Mahesh Rao’s Polite Society is a viciously funny black comedy of manners whereas in Austen’s Emma nothing really bad happens. Polite Society is the darker cousin of Austen’s Emma – you know the talons will come out at a point and the characters will get hurt. In Austen’s world, there are allusions but here we see the ugliness that lies behind picture perfect lives. I liked the book for its refreshing lack of morality, and there certainly is no redemption. By now you know not to expect a happy ending. A biting social commentary for the 21st century set in the snobby upper echelons of Delhi, just as segregated as Highbury.
All the characters from Aisha danced around in my head merging with the brilliant adaptation of Emma by Autumn de Wilde (that’s really her name!) plus the original characters from Austen’s Emma which I finished in lockdown (with a little help from the brilliant audiobook which made me feel as if I was listening to a radio dramatization). In 2019, I read a contemporary adaptation by Alexander McCall Smith which was neither here nor there. I had to have my bases covered, you see.
Ania Khurana, our desi Emma, is as vapid as Sonam’s Aisha. (Many people trashed the film but I liked it except for the trite ending.) Ania lives in a bungalow teeming with servants but there’s no one she can be honest with. The paparazzi track her every move. For all her material trappings, she is terribly lonely. Ania is rich but not really the daddy’s girl like Emma was. Ania and her father don’t have much of a relationship even though they live in the same mansion. The affection that Emma lavished on Mr Woodhouse is absent here perhaps because Dileep Khurana appears to be a cold father (it takes two to build a relationship). All we want in life, whether rich or poor, is to be accepted for who we are, and feel a little less alone.
A character I wanted to know more about was Dev (it will always be Abhay Deol in my mind). He has a fleeting presence in the book hovering in the background. He never shouts at Ania just teases her or ticks her off gently. Where Mr Knightley remains superior to all and sundry, Dev’s pursuit of intelligence and appreciation of intellect lands him in a quandary many a time. In short, Dev is Mr Knightley, who has been humanized, and hence more real.
Renu Bua is the unmarried aunt modelled after Miss Taylor. She may not be treated with outright contempt but she has a lesser importance both inside, and outside the house until she gets married and moves out. Old maids are still a thing. So much for all our modernity.
The author writes women well. (I am always surprised when men write women well!) The characters’ inner motivations are revealed in the chapters given to them which was quite interesting (a departure from Austen’s Emma). You see what they think about themselves, where they are really come from, and how it contrasts with the facade they have built for the world.
Forgiveness like betrayal comes in all shapes and sizes. And you have many options at your disposal but you have to figure out how to go about it. They are peddling instant gratification, and we are drawn to it like honey to bee, which in the long run turns out to be fatal like white sugar. And, no it won’t stop me from biting into a macaroon or eating a gulab jamun (or two) once in a while but it’s a good comparison, isn’t it? Technology for all its advantages is making our lives more complicated and giving birth to mindless drama pregnant with chaos.
One can forgive and forget, the best thing to do really. Grudges are a colossal waste of time and energy. Also, they tamper with future connections without you being aware of it because that’s the vibe you are sending out into the world. I know because I used to be a champion grudge holder and the queen of sulking. (Yes, I used to be that stupid.) The other person doesn’t have a clue or has forgotten or moved on and there you are waiting for an apology tomake things right. People aren’t mind readers true but there are always signs and silence screams louder than words, or so I thought. Some people are plain stupid or they are too busy to notice or they actually don’t care. Take your pick of the reason least harmful to your ego!
One cannot forgive but still forget (a rare breed but they do exist). And as I grow older this is becoming easy for me on account of being more forgetful. You heal yourself, put a stop to the nonsense and get an apology from the person in your head by playing out different scenarios and you are done. Simple, eh? What if the person shows up again and again interfering in the healing process? Not to worry, use their stupidity obstinacy to your advantage. The more they show up, the less it bothers you. No jolts, just the reassurance that one fine day it won’t matter. In a fit of rage you might feel the need to delete or block. I won’t tell you it’s a childish thing to do because it has its benefits but it’s a waste of limited energy reserves. Along with numerous social media accounts, people now have multiple numbers and change phones like they change shoes so you can’t actually keep up (if you are like me).
One can neither forgive nor forget. Time will do your work for you so no point in losing sleep over it. (Didn’t anyone tell you that patience is a virtue? Me neither!) So many ways to deal with forgiveness. What if you are the one seeking forgiveness? Do the same rules still apply? Or do you become a hypocrite? Continue reading “To forgive or forget that is the question”→
A Coldplay kind of day today, and when Death and All His Friends come to your rescue, you listen. It was not all Yellow not by a long stretch but blue and no one will bleed for you or die trying except perhaps your family (their job description since the day you were born) and a few close friends (if you are lucky). So what are you cribbing about, you ungrateful wretch. Get over yourself. Live, thrive, survive (whatever suits you). No one can Fix You except you.
No I don’t want to battle from beginning to end I don’t want a cycle of recycled revenge
It’s like I heard the song for the first time. For a long time the song was misnamed in my playlist as Lovers in Japan. Isn’t it amazing how a song will be whatever you want it to be in that moment – romantic, cathartic, healing, inspiring and so much more.
Sometimes a song saves you. The memories associated with it, the lyrics or the music itself (words become superfluous and it is the rhythm which carries you through).
Watching This is Us brought Mandy Moore back into my life. For me Mandy Moores’s Cry is not about the lyrics but about nostalgia for me. It is about a bygone era when me and my friends used to read Nicholas Sparks (oh the horror). Now if I see A Walk to Remember (a fate comparable to being inside an MRI machine) I will definitely sob but it will be due to laughing hard and snorting at the dialogues. Thank god we grew up. Idealism has no place in the life of old people. (No, don’t tell me 30 is the new 20!) Youth and idealism go together just fine, complementing each other in envisioning a better future full of realized dreams, lost opportunities nowhere on the horizon and the harsh truth yet to dawn. The blinders come off eventually, either voluntarily or forcefully.
Sometimes humour saves you. Satire, sarcasm, nonsense, black – all shades of humour. Your sense of humour is the most important thing about you, so keep it close and try your best not to lose it in the chaos that is everyday life, unless you live on one of many moons of Jupiter. It might desert you and vanish from time to time but prepare a grand welcome when it reappears. Continue reading “Wanting to be saved”→
Time flies. Staying at home for extended periods of time when I was unwell I could feel the passage of seasons, days going by excruciatingly slow, each day with its own set of struggles and now I cannot believe such a large chunk of time has passed. The descent of time?
Ship Fever by Andrea Barrett is a collection of short stories I wanted to reread as soon as I finished the book, and it has taken me nearly two years to do it. I bought The Voyage of Narwhal immediately after finishing it, and recently The Air We Breathe has come into my possession but I still haven’t read them. What am I scared of – her not meeting my exceeded expectations or idiotically trying to collect all her other books (very hard to find in India) while not reading the ones I do have. Life is too short to wait for a complete collection. You read along and hope for the best.
In The English Pupil, Carolus Linnaeus is nostalgic for the past and remembers his apostles (read pupils), who went about the world carrying forward his legacy, sending him specimens and discovering new species. All of his apostles are dead now, and he’s inching closer towards his own.
Linnaeus and his wife remind me of an old couple, who are in the autumn of their lives and are not at peace with it or with each other. (What is the point of companionship then?) His wife doesn’t care about his work or his legacy. His work fulfilled him but didn’t make him rich. The family’s demands weren’t being met and to her that was what mattered the most. She was the pragmatic sort. A dreamer has to be paired with a realist. It is a question of survival, you see. Continue reading “Andrea Barrett’s The English Pupil”→
While cleaning and rearranging my books the other day, without thinking I selected the OST of The Namesake to play on the phone. Perhaps because it is mostly instrumental with just a handful of songs, and has always soothed me in the past. Also, I needed to focus on the job at hand. Even though it is one of my favourite activities, working all day, I was beginning to tire. So I needed the music to not be distracting but help me calm down, and at the same re-energize, if there is such a thing. When the album reached the end, and The Same Song played, I realized I had completely forgotten about its existence all these years even though the same singer (Susheela Raman) had sung another song in the OST which I had listened to just minutes before. It was as if my brain was refusing to connect the dots which is weird to say the least (not a good sign in any universe).
It was as if no time had passed, and I remembered the first time I had heard the song. I googled the year the movie had released, and it’s actually been over a decade since it released. I can’t be sure of the exact year I read the book as I wasn’t a member of Goodreads then. But I remember reading the book during college, and eagerly waiting to see the movie adaptation which I ultimately saw when it came on the TV. (If The Sense of an Ending and A Death in the Gunj didn’t release here now there was not even a sliver of hope of The Namesake releasing then.) I have a vague idea of the timeline. It must be scribbled in one of those notebooks I used as diaries(=journals) then. It will be difficult to mine out information in the old fashioned way, riffling through pages remembering which notebook I wrote what in (I tell you that’s half the battle won) even if I am orderly because systematic I am not, and my memory isn’t what it used to be (the unfortunate truth). Plus my diary handwriting is godawful to say the least, hurriedly jotting down before I forget things, and sometimes even I have trouble reading it. Go on have a laugh.
Pondering on what is real and what is not while rains lash on,when I’m neither asleep nor awake but in a world in between, in a dream like haze. I’m steering back and forth between a dream filled reality or sleep I know not. The rain has stopped but the growling thunder is a sign of what is to come. A gentle cool breeze is coming through the open window along with a fine spray. The house is plunged into darkness the power as unreliable as the weather forecast. I only realize the true value of something when it is no longer within my grasp. That is when I want to come back the bridge burnt and the leap can’t be taken. I listen to the birds gaily chirping in spite of the constant growling thunder. A plane flew by desperate to land before the rain descends again. When the light comes I find its glare too harsh having been comforted by darkness I have made my peace with it. I maybe afraid of it but it has become my friend.