dancing, chanting and other tribal customs.
i am thinking about suitable names for my first novel. i have yet to figure out a good plot, or even a mediocre one, but i am looking for names. all i
know about the novel is that its not a romantic story. it might be a travelogue, but i am rather sick of writing those, an di am sure that my long
suffering friends are sick of reading/skimming through/pretending to read them.
ducks, geese and hungry grad students.
i was talking to an old college friend last night when she said that she feels liberated in the us of a and that freedom even at the price of being far
awy from home is worth it. that is rather paradoxical, isnt it? freedom always comes at the price of being far away from home. but what i really fail to
comprehend is the pushing against walls. why have i nnever done that? or have i? and pushed for so little a time and with such little force that it went
entirely unnoticed, even by me? some people spend a lot of time and energy breaking free of the shackles imposed by their parents, peers, the
doodhwalla, the kakhima next door and other such figures of childhood authority. but as far back as i can recall having an opinion, its mostly been
reactionary. not in the western sense, perhaps, i mean i am certainly pro choice, i somewhat favour same sex weddings, and a recent little survey i took
shows me up as that kind of a bong i always hated and never wanted to become: a 'left-liberal'. how entirely prosaic! how nice to spend the rest of my
life periodically straining against chains, secure in the knowledge that i cannot break them, and indeed, if they were broken, then my cosy existance
will be the first to be wiped out.
and the eternal curse is that there is literally nothing that i will/can/might do. this is begining to sound like a series of grammar forms from hell.
the world is really made, or was made by people like ford (henry, not harrison) who made cheap cars, or by lenin, or by samrat ashok, or by j n tata.
the highly overrated middle class has done nothing much except to stabilise itself like a dry piece of leathery meat between the bread in a sandwich.
dammit, middle class people cant even make decent sandwiches. the last halfway decent sandwich i had was at the corner of new market (calcutta calls
this place the new market, but it was built in the Raj times, so thats something else to chew on). my father showed me this wee litle shoppe which had a
coupla brawny 'canning line types' (which would be a description of the place and people who compose calcutta's low income workforce) who did some crazy
things with a few pieces of bread, some onions/cucumber/cheese and a little bit of intermediate looking meat (the kind where part of the challenge is
figuring out what animal it came from by the taste!) and it was great!
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