This is a dead blog.
Bye.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Thursday, 23 October 2008
Books II
This is by way of being an update to this post. Since then, I have acquired the following:
Anne Rice: Interview with a Vampire
Margaret Atwood: The Penelopiad
C.S. Lewis: The Narnia books.
Also, I have obtained Renault's The Persian Boy and The Bull from the Sea, so the mytho-historical novels, save one, are all with me.
As before, if you want 'em, say so in the comments.
Anne Rice: Interview with a Vampire
Margaret Atwood: The Penelopiad
C.S. Lewis: The Narnia books.
Also, I have obtained Renault's The Persian Boy and The Bull from the Sea, so the mytho-historical novels, save one, are all with me.
As before, if you want 'em, say so in the comments.
Saturday, 18 October 2008
Arunachal VI: Bomdila
The resort is called Elysium. Hmph.
Very pretty, though. Down from a deserted-looking terrace to a set of rooms fronted by a balcony with lovwly flowers. There's a greenhouse nearby that I wish I could get into. This is a good place on the whole-- nice wood floors and good view and pretty bathrooms.
Good food, too. Though, really, in this weather: warm = good.
Scotch is being drunk. Not by me. I'm buried under a quilt, sweaters still on. It's more than 8,000 ft up. We're going at least double that.
Dinner = warm = good. The manager says it's 4-6 degrees Celcius. Brrr.
Before I forget, there's a humongous stray dog-- well, I'm referring to breed, not ownership or lack thereof-- belonging to the manager, or at least the place. We called it-- this is before we knew-- and it came running up. Raka thought it was chasing her and scrambled off.
Just swaddled the precious SLR camera (film *sigh*) in blankets and woolens. Froze on us, last trip.
Morning's all sun-dappled mountains and tin-roofed houses and cricket chorus.
Very pretty, though. Down from a deserted-looking terrace to a set of rooms fronted by a balcony with lovwly flowers. There's a greenhouse nearby that I wish I could get into. This is a good place on the whole-- nice wood floors and good view and pretty bathrooms.
Good food, too. Though, really, in this weather: warm = good.
Scotch is being drunk. Not by me. I'm buried under a quilt, sweaters still on. It's more than 8,000 ft up. We're going at least double that.
Dinner = warm = good. The manager says it's 4-6 degrees Celcius. Brrr.
Before I forget, there's a humongous stray dog-- well, I'm referring to breed, not ownership or lack thereof-- belonging to the manager, or at least the place. We called it-- this is before we knew-- and it came running up. Raka thought it was chasing her and scrambled off.
Just swaddled the precious SLR camera (film *sigh*) in blankets and woolens. Froze on us, last trip.
Morning's all sun-dappled mountains and tin-roofed houses and cricket chorus.
Arunachal V: Bhalukpong-Bomdila
We just rolled down the road from Assam to Arunachal-- still in Bhalukpong, though.
Assam's symbol is the one-horned rhino, btw. Dunno what Arunachal's is-- prolly the bison, if the huge head atop the entry gate is anything to go by. Told Dad the theory. The others are trying to call home. Dad just accusted a local kid. *sigh* Turns out I was right. P.S: The hornbill's the state bird.
Jiyabhareli/Kameng-- lovely; rolling green-blue water, gleaming white sand, dancing white kash.
Orchids. I have nothing more to say.
Forested mountains and waterfalls and the first fanged bite of cold.
Crickets like a hundred ghostly castanets. The Boy has freaked out again. Auntie M finds everything sweet. *sigh*
Huge landslide-- black mud and machines.
Car quarrels. Men. *rolls eyes*
Ill. Dammit. So ill.
Tiny dark plum-like apples.
Assam's symbol is the one-horned rhino, btw. Dunno what Arunachal's is-- prolly the bison, if the huge head atop the entry gate is anything to go by. Told Dad the theory. The others are trying to call home. Dad just accusted a local kid. *sigh* Turns out I was right. P.S: The hornbill's the state bird.
Jiyabhareli/Kameng-- lovely; rolling green-blue water, gleaming white sand, dancing white kash.
Orchids. I have nothing more to say.
Forested mountains and waterfalls and the first fanged bite of cold.
Crickets like a hundred ghostly castanets. The Boy has freaked out again. Auntie M finds everything sweet. *sigh*
Huge landslide-- black mud and machines.
Car quarrels. Men. *rolls eyes*
Ill. Dammit. So ill.
Tiny dark plum-like apples.
Arunachal IV: Bhalukpong
At long last. Can't see anything-- too dark. I'm numb from sitting wedged in the back seat. And then there's the Boy.
Great food, though, very warm. Nice beds, too.
Morning. Trespassing to get to the Jiyabhareli river and the unbelievable kash fields in front of it. Raka and I climbed on the ledge outside the roof of our hotel. heheheh.
Nice little look-out spot. But. Must get to river.
Went down almost to the river, Mum leading. The Others freaked the hell out, dunno why.
Great food, though, very warm. Nice beds, too.
Morning. Trespassing to get to the Jiyabhareli river and the unbelievable kash fields in front of it. Raka and I climbed on the ledge outside the roof of our hotel. heheheh.
Nice little look-out spot. But. Must get to river.
Went down almost to the river, Mum leading. The Others freaked the hell out, dunno why.
Arunachal III: Guwahati-Bhalukpong
Well, here we are-- in tourist lodge rooms, trying to freshen up and change and eat in under an hour (yeah, right).
We were sitting at the station for just about the same time, probably longer-- not the most auspicious start to the journey.
Heh. It's the long way round to Bhalukpong. Normal route's fucked up.
Reception's shot, btw. And the battery was leeched away by the train trip, dunno how. Charged the phone for about half-an-hour at the lodge. Let's see how long it holds.
Apparently we get fed what these people want us to eat. Hmph.
The menu: Rice, khar, dal, pitika (alu-sedhdhho, basically), bhaji, chanar anja (paneer curry), mahor bor tenga (dunno), kanhudi/kharoli/khaisa, mahor guri, payas/dahi. Good food. No, I don't know what it was.
Amul On!! ad. teh funny-- the band-members-in-black-in-pool shot. tch. no pics.
Looong drive-- way too long. Hemmed in by cars and people and bhashaan parties in the towns.
Dark now. Surreal, the only car in the forest. Haven't seen any wild animals, though saw six tame elephants ewarlier, all told, carrying stuff.
Driver refuses to let us wish for wild elephants, btw. He has a point.
We were sitting at the station for just about the same time, probably longer-- not the most auspicious start to the journey.
Heh. It's the long way round to Bhalukpong. Normal route's fucked up.
Reception's shot, btw. And the battery was leeched away by the train trip, dunno how. Charged the phone for about half-an-hour at the lodge. Let's see how long it holds.
Apparently we get fed what these people want us to eat. Hmph.
The menu: Rice, khar, dal, pitika (alu-sedhdhho, basically), bhaji, chanar anja (paneer curry), mahor bor tenga (dunno), kanhudi/kharoli/khaisa, mahor guri, payas/dahi. Good food. No, I don't know what it was.
Amul On!! ad. teh funny-- the band-members-in-black-in-pool shot. tch. no pics.
Looong drive-- way too long. Hemmed in by cars and people and bhashaan parties in the towns.
Dark now. Surreal, the only car in the forest. Haven't seen any wild animals, though saw six tame elephants ewarlier, all told, carrying stuff.
Driver refuses to let us wish for wild elephants, btw. He has a point.
Arunachal II: Train
On the train. The Others (Uncle B, Auntie M, the Boy) aren't here yet. *sigh* The parental unit has gone for tea/coffee. Oh, wait, they're here-- the Others, that is.
Went to hunt for books. The Wheeler has nothing both good and cheap-ish, though there is a Ken Follet.
Heat is unbearable, according to everyone. I'm noting this to compare and contrast with when they start stuttering and shivering 'cause it's cold.
And we're off.
Rural bangla outside the windows-- toy huts and patchwork fields and kasphool in white clumps-- small and pretty and deceptively calm.
Fluorescent orange sunset, wind whipping hair into eyes.
People with torches, tracing pitch-dark paths. Light-snake racing by the too-swift windows.
Quarter-dozen cups of coffee, jhal muri and chine badam. Yay, train food.
Leathery nan and alu and far too much foil-packed chicken.
Lots of north-easterners on the train-- at least two hot boys with killer cheekbones.
Onyo loker Durga Pujo-- trains allow people to be unintrusive voyeurs, na?
Maldah-- people and stalls and one lone man perched on a mountain of boxes.
We've got seats near the door and people are spilling water-- Dad and Uncle B are on the warpath.
Train loos are close blood cousins of the Augean stables-- first-cousins, if not brothers.
Blankets and hastily blown-up air pillows (not to mention ruti in paper left on my berth by the last passenger) and the train's rhythm the world's most mechanical lullaby.
Assam's all neat chequered fields, wooded and somewhat blue hills, huge rolling white-blue river with toy boats and action-figure fishermen-- subtly and unsubtly unlike Bengal.
Went to hunt for books. The Wheeler has nothing both good and cheap-ish, though there is a Ken Follet.
Heat is unbearable, according to everyone. I'm noting this to compare and contrast with when they start stuttering and shivering 'cause it's cold.
And we're off.
Rural bangla outside the windows-- toy huts and patchwork fields and kasphool in white clumps-- small and pretty and deceptively calm.
Fluorescent orange sunset, wind whipping hair into eyes.
People with torches, tracing pitch-dark paths. Light-snake racing by the too-swift windows.
Quarter-dozen cups of coffee, jhal muri and chine badam. Yay, train food.
Leathery nan and alu and far too much foil-packed chicken.
Lots of north-easterners on the train-- at least two hot boys with killer cheekbones.
Onyo loker Durga Pujo-- trains allow people to be unintrusive voyeurs, na?
Maldah-- people and stalls and one lone man perched on a mountain of boxes.
We've got seats near the door and people are spilling water-- Dad and Uncle B are on the warpath.
Train loos are close blood cousins of the Augean stables-- first-cousins, if not brothers.
Blankets and hastily blown-up air pillows (not to mention ruti in paper left on my berth by the last passenger) and the train's rhythm the world's most mechanical lullaby.
Assam's all neat chequered fields, wooded and somewhat blue hills, huge rolling white-blue river with toy boats and action-figure fishermen-- subtly and unsubtly unlike Bengal.
Arunachal I: Home-Howrah
We've sent Dad ahead with the luggage, on a rickshaw. And now we're going-- Mum and Raka and I. Teh ickle brat has her school-bag strapped on her back-- filled with accessories and magazines and bits of clothing and (yes, I'm a geek) the complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer, whuch I plan on using to avoid the Boy.
And now we're on a taxi-- bags stuffed in the trunk-- one of them took a tumble from the rickshaw. The driver decides to take off via Lake Gardens, to avoid the usual Pujo crowds, this being Nabami and all. Turns out he's right, cause we only stop a few times, and that at traffic lights-- huge relief, as it's way past two and the train leaves at four.
I love the stretch from Victoria memorial to Vidyasagar Bridge--vast and colonial, broad open streets and massive buildings.
We're here-- at Howrah station, that is. Coolies have congregated around us, and one is haggling with Dad-- always a spectator sport, though Raka almost spoils it, because she's still unused to each little twist he uses. We pile the bags on the coolie and follow his excruciatingly slow steps through the station.
Grumpy old toad takes us to Platform no. 9 (yeah, no 3/4 to add to it). His face darkens visibly when we find seats and drag our bags to it.
And then, at 3:20, the train chugs in.
And now we're on a taxi-- bags stuffed in the trunk-- one of them took a tumble from the rickshaw. The driver decides to take off via Lake Gardens, to avoid the usual Pujo crowds, this being Nabami and all. Turns out he's right, cause we only stop a few times, and that at traffic lights-- huge relief, as it's way past two and the train leaves at four.
I love the stretch from Victoria memorial to Vidyasagar Bridge--vast and colonial, broad open streets and massive buildings.
We're here-- at Howrah station, that is. Coolies have congregated around us, and one is haggling with Dad-- always a spectator sport, though Raka almost spoils it, because she's still unused to each little twist he uses. We pile the bags on the coolie and follow his excruciatingly slow steps through the station.
Grumpy old toad takes us to Platform no. 9 (yeah, no 3/4 to add to it). His face darkens visibly when we find seats and drag our bags to it.
And then, at 3:20, the train chugs in.
Friday, 3 October 2008
Books
Have just sent junior lots of books. Am surprised at benevolence. And, if you want them, please say so in the comments. I have soft copies of:
The Dark Materials Trilogy.
Brokeback Mountain.
most of Mary Renault.
all of Pratchett.
Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series.
I'll be adding to this list, and I'll post updates, assuming anybody wants them.
The Dark Materials Trilogy.
Brokeback Mountain.
most of Mary Renault.
all of Pratchett.
Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series.
I'll be adding to this list, and I'll post updates, assuming anybody wants them.
Writing Rambles
Can an author actually shed his/her identity completely, abandon the physical reality he/she lives in, and all the circumstances, prejudices, information and opinions that make him/her the person he/she is, and take on the persona of somebody entirely different, absorb the nature of that person, become that person as thoroughly as if their lives are the same, the when and where of their existences are the same, as if they are one and indivisible?
If he/she actually can do so, will the literature produced by that author be at all comprehensible to those who read it, if it is about a different time and/or place? When anyone writes about a time and a place not theirs, don't they write in too many things which people of that time would have taken for granted?
Isn't contemporary fiction, no matter from what era and place, always subtly and unsubtly different from fiction about that time and place, but not written by those who actually lived through it?
If he/she actually can do so, will the literature produced by that author be at all comprehensible to those who read it, if it is about a different time and/or place? When anyone writes about a time and a place not theirs, don't they write in too many things which people of that time would have taken for granted?
Isn't contemporary fiction, no matter from what era and place, always subtly and unsubtly different from fiction about that time and place, but not written by those who actually lived through it?
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