geddit. Enough with the rotten tomatoes already.

Anyways, I know I have to eventually stop and emerge out of the pile of books I have buried myself under but really I am kind of having a great time right now.

Now, if you will excuse me I just got these 4 books from Kino…

Razor

You're born, you live and you die.

When you're born, you get a name, a secret true name that nobody else knows. You spend that lifetime learning it, the angles and curves of it; you learn to inhabit it, you learn who you are. You become acquainted with its delicacy, its beauty, the lapidary outline of a soul. And sometimes, when things are bad, fate asks you to put that name away, somewhere safe, locked up tight, so that it will stay clean. Behind a door in a room you never knew about. There are no do-overs. No second chances to make things right if you frak them up the first time. You make your choices and you live with them, and in the end, you are those choices. And if you believe your name is gone forever, that your hands are too dirty to retrieve it, you could fool yourself that it's gone forever. That you've given it away and damned yourself. I don't agree. Innocent is not the same as not guilty, and fixed is not the same as unbroken. The day everything gets so terribly awesome that you can rest forever, without a single rough patch coming on the road: that's a long wait. Best to take your chance when you can, to reclaim the light inside what you are, and what you've proven capable of becoming. To make the long walk back, from the altar to the temple. Better to find the best ending possible; to hit the end of line and skip down to the next, to straddle that salt, that end of line, like poetry. Better to hear the angel, begging you to step across: into the new shape, into the story to come. Again, again, again.

You're born, you live and you die. This is a gift.

From the "Razor" - Battlestar Galactica recap at www.televisionwithout pity.com

A Warrior of Light...

...knows an old saying: "If regrets could kill..."

And he knows that regrets can kill; they slowly eat away at the soul of someone who has done something wrong and they lead eventually to self-destruction.

The warrior does not want to die like that. When he acts perversely or maliciously - because he is a man of many faults - he is never too ashamed to ask for forgiveness.

If possible, he does his best to repair the wrong he has done. If the injured party is dead, then he does some good turn to a stranger and offers up that deed to the soul that he wounded.

A warrior of light has no regrets, because regrets can kill. He humbles himself and undoes the wrong he has done.

Paulo Coelho

Lust, Caution

Warning: Spoilers Ahead

Shanghai 1942

She was just a student, dabbling in theatre and freedom-fighting.

She hardly knew what she was doing but it was this very innocence that kept her safe.

He was one of those most vilest of beings. A collaborator. Getting rich and fat off the blood of his country-men. He seemed to do it not so much because he was trying to survive those dark times but more because he seemed to actually enjoy it. Enjoy the interrogation and the torture. Enjoy the fear in other people's eyes

She never really knew what he saw in her. She was unschooled in the ways of the world and had to be "broken-in" by her fellow freedom fighter.

But he saw something. Her innocence perhaps. The truth perhaps. The truth about himself.

It was war for them both. From the very first he tried to conquer her. With force. With mind-games. With gifts. But it was she that conquered him. With songs and stories. With nothing very much at all.

Finally he appeared to admit defeat.

He took her to the jeweller's. Her ring was ready. Her fellow freedom-fighters were hidden and waiting to asassinate him.

The ring was a perfect fit. She moved to remove it and put it back in its case.

-Leave it on. You will be safe with me. You will always be safe with me

She turned to look at him. He smiled at her. Calm, loving, finally fulfilled, finally peaceful. Her voice was a whisper, cracked. He leant forward to hear her, puzzled now.

- Go Now

Louder this time but still barely able to force out the words.

Understanding dawned. He ran for his life.

They brought him the ring later and told him of the cell of freedom fighters they had unearthed. She had been marked earlier and his loyalty questioned by his association with her. But he was in the clear now and the entire "theatre troupe" captured. Under torture their stories were uncovered and matched.

- What were his commands?.

He signed the execution sheet. Protecting himself. Protecting the vile life he was leading. Protecting the wife he cared about and respected but did not seem to love. Choosing the big house, the big car and the respect of his fellow collaborators and Japanese overlords.

She knelt with her friends. They were in the South Quarry. Their bodies would fall into the chasm before them. No need for burials. No need for questions. Her friends bloodied and torn, stared at her accusingly. She had not taken the cyanide capsule she had been provided with. She had chosen to suffer with them. She had chosen to die with them.

What were her last thoughts as the bullet lodged into the back of her neck? Why did she do it? She had always been honest with him - always told him how much she hated him. He had appreciated it. No one else dared to tell him the truth.

He had always loved her more than she could ever love him. He had always said he would keep her safe.

And yet she had sacrificed everything she had and loved, family, country, friends, life itself to keep him safe.

Nitin : I tell you women are idiots. She lost her brains because he gave her a RING!

I started to protest but then stopped and shut my mouth and joined in the laughter as Nitin continued raving about women and jewellery.

It wasn't the ring per se I wanted to say. It was what it signified. Love, acceptance, care, concern. A woman would forsake everything for that and be proud of doing so.

More fools we are

Stronger Than Desire

It is said that nowadays Desire rarely takes a human lover. For Desire, who is male and female, fair and dark, old and young, anything and everything you have ever wished for, or coveted, or needed, is irresistible. And so what would be the point, after all? Love is not a game to Desire, as it is to so many mortals, or if it is, it is a game with a foregone conclusion: Desire always wins. And Desire hates more than anything to be bored.

"Who are you?" Raimon said.
"I am not what you think."
"No. No, that is quite clear. You are no mortal, I see that now. Who are you?"
Desire laughed. "I am the most powerful being, man or woman, that you will ever meet. I am the most important thing in the world."
"You are no God," Raimon said. "And God is the most important thing in the world."
"I am even stronger than your God. I am one of the Endless. I am Desire."

"I have won the wager," Raimon said. "Love is stronger than desire."
But Desire shook her head. "They are the same thing," she said.

Forty years after he met Desire in the forest Raimon lay dying. His vassals gathered around the bed he once shared with Desire, "He should have married and had children," one of them said softly. "They say now that the castle and lands will go to a son of Count Bertran."
"No," Raimon said weakly.
His men looked at him in surprise; they had not thought that he could hear them, or that he was alert enough to speak. "What is it, my lord?"
"I could not have married. I stayed faithful to her all my life, even if she was not faithful to me.

Love is the strongest thing in the world. You see," he said, closing his eye, "I won the wager."

Excerpts from A Story by John M Ford

Rooftop Reminisces

"Life is a series of rooftop moments"

Saad did his infamous quizzical eyebrow raise and went off to join Peter and Nitin, wisely deciding that I was better left to ruminate alone.

We were all on the rooftop of Nitin's condominium. It was 32 floors high and then some. It looked out on East Coast beach. The sea was calm that night (the sea is generally calm in Singapore anyway) and the ships blinked cheerily. The lights of the highway stretched out in front of me, reaching out towards the city. But all of us had eschewed a night on the town for a rooftop nicely stocked with good company, good conversation, alcohol, snacks and cigarettes.

As the halfmoon hung sickly in the sky and lightning flashed on my left, far into the sea - I thought of that other rooftop moment. It was 13 years ago and the sea crashed and raged, while the moon was low and beautiful in the sky. We were by the southern-most tip of India where three oceans converged - quite unhappily it seemed. The 3 of us seemed to echo the turbulence of the waves, although we sat together talking quietly and calmly.

We had come together again briefly in a moment of crisis but the last 13 years had taken its toll. We were different people now, life had scarred us - perhaps irredeemably. We would never have that moment on the rooftop again. Though we all had aching hearts - we grew to care for each other that night. Was it all over now? I clung to the memory of that night- of the waves and the moon and the quiet conversation. Perhaps that memory was all I had- all I would ever have from now on.

I leapt ahead a decade or so. Sitting on the roof of Raffles Hall Block 5. Drinking beer and spouting silly poetry. Good times. Great times. Also nothing but memories.

Lightning flashed in the south again and I shook off the cloud of the past - I was never very good at guilt or regret. After all, how could I regret the things I had enjoyed or feel guilty about the people I had loved?

And so I turned around and joined the guys in creating another rooftop moment.

Stardust

The Snowdrop Costs A Kiss

October 27, the eve of Adam's birthday found us partaking of a hearty Kenny Rogers meal at Marina.

Apart from "eye-brow raising" competitions, Adam and Saad kept us in stitches all throughout dinner. Adam with his renditions of his favourite movie of the year, Shoot Em Up - "And then Clive Owen shoves the carrot in the guy's mouth and it comes out on the other side and Clive Owen says - always finish your vegetables!"

Saad was his usual corny self -
Adam rubbing butter on his corn
Saad: Now you have to say something corny
Saad (again) : Ooops I beat you to it.

Saad (living life dangerously as he was having dinner with 4 lawyers) : What is the most painful kind of lawyer?
4 Lawyers: [gaze at him blankly]
Saad: A lawyer who is also a dentist!
Sunita: That sounds vaguely familiar
Saad: It is a work in progress
Adam: Needs quite a bit of work there.

Adeline and I caught up. Ms. Deputy Public Prosecutor had been too busy for me for the most part of the year.
Adeline: So what have you been up to?
Sunita tells her
Adeline : [speechless]

Then we all try to one-up ourselves by giving Adam cool gifts. But someone cheated and brought TWO gifts. It was declared a foul and we all threw in the towel. Anyways Adam bought himself the coolest gift - a computer game console shaped like a guitar or some such thing (hey I never pretended to be tech-savvy)

The fallen Star

We were soon joined by Ira, Peter and Pamela and proceeded to the highlight of the evening - Stardust!

Yup, they had finally made Neil Gaiman's Stardust into a movie! I had been waiting for months for it (it was released in the US in August) and was counting the days until November when Adam messaged - I got tickets for the preview!

It was a pretty good movie. I loved Claire Danes as the star, Yvaine and Charlie Cox was excellent as Tristran. You could literally see him grow and mature as a person from minute to minute. Robert de Niro was hilarious, but as Saad said - Michelle Pfeiffer OWNED the movie.

Even the changes they made in the story were not too bad (Robert de Niro's gay pirate was hilarious), although I could have done without the final "battle" scene.

Also, I much preferred the meeting between Yvaine and "Lamia" in the book, where "Lamia" has no heart left to cut out because Yvaine had given hers to a "boy", freely and willingly even though (as "Lamia" advises her) he is bound to "break it or waste it or lose it- they all do".

I must admit, though, that I hated the part when they "fall in love". It was sweeter and more believably played out in the book.

Both Ira and I preferrred the ending in the movie though - such suckers we are for happy endings :-p

The night ended with us happily embarassing Adam by singing Happy Birthday at the stroke of midnight. Welcome to the Over-the-Hill club Adam, all dues are to be paid to our now proper (previously honorary) president, Ashwin.

I read somewhere that Neil Gaiman had said in an interview that he wanted people to like the movie but he still kinda hoped people would prefer the book.

I just want to say to Neil - I really liked the movie but I much preferred the book :-p

One of Charles Vess' original drawings for the book