COMPOS MENTIS

March 24, 2014

1. The Girls of Slender Means : Muriel Spark
2. Memento Mori: Muriel Spark
3. The Scarlet Pimpernel
4. The Shadow of the Wind: Carlos Ruin Zafon
5. The Little Prince
6. Tete-a-tete: The Tumultuous Lives and Loves of Simone De Beauvoir and Jean Paul Sarre
7. A Very Easy Death: Simone De Beauvoir
8. Tell the Wolves I'm Home
9. Memories of My Melancholy Whores: Gabriel Garcia Marquez
10. No One Writes to the Colonel: Gabriel Garcia Marquez
11. Americanah: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

January 19, 2013

2013

1. Cold Comfort Farm: Stella Gibbons

2. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn: Betty Smith

3. Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader: Anne Fadiman
4. The Book Thief: Markus Zusak
5. Angela's Ashes: Frank McCourt
6. Sreshtho Gawlpo: Prabhatkumar Mukhopadhyay
7. Clara's War: Clara Kramer
8. Love in the Time of Cholera: Gabriel Garcia Marquez
9. How Reading Changed My Life: Anna Quindlen
10. Angels: Marian Keyes
11. The Other Side of the Story: Marian Keyes
12. The Testament of Mary: Colm Toibin
13. Dear John: Nicholas Sparks
14. If Only They Could Talk: James Herriot
15. The Soldier's Wife : Mrgaret Leroy
16. Those Who Save Us: Jenna Blum
17. Sreshtho Gawlpo:Tarashankar Bandyopadhyay
18. Brojoda-r Gulpo Shamagro: Gourkishore Ghosh
19. The Lowland: Jhumpa Lahiri
20. Deshbhager Smriti: Adhir Biswas
21. Istanbul: Orhan Pamuk
22. Maus (I and II): Art Spiegelman
23. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo: Steig Larsson
24. The Return: Håkan Nesser

January 6, 2012

2012

1.The Last Song: Nicholas Sparks
2.The Sense of an Ending: Julian Barnes
3.The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society: Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows
4.Safe Haven: Nicholas Sparks
5.One Day: David Nicholls
6.Eight Cousins: Louisa May Alcott
7.Pollyanna: Eleanor H. Porter
8.Pollyanna Grows Up: Eleanor H. Porter
9.The Stranger's Child: Alan Hollinghurst 10. Major Pettigrew's Last Stand: Helen Simonson 11. At First Sight: Nicholas Sparks 12. A Bend in the Road: Nicholas Sparks 13. Fifty Shades of Grey: E.L. James 14. The Lucky One: Nicholas Sparks 15. Dokhhiner Baranda: Mohonlal Gangopadhyay 16. Jibansmriti: Rabindranath Tagore 17. Jorasnakor Dharey: Rani Chanda 18. Rachel's Holiday: Marian Keyes 19. Mini Shopaholic: Sophie Kinsella 20. Twenties Girl: Sophie Kinsella 21. Alone in Berlin: Hans Fallada 22. Suite Francaise: Irene Nemirovsky 23. Bridget Jones' Diary: Helen Fielding 24.The Swallows of Kabul: Yasmina Khadra 25. A Year in Provence: Peter Mayle 26. The Reading Promise: Alice Ozma

January 5, 2011

2011

1.The Blue and Distant Hills: Judith Saxton
2.Eva's Story: Eva Schloss
3.Unaccustomed Earth: Jhumpa Lahiri
4.My KInd of Girl : Buddhadeva Bose
5.Three Women: Rabindranath Tagore
6.Durgeshnandini: Bankim Chandra Chatterjee
7.Anatomy of a Disappearance: Hisham Matar
8.In the Country of Men: Hisham Matar
9.The Dogs and the Wolves: Irene Nemirovsky
10.The Folded Earth: Anuradha Roy
11.Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter: Mario vargas LLosa
12.What Really Happened: Banaphool
13.The Vague Woman's Handbook: Devapriya Roy
14.An Atlas of Impossible Longing: Anuradha Roy
15.Notes on a Scandal: Zoe Heller
16.Room: Emma Donoghue
17.The Believers: Zoe Heller
18.On Beauty: Zadie Smith
19.The Comfort of Strangers: Ian McEwan
20.Under the Tuscan Sun: Frances Mayes
21.Annexed: Sharon Dogar
22.Shopaholic Takes Manhattan: Sophie Kinsella
23.Shopaholic Ties the Knot: Sophie Kinsella
24.Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married: Marian Keyes
25.This Charming Man: Marian Keyes

November 4, 2010

FIFTEEN FAVOURITE AUTHORS :)

I have been asked who my fifteen favourite authors are. The names have to come thick and fast. They will but in random order. Here's the list.

1) Charles Dickens: For me no one can spin a yarn as he does. Picking up a Dickens means that I don't have to worry about how to spend my free hours. It has been this way for years now, ever since I read 'David Copperfield' when I was fourteen. He tops my list. 'Great Expectations' is an all-time favourite.

2) Jane Austen: She improves my English almost instantly, like one of those wonder-make-up products that beauty gurus rave about. After reading an Austen, I speak 'propah' English for daaaays! I have enacted Elizabeth Bennet countless times in my head. Unfortunately, no Darcy has come my way for me to try out my acting skills :(

3) Enid Blyton: For the love of adventure, no matter how juvenile they seem now to the 34-year old in me, for the fun that cousins can have during holidays...something quite unknown to me, and for the love of food! Even as I type this I can smell farm-fresh butter melting on hot scones...ummm...pure bliss :)

4) L.M. Montgomery: She gave me a kindred spirit in Anne. I'll never feel friendless again. In my darkest days, 'Anne of Green Gables' is my go-to book. The innocence, tender human relationships, hope and optimism that Montgomery gives life to in the series are absent in the world I live in. Anne shines like a beacon.

5)Satyajit Ray: For his unputdownable 'Feluda' series. Such a hero! However, Jatayu remains my favourite.

6) Tagore: He could have written his short stories and stopped just there. I would have still been a happy reader.

7) David Lodge: For I am still a student at heart and there is no place more appropriate for human drama than a university. I love his campus novels and love Lodge even more for the 'chyangra' Englishman he hides behind his gentlemanly demeanour. He never fails to put a smile on my face.

8) Nick Hornby: Speaking of writers of comedy, how can I not include Hornby? He speaks the truth, no matter how ugly or unpalatable it may be. I think about life, my life...deeply and honestly when I read Hornby. And while I read him, he makes sure that I have an asisnine smile pasted on my face!

9) P.G. Wodehouse: The old boy is so much fun. I have a profound relationship with his books, probably because I firmly believe I was a decadent, Victorian aristocrat in my last life.

10) Neruda: His love poems...Ah, to be loved like that!

11) Amitav Ghosh: I can't believe I haven't mentioned him yet. Once again for his yarns and for the fact that he takes his job as a writer very seriously. That's bound to pay off, isn't it?

12) Harold Pinter: I had to include a playwright. His plays scare me. The absurdity spooks me. I have not quite recovered ever since I read 'The Room'.

13) Ian McEwan: I hope he is not finished as a writer. I am so fond of him. 'Saturday' and 'Atonement' remain my favourites. Reading about distorted thinking and twisted minds can be quite a pleasure.

14) Zoë Heller: I have only read her 'Notes on a Scandal' and have loved it. I told you, I love reading about twisted people. Here's a writer I am very excited about.

15) Mario Vargas Llosa: My new favourite. There couldn't be two more different books than 'Conversation in the Cathedral' and 'Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter' and yet, I've loved them both. Speaks volumes about the author, doesn't it?

February 18, 2010

2010

Back when we were grown ups: Anne Tyler
Dissolution: C.J.Sansom
Dreaming of Strangers: Matt Thorne
The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole: Sue Townsend
Toddler Hunting and Other Stories: Kono Taeko
The Bridesmaid: Ruth Rendell
Weekend in Paris: Robyn Sisman
Love Lives: Josie LLoyd and Emlyn Rees
A Thousand Splendid Suns: Khaled Hosseini
About a Boy: Nick Hornby
Juliet, Naked: Nick Hornby
The Brightest Star in the Sky: Marian Keyes
Home Truths: David Lodge
High Fidelity: Nick Hornby
Why Girls are Weird: Pamela Ribon
Last Chance Saloon: Marian Keyes
Sushi for Beginners: Marian Keyes
The Thin Man: Dashiel Hammett

January 4, 2010

Profile

Cities

Nandini is an explorer that:

occasionally strays off track

is happy with a roof and running water

likes a little risk

Travel cred: pretty good

I rank in the top...

0.1% most cities visited - Bhutan

0.8% most cities visited - Pakistan

1% most cities visited - India

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December 28, 2009

ALL SAINTS

Having for years listened to Gregorian chants, and not to forget my Irish Catholic schooling, it made a lot of sense to me that I was determined to be a serious observer of All Saints' Day as it is celebrated in Poland.
Wiki says, 'All Saints' Day (in the Catholic Church, officially the Solemnity of All Saints and also called All Hallows or Hallowmas), often shortened to All Saints, is a solemnity celebrated on November 1 in Western Christianity, and on the first Sunday after Pentecost in Eastern Christianity, in honour of all the saints, known and unknown.
In terms of Western Christian theology, the day commemorates all those who have attained the beatific vision in Heaven. In the Roman Catholic Church, the next day, All Souls' Day, specifically commemorates the departed faithful who have not yet been purified and reached heaven. It is a national holiday in many historically Catholic countries.'
In Poland the day is spent visiting the graves of deceased relatives, where prayers and flowers are offered, candles are lit and the graves themselves are cleaned, repaired and repainted. The American Halloween is gaining popularity among the young, but the firm upholders of tradition speak of it rather disparagingly.

The cemetery I visited was crowded on the Catholic side, spooky and near empty on the Protestant side and looked like death on the Russian Orthodox side. Here are some photographs from that evening.

November 29, 2009

BLAZE OF GLORY

Insignificant and commonplace that I am, it always amazes me when my wishes get fulfilled. For ever so long, I wanted to see a real fall and drown in its colours. My wish has been granted and I've not ceased to wonder how decay can look so colourful. The fall this year in Lodz has been truly beautiful. October did scare us a bit, what with an extremely freezing one week and two days of freak snow!!! However, it more than made up for it in the next few weeks. I'll let the photographs speak for themselves.

A MONTH DEDICATED TO BHINDESHI 'BHAI-S'

Can I call November ‘boisterous’? Never mind whether I can or not. November has been a pretty boisterous month for Darby and Joan. Largely responsible for this is Brit tragic hero who had a disastrous accident about two and a half weeks ago while racing Polish Goddess’ car. Ever since the mishap, we have become close friends. A thorough Brit and, therefore, self-admittedly, born with an accountant’s soul, he has shown us a film for every meal we have shared with him. Last Thursday we watched Jim Jarmusch’s ‘Ghostdog: The Way of the Samurai’, a samurai ‘gansta’ flick starring Forest Whitaker who plays an African American mafia hit man. He models himself after the samurai of old and follows the ancient code of the samurai as outlined in the book of Yamamoto Tsunetomo’s recorded sayings, ‘Hagakure’ (courtesy WIKI). A slightly pretentious film, according to Darby. Seconded by me. However, on the plus side, the film has an amazing soundtrack by Wu-Tang Clan's RZA. Whitaker, despite his girth, is menacing. His eyes do the trick, reminding us once again of ‘The Last King of Scotland’ that released seven years later. ‘Ghostdog’ was preceded by ‘Sexy Beast’ which has a stupendous performance by Ben Kingsley, a performance that left Darby speechless for days. He couldn’t quite believe Kingsley was the same guy who played Gandhi. The film has some knockout lines and Don Logan is quite a beast. Our first cinematic adventure since Brit tragic hero’s accident has been a beautiful French film set against the Paris underworld, ‘De battre mon coeur s'est arête (The Beat That My Heart Skipped). This 2005 French film is a remake of James Toback's 1978 film 'Fingers. Duris puts in a powerful performance as a young, real estate broker who is torn between his love for music and aspiration to become a concert pianist, and his commitment to the dodgy, underbelly of the real estate mafia that he works for. Joan particularly loved the film's last scene, almost poetic in its import and effect. On our own we discovered a Tapan Sinha gem, ‘Nirjan Saikate’ (on the lines of ‘Amrita kumbher Shandhaane’) based on a novel by Samaresh Basu. It does seem unfair of history that it made Tapan Sinha a contemporary of Ray. Such a sensitive filmmaker! Such grasp of the minutest nuances of Bengali life!

As the accident saga continues, we have come to a stage when we tell Brit tragic hero repeatedly that it is impossible to keep a tab on the number of Earl Grey-s, ciggies and dinners that have been borrowed, lent and shared. The man is an absolute sweetheart and Darby and Joan now understand why mothering him would come effortlessly to so many of his female acquaintances. Lucky him??!!

We were finally introduced to an Indian in this city, a businessman from Delhi who has been living here for the past year and a half. Joan has to admit that as a couple they are not ‘dying’ to get acquainted with Indians here. Overfamiliarity with one’s own culture and people can be stifling. A break from anything Indian, barring Bengali films and music, has been both refreshing and exciting. What does all of the above prove? We have been rather hyperactive socially, attending dinners and inviting friends over. This also means that there have been marathon cooking sessions. That reminds me…Darby and Joan are Bongs at heart, so no denying the love for fish. We love the trout available here, called ‘pstrang’.

P.S. Multiple consonants tumbling one after the other in a word makes me feel murderous!!! What a difficult language!!!)

October 16, 2009

GREENHORNS

Exactly eight months after we arrived in a madhouse called Sarnia 2, the place has welcomed two new foreigners. R from the United States and J from Germany. The Sarnia foreigners met both of them last evening over drinks and snacks. We have already intimidated one of them it seems and predictably the senior of the two, R. The German waif is a chirpy little one and has meshed well, it seems. Lavatorial jokes (and not intellectual mumbojumbo) seemed to dominate the conversation for whatever reason and they were openly aimed at some of the group but all in good spirits. The evening reminded Joan of the first informal gathering she was invited to and it is impossible not mentioning Mrs. Perth and Gregory Peck. Shit! I miss them.
I don't think I have mentioned this before but we arrived at Sarnia on the 14th of February at the exact same time that one of the Sarnia dwellers was preparing to give up his life. He did that successfully on the railway tracks that run through the forest nearby. Lost Soul was also unloved, it seems which is why the choice of such a day for bidding farewell. I was advised a week later to apply for the position that belonged to him and honestly, I felt a bit squeamish about it. Thankfully, since it was the middle of the term, the University seemed to be in a great hurry to find a substitute and they found someone before I could apply. No regrets really because work soon followed and I am settled. BTW, Lost Soul was half-English. I suppose, that explains the chronic melancholia. Hopefully, next time I will have something happy to report.

AD-LIB

The Reader - Bernhard Schlink
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas - John Boyle
The Pianist - Wladyslaw Szpilman
Almost Famous - Kevin Brophy
The Gathering - Anne Enright
On Chesil Beach - Ian McEwan
O for Outlaw - Sue Grafton
Kiss - Jill Mansen
Salem Falls - Jodie Picoult
The Reluctant Fundamentalist - Mohsin Hamid
The Marriage Bureau for Rich People - Farahad Zama
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic - Sophie Kinsella
Shopaholic and Sister - Sophie Kinsella
Amsterdam - Ian McEwan
The Other Woman's Shoes - Adele Parks
The Second Wives Club - Jane Moore

October 12, 2009

AM A CHICK, AFTER ALL

I need to do this. I need to tell the world that I am exhausted, having travelled pretty intensively for so many days. I love the places I visited and I will come up with more stuff on them. Maybe add some photographs as well. As of now, I feel a bit weary. That's called getting on in years, I suppose. Will begin the new term from tomorrow. Excited? Quite a bit. New students after all. Nervous? No way. It does not compare to a Math test. Therefore, I repeat, no nervousness. Reading a debut novel called 'The Marriage Bureau for Rich People' by London-based Farahad Zama. No clue as to how it's going to turn out. BTW, I shocked myself and 'chose' to read two books from the 'Shopaholic' series. That leaves me gobsmacked even as I admit it. However, to be fair, they were immensely funny reads and if you are one of those who lusts after fancy couture stuff but will never have the money to buy them or who thinks no end of her intellectual abilities and secretly rues being 'money-wise' will find the books worth the attempt. No greater pleasure for a cynic than in vicariously making fun of 'the dumb one' even if she happens to be the heroine of a bestselling 'chick-lit' novel.
Ta-ta for now.

September 14, 2009

ULICA PIOTRKOWSKA

It’s been long since I’ve blogged but then I have always blogged on impulse and with no specific agenda. Today, I just feel like it. Darby has returned from the US and we have spent a lot of time catching up, cribbing about being away from each other, planning our end-of-summer vacation about which, by the way, I am very excited, spending hours reading and sitting wide-eyed through lazy, l-a-z-y afternoons in cafes and pubs on Piotrkowska Street.

If there is anything that I really love about my life in Poland, it is the time that this stay has given me to see the world go by. And this is indulged in best on Piotrkowska, a world in itself, our very own Araby, the difference being that our magical fair leaves nothing to be desired. Some of the best times that we have spent so far in this by-now-not-so-new country have been on Piotrkowska. With or without friends, time flies here. Between the cup and the lip, hundreds of personal histories are told.

Piotrkowska Street is the main artery of Łódź and is one of the longest commercial thoroughfares in Europe, with a length of 4.9 km. The northern part of the street is pedestrianised, although emergency and ‘security’ vehicles are allowed to speed along it—and do with alarming frequency, sometimes weaving between the numerous beer gardens in the summer. The street boasts of Łódź’s ‘Walk of Fame’ with stars naming Polanski and Kieslowski right in front of the entrance to the ‘Grand Hotel’. Traversing the musical, literary, film and commercial history of Łódź is easy on Piotrkowska as it is impossible to miss Arthur Rubenstein playing the piano in front of what used to be his home, the Nobel laureate Reymont penning a few lines and Scheibler sitting at a conference with fellow 19th century industrialists. There is Café Horte, reminding the citizens of a time before the transference of power, when it used to be the only ice-cream parlour in town, and when flats, telephones and even sofa-sets were available but only after one was patient enough to wait for one’s turn, sometimes for months (if it was a couch one desired) and sometimes for years (if it was a flat one required), when Poland to the ignorant meant a part of erstwhile Russia, when there were more Russians on the streets than there was meat in the shops. Communist era veterans with their weather beaten faces drag themselves along Piotrkowska, silent witnesses to a change of guard. Yuppies in love, yuppies out of love, yuppies in the latest Vogue fashion, bespectacled intellectuals, backpackers, housewives, ex-wives, mothers with prams, grandparents and toddlers, young technocrats, busking musicians, beggars and tramps pass by in the course of our drinking a pint of Guiness at the Irish Pub. Here, the occident allures the orient and vice versa. Religions, races and countries find representation here, and so 'Istanbul' sells kebabs, 'Ganesh' sells chicken butter masala, 'The Mexican' sells tortilla-s, an Iraqi couple sells exotic spices and the Poles sell napolonka and pierogi. Poland in a microcosm - that’s Piotrkowska for us and for the thousands of tourists who care to stop and see the world pass by on glorious summer afternoons.

And hopeless Bongs that we are, we cannot help but compare some unknown Polish gentleman walking back home from work or some middle-aged couple in a rickshaw, discussing domestic woes to some Tapan Kaku or 'o para-r Banerjees' from back home. It is a strange world we live in. More often than not the comparisons we make are apt.

July 25, 2009

RE-INTRODUCING CHAVA ROSENFARB AND 'THE TREE OF LIFE'

This post answers why, about a month ago, I deleted a post entitled INTRODUCING CHAVA ROSENFARB AND 'THE TREE OF LIFE'. Apparently, the post which included a photograph of Goldie Morgentaler, that I took at the conference, found favour with Goldie and she wanted the photograph mailed to her. She also happened to love my blog and considering how shy I am about such things, I hyperventilated and peed in my jeans…well, almost. I got this information from someone at the University who, being a former crime reporter, did not find it difficult to trace me and hence, got in touch with me. I let him send the photograph to Goldie Morgentaler but since I was afraid that word about my blog would spread to people out here, I deleted the post, changed my blog settings and url. It might appear weird but I do not want too many people to read my blog. I am uploading the post once again along with the photographs which featured in the original post.

May 8, 2009 will always be remembered as an important date in the calendar of the University of Łodz. 2009 being the 65th year of the liquidation of the Łodz Ghetto, the University was proud to have as a guest speaker at the 'Race, Religion, and Representation International Conference', Goldie Morgentaler, a Professor of American and British literature at the University of Lethbridge in Canada. She was to speak on her mother, Łodz-born Yiddish poet and novelist Chava Rosenfarb who became what many critics call the greatest Yiddish woman novelist. In addition to the many household chores a typical teenager might be expected to do, Chava put young Goldie to work, making her translate her Yiddish tales to English. Gradually, an incredible internationally-recognized mother/daughter literary and translation team developed in Yiddish and Jewish-Canadian literature. This was the first time that Goldie was visiting her mother's city.

Chava Rosenfarb, born in 1923, turned 17 the day after the infamous Litzmannstadt (Łodz) Ghetto came into being. She had begun writing poetry at the tender age of eight and continued her creative pursuit within the confines of the ghetto. There, she was soon noticed by a Yiddish literary giant who encouraged her to continue writing and introduced her to the secret and active literary circle within the ghetto. She attended secret literary workshops there, determined to become a poet and writer. Chava recorded her experiences of the ghetto life in her poetry and in her most important creative work, the trilogy, ‘The Tree of Life’, set in the ghetto. ‘The Tree of Life’ begins with a New Year’s Eve party in 1939 at the house of a famous Łodz manufacturer who has invited people from different walks of life. Life is still very normal then with no one having an inkling of what is to unfold. The second part of the trilogy is about the years 1939 to 1942 in the ghetto and the last part of the trilogy continues the story of the fictionalized individuals from 1942 until 1945. It follows the lives of twelve people, including the man who would become the Jewish leader within the ghetto. By the end of the novel, seven die and the fate of the rest are left unwritten, leaving a faint ray of hope that although scarred, they must have ultimately survived their ruthless fate. Chava wrote six novels but ‘The Tree of Life’ remains her monumental literary masterpiece. She is perhaps one of the few Holocaust survivors who has refrained from writing a memoir, feeling deeply that the creative medium of the novel would give her the opportunity to transcend history. Her characters in the novel are all fictional except the Jewish leader in the ghetto who appears in the novel as himself. Perhaps this is because he is an ambivalent character who intrigued Chava the most. The man who was known as a philanthropist before the ghetto happened, was quite the demon inside it. The rest of the cast in ‘The Tree of Life’ are combinations and permutations of people Chava met or heard of during the war years.

Another interesting aspect of the novel is that Chava shows repeatedly how Western culture lent itself to those in the ghetto as a means of escape from the constant reminder of starvation, cruelty and death. One of the characters in the novel keeps on quoting Horace soon after news of the establishment of the ghetto reaches his ears. His Latin quotes soon become a source of irritation to his family with his son finally throwing away the Horace in a fit of rage. In another episode, a school teacher is seen in her classroom teaching ‘The Tempest’ and is soon interrupted by a few SS men barging in to take away a few young boys from her class. While the teacher tries in vain to establish a sense of sanity and normalcy in an erstwhile sanctified space, her young students fail to find their inner peace in the romance of Ferdinand and Miranda which seems remote, far removed from the world of the ghetto. What is interesting is that the older generation seems to try and defy the truth by escaping into classic western literary texts, while the younger generation feels anger and disbelief at such denial.

Chava not only experienced the Łodz Ghetto first hand, but she also survived Auschwitz where her father died and Bergen-Belsen, where she might have died herself, having suffered a typhus fever. She eventually moved to Canada in 1950, having already married the future nationally-reputed abortion activist Henry Morgentaler. The urge to get her tales translated into English from Yiddish began with the realization that Yiddish would suffer a slow but inevitable and tragic death, burying along with it the creations of a dying intellectual and creative Jewry. ‘The Tree of Life’ written when Chava was 24 was translated into English in 1971(I could be mistaken here…might have been 1968-69). Years of experiences and changing worldview in between did affect the translation a bit and may have rendered the book the quality of a transcreation rather than a translation.

Goldie Morgentaler, in her plenary lecture that day, introduced a rare Yiddish literary gem and her mother, a remarkable woman of talent and fortitude. What remains to me a highpoint of the lecture was Professor Morgentaler quoting her mother as saying that Holocaust films on television can never recreate the atmosphere quite authentically because despite being visually accurate, they fail to capture the fetid smell that rose from Auschwitz.

P.S.: The photograph in colour is of Goldie Morgentaler, taken at the conference. The one below it is that of Chava Rosenfarb.

July 22, 2009

A DISSOLUTE LIFE? NOT QUITE

So much has happened in this one month since Darby left. For one, I have started teaching English again which means I can sponsor a trip for the two of us. I have been all over the city which comes to life in summer just like any other city in Europe. And so I have had fun at two amazing concerts featuring ‘The Highlanders’ from the south of Poland and the ‘No Smoking Orchestra’ as part of the Serbian film festival organised by the film school in Łodź. What can I say about how the atmo was? Electrifying!!! The bands were so different from each other and yet so robust and dynamic and sizzling. And, how can I forget that I got to see the famous Serbian film director Emir Kasturica perform for his band, 'No Smoking...'. The most popular number of the night to which I shouted my lungs out was 'Do you agree? F*** you MTV'. Serbs have such a thing against the Big Brother. I was attending it with a friend who is majorly into all things Serbian. I was not sure how I would enjoy it but boy, did I have fun or what! For one, I danced like a woman possessed, after a long time. My girlfriends attribute it to escape from a husband. Poor Darby! But seriously, it was impossible not to dance. And then, I discovered the men! They were so hot! I remember this particularly hot couple in their forties. I didn’t know whom I was staring at more—the man or his gorgeous girlfriend. Ah, give me those cheekbones!

I always find it amusing to check out the reactions of men the moment a hottie of the opposite sex makes an entrance. I must say I was not disappointed. There was this Jesus-lookalike in a small group who just couldn’t take his eyes off a blonde bombshell the moment she stepped into the arena. Ah, how the primeval hunting man overtook the civilised, soft-spoken film-grad! Some things are not meant to change. No wonder then, that on the second day of the festival, he looked crestfallen to find that she was not attending…which brings me to what I discovered on my own in this city. If you are spotted with a man, who could very well be your plumber with whom you could be discussing a particularly nagging leak in your toilet, no one will give you a look other than that of ‘you are so off-limits’. But if you are walking on your own, not essentially screaming ‘I’m single/ unattached/ for god’s sake, divorced, so take me', there will be plenty trying to chat you up, and I mean not just in pubs or cafés but also on the way to the supermarket. I’ve got used to the ‘Dzindobry, Pani’ coming my way and I will kind of miss it when Darby returns. But it is a safe city for women and couples. The drunken hools might bother men but are very respectful of the women, chaperoned or otherwise.

I have been the object of a lot of stares in my ‘gheras’ which Poles are quick to associate with gypsies and considering how brown I have become under the Polish sun, I am often mistaken for one. Once, four little girls danced a crazy little dance when they saw me in a ‘ghera’ and kept referring to me as a gypsy. Then again gypsies are not liked and are not really a part of the Polish society.

Oh! I almost forgot mentioning this but while walking in Palmiarnia the other day, I saw a group of tourists that included an Indian family, Bong at that. I wouldn’t have noticed if the teenaged-boy with them had not found me interesting, as if he had stumbled upon a Benfish stall in Siberia. How do I know they were Bong? The scarf around the woman’s head—a complete giveaway, not to mention the batik print silk saree and the ‘loha’ peeping from under the kashmiri shawl. And shawl reminds me that it is actually very hot here. Missing ceiling fans and their drone in the lazy afternoons. Oh, Calcutta! Of course, it has been very unpredictable as well. The Indians are being blamed for bringing the rains to Łodź which is more used to occasional thunderstorms in the summer. When it pours, it can get chilly and just last week, Brit tragic hero, Polish Goddess and I were almost soaked during the open-air screening of Allen’s ‘Scoop’. My heart almost broke at the thought of leaving the place and Hugh Jackman. What a delicious serial killer. Ahem! I have as usual been watching loads of movies and reading as well but mostly outdoors, in the glorious sunshine, in some forgotten corner of a park. Dying to watch ‘Coco Avant Chanel’. May be I will this weekend. I also have plans to go out of the city this Saturday or Sunday. But then, I am so impulsive, I might just take off tomorrow. But I can’t. I almost forgot that I have classes with a very disparate group, each of them so different from the other, that it is quite a task keeping tempers in control. ‘I’m lovin' it.’

Plan to meet Darby in Warsaw next weekend, that is, if I manage not to board the wrong train with the wrong ticket. Apparently there are two new trains that leave for Warsaw, one eight minutes after the other, and if I do not get my Polish right by next weekend, I will not be able to find out from the conductors which one I should board, and I will be oh-so-screwed. Which once again reminds me, apparently, since I have been away from my man for more than a month now, I am supposed to be excessively conscious of my suppressed hormones which, someone suspects, will erupt violently on Darby’s return. I did flush on hearing that but not exactly because I felt coy. I am anything but coy. Hello! I am a big girl, footloose and fancy free in a city and don't give me crap about my hormones, dirty man. But I have been good. Occasional flirting does not count in Europe.

Lots more coming up.

June 27, 2009

IN LOVE

It is a very cloudy day today but very breezy. Went out for a long, really long walk and then spent some time walking some more in Palmiarnia. It was so warm and cool there, all at the same time, with the dampness coming up from the earth after a fresh shower and a grey mist hanging in suspension, with a few odd couples busy loving each other and lonesome pet dogs searching for companions. It was so beautiful and I fell in love again...with life.

And if you have ever been there, my friend, confronted by the vision of death, down in the nadir that you thought was insurmountable, you will know what I mean when I say that it is an incredible feeling to be alive, to be able to smell the real world again, to be able to feel that when a leaf is touched, it responds.

I am in tears right now. I am that happy. I am quaking right now. I feel that secure. The trees I have known here for sometime spoke with me today. I heard them call out my name in an unfamiliar land and I know I am home.

June 25, 2009

SUNBATHING ON A CLOUDY DAY - POM-PA-POM-PA-POM!

Woody Łodź is what I call a large part of the city that I walk about in. And yesterday, a pleasantly cloudy and windy day, with no sun beating down on us, I discovered this marvellous scenic route to the British Council Library through which Brit tragic hero guided me. I wanted to become an annual member of the library, something that would keep the supply of books and DVDs flowing. I guess, since Brit tragic hero is basically such a sweetheart, he willingly accompanied me to the place, adorably giving me a guided tour of the leafy parks we went through, one being his particular favourite en route. Chivalrous as he is, he also chose to become a member along with me so as not to make me feel that he had come just for me. And we had fun on our way from and to our flats, joking, sharing anecdotes, grievances, joys and regrets. The man is so generous and thoughtful and always eager to make one feel comfortable that I really hate myself at times to think I had such an adverse opinion about him earlier on. I cannot help but adore this man now. And so Austen was right about first impressions.

The Library is part of the University and don’t ask me how the two are related. I am clueless. It is a small, quaint little library but it has enough to keep me preoccupied and mentally stimulated. BCL has a very nostalgic association for people like me who visited the Kolkata one in Shakespeare Sarani during college and university days. The moment I entered this little treasure trove, I felt that nostalgia drench me again. I had almost forgotten how even idle browsing through books that one does not own and which are not neatly stacked in one of those fancy stores in a commercial bookstore chain can give a book lover a huge high. I got myself three books and two DVDs. ‘On Chesil Beach’ by Ian McEwan was recommended highly by a friend whose taste in books I trust blindly, ‘Writing on Skin’ by Sara Banerji was picked up for the obvious India and Bong connection and for old times’ sake, I got myself a college-time favourite, ‘The Go-Between’ by L.P. Hartley. The films that I chose are a bit different from the ones I have watched here so far. One is ‘Being Julia’ starring Annette Bening and Jeremy Irons (an actor I love), and ‘A Clockwork Orange’ which might be scary for me because I will watch it alone. It is a pity that I have not read ‘A Clockwork Orange’ but, damn it, it is such an expensive book and no one I know, owns it.

It was fun coming back as well, what with a timely cup of coffee in a quite neighbourhood café as we discussed a common love for short stories, second-hand bookshops, a shared sense of how there is no place either of us can really call ‘home’ and Brit tragic hero’s disastrous love life discoursed upon in the inimitably humorous way Darby and I have come to love.

All in all, a fun morning. Pom-pa-pom-pa-pom...Yeah…

June 23, 2009

A FUNNY KIND OF EVENING

Went out for dinner and drinks last night with friends. I was surprised to find ‘Pizzeria’ serve stuff other than pizzas and pasta. Had some amazing grilled fillet of kurczaka and a coke. Moved on to ‘The Irish Pub’ for, what else, Guinness! Smooth! Conversation moved from ‘Proof’ (the film and the script), to ‘The Big Lebowski’ to Chicago being just a stepping stone to New York, how even Seattle has more character than Chicago…blah, blah, blah. The obvious implication: I had an American friend with me. Brit tragic hero was there too and we were soon joined by E, the Austrian and two nubile Polish nymphets, one into photography and the other into sculpture. Cool. Things started getting more animated. E had brought with him the hot photographer apparently because she was interested in men and their arms. She is currently on a project shooting them and wanted to check out Brit tragic hero’s ‘heroine veins’ (as he shyly calls them) which came highly recommended. An appointment has been fixed. Brit tragic hero is to strip (only to show his arms, filthy minds) at her gallery and ensure his '17-and-a-half minutes of fame'. We were rather pleasantly surprised to hear the Dublin accent at a table nearby. No Polish. Just weird, funny, English. How refreshing! Highlights of the evening: an analysis of Polish and Jewish humour. Conclusion arrived at: Polish humour is dark to the point of, well, not being humorous and Jewish humour is, well, just Jewish. Two typical examples:

1) Polish man waits outside the operation theatre, anxious about his wife who is in labour. Sweaty palms, et al. The doctor comes out after an hour and says, ‘There is a problem. You have a son.’ ‘That can’t be a problem, Doctor. Is he fine? Is my son doing well? Doctor replies, ‘Yes, but the problem is he does not have legs’.
‘Oh!’ the Pole says, ‘Never mind, Doctor, I’ll love my son all the same’.
‘But that is not the end. There is another problem’, says the Doctor. He says, ‘The baby does not have his arms’. ‘That’s alright,’ says the Pole, ‘I’ll love my son all the same.’ Doctor continues, ‘But that is not all. Your son does not have a body. I mean he is just a pair of eyeballs’. Pole says, ‘Never mind, Doctor. Can I see my son now? I’ll love him all the same. He’s my son, you know’. Thus, the doctor goes in and delicately carries out the pair of eyeballs. The Pole is visibly overwhelmed at the sight of his son and can’t seem to have enough of him. Pole says, ‘He’s my son, you see. I’ll love him all the same.’ Doctor replies, ‘That’s not all. You see, I hate to break this to you, but your son’s blind.’

2) An old Jewish man lies on his deathbed and asks for his wife. Wife assures him that she is by his side, alright. Her husband coughs some and asks for his eldest son who promptly assures his father that he is with him, by his side. ‘Don’t worry, Papa, I’m here’. His father coughs some more and asks for his youngest who promptly answers him, ‘Here, Papa, here, we are all with you’ and his Papa retorts,’ If you are all with me, who the fuck is taking care of my shop.

Until the next time, ciao!

June 19, 2009

DIDN'T KNOW THAT I STILL HAD IT IN ME

A couple of months back, in an introspective mood, I confessed to feeling incapable of loving the way the world wants me to, incapable of feeling love the way the world gives it to me...in a wringing, painful, knotty kind of way, so that when I love, I give something in me away, so that when I soothe, I feel calm in return, so that when I touch my loved one, I feel another, more tangible love flow back through my veins. How much we think we know ourselves and how little we know! I feel that love surround me everyday and today, more than ever, I realize that I can love back too because it can still make me cry and feel the ache in my soul. I feel a little more complete today, a little more human.