Voyage of Being

Ah! There wIhave your attention.
Given that earlier titles in this blog were mere proper nouns or self-evident cliches, this is a rather neat departure from tradition(as established by all of 3 posts in 2 years). However, that is not the point I wish to make.
The point of this post was to announce to the vast, empty stadium out there that the podium from which I make this announcement, shall henceforth be shared by someone who, by virtue(or vice) of being my wife, has had the misfortune to share much else with me, and that may mean that real content may soon find its way to this place.

'Voyage of Being' is the tentative title for her short novel, which is in draft stage. The immediate provocation for publishing this, despite the fact that audience is not expected here, well, is precisely that. This would be our testing ground. What's more neat, we get to copyright it, or so I like to convince myself, by adding, as I did, that snazzy copyright notice right below all the posts. Have a look at it, if you havent already had a look at it.There, mighty clever of me, isnt it?

Long and short of it is that excerpts shall follow soon - and I plan a serialisation eventually, whether there is audience or not.

Amitav Ghosh

The term Indian English writer very often invokes an association with the much-celebrated Seths, Desais, Roys and Rushdies. Yet, lurking quitely in the background, with a body of impressive work, is Amitav Ghosh, a formidable purveyor of Indian English fiction.
With 'Sea of Poppies' just having been published, the above sentence doesnt really sound as pompous as it was designed to.
For, it was written circa 2006, and Ghosh, though an impressive writer, never was the flavour of the month that he is now.

However, I intended to pen down my engagement with his books then. I may still do it. This is a place holder until then.

Emily Dickinson...

...is my favourite poet. That is not to say that I, like a wine-taster, ventured out to sample an array of bards, and anointed her as my favourite poet. It simply means that given the limited range of my reading, this is one person who swept me off my feet with her sheer, uh-hm, poetry. She is bliss to read and she has a way with words;to emote with words; Ah! I can never do justice. So, let me do the smart thing and quote her.

Well, anyway, here is the poem:
I can wade grief,
Whole pools of it,—
I ’m used to that.
But the least push of joy
Breaks up my feet, 5
And I tip—drunken.
Let no pebble smile,
’T was the new liquor,—
That was all!

Power is only pain, 10
Stranded, through discipline,
Till weights will hang.
Give balm to giants,
And they ’ll wilt, like men.
Give Himmaleh,— 15
They ’ll carry him!

The usual English excuses

"The Tottenham goalkeeper said: 'The conditions have made it hard for us. I think we are finding the pitches particularly difficult.It's slowing our passing game down. We are finding it hard to get a rhythm. I think we are finding the pitches particularly difficult because they are not putting water on them"
http://soccernet.espn.go.com/news/story?id=372669&cc=3436
Where do I start on this one? - am still rolling on the floor laughing.
So, folks, now you know why England have not set the stadiums alight yet in Germany. I say, Portugal, please pour water...on English hopes!