At that moment
The most misunderstood species on planet earth must be those human beings who have chosen to predict the weather in order to make a living. They say “sunny” and we understand it to mean “sunny”.
It is raining in New York City today.
I woke up this morning with a germ of an idea for a novel in my mind. It is a children’s novel and being only a couple of hours into its conception, all the characters are in a nebulous state. I read a little more of Danny the Champion of the World by Roald Dahl and reminded my natural self and state of mind to keep it simple. I then had a go at Marshall McLuhan’s The Medium is the Massage and provided my Indian utilitarian inner spirit with the consolation that even though the book is small, it is worth the seventeen dollars that I spent on it. Little thoughts with big, deep meanings and that sort of stuff. Sometimes, one can give the Chinese menu a miss and have more fun.
All this time, Nusrat Ali Khan was singing in the background
Her looks like the fragrance of a flower
Her looks like a verse of a poem
Her gaze like the first ray of sunshine
If she raises her eyebrows it is a mannerism unique to her
Then when she lowers her eyebrows, yet another gesture…
And so on and so forth. Very nice.
The room and all around and inside was filled with music. And beer. The hangover of a Murakami novel read not so long ago.
I decided to make some pasta. I heated the oil. Sliced the onions lengthwise. Added some garlic. My tendency to hurry for no reason at all is to cook food on a flame so large that it would satisfy most of Jesus Christ’s requirements on Judgment Day. Today I cooked it over a gentle flame. Yellow pepper. Small slices of something the grocery called Ham Steak. Let everything simmer slowly. Added tomatoes and crushed red pepper and black pepper. Did not sneeze. Then covered it with a lid and let the ingredients sort matters out and amalgamate. I added water to a bowl and brought the water to the boil. Needless to say I added salt. . Then I discovered how to use the timer function on the microwave. I boiled spaghetti for 5 minutes. Drained the water carefully – this time I did not lose even one strand to the basin. I mixed the spaghetti to the sauce.
While the timer was running away, I began to think about the futility of life. On my deathbed, with a memory of a clock, these moments were sure to come back to me. How would I remember these five minutes?
I would remember them as a span of time spent in cooking extremely good pasta. I would remember the taste and salivate on my bedpan or mud filled trench. It is now that I realize that life is best spent in creating several such five minutes carefully. Sloppiness, my habit till recently, does not only botch up pasta. It also obliterates moments that can be cherished or enjoyed. As I write this, my novel has progressed further.
And now I must go to eat some really good pasta.
The most misunderstood species on planet earth must be those human beings who have chosen to predict the weather in order to make a living. They say “sunny” and we understand it to mean “sunny”.
It is raining in New York City today.
I woke up this morning with a germ of an idea for a novel in my mind. It is a children’s novel and being only a couple of hours into its conception, all the characters are in a nebulous state. I read a little more of Danny the Champion of the World by Roald Dahl and reminded my natural self and state of mind to keep it simple. I then had a go at Marshall McLuhan’s The Medium is the Massage and provided my Indian utilitarian inner spirit with the consolation that even though the book is small, it is worth the seventeen dollars that I spent on it. Little thoughts with big, deep meanings and that sort of stuff. Sometimes, one can give the Chinese menu a miss and have more fun.
All this time, Nusrat Ali Khan was singing in the background
Her looks like the fragrance of a flower
Her looks like a verse of a poem
Her gaze like the first ray of sunshine
If she raises her eyebrows it is a mannerism unique to her
Then when she lowers her eyebrows, yet another gesture…
And so on and so forth. Very nice.
The room and all around and inside was filled with music. And beer. The hangover of a Murakami novel read not so long ago.
I decided to make some pasta. I heated the oil. Sliced the onions lengthwise. Added some garlic. My tendency to hurry for no reason at all is to cook food on a flame so large that it would satisfy most of Jesus Christ’s requirements on Judgment Day. Today I cooked it over a gentle flame. Yellow pepper. Small slices of something the grocery called Ham Steak. Let everything simmer slowly. Added tomatoes and crushed red pepper and black pepper. Did not sneeze. Then covered it with a lid and let the ingredients sort matters out and amalgamate. I added water to a bowl and brought the water to the boil. Needless to say I added salt. . Then I discovered how to use the timer function on the microwave. I boiled spaghetti for 5 minutes. Drained the water carefully – this time I did not lose even one strand to the basin. I mixed the spaghetti to the sauce.
While the timer was running away, I began to think about the futility of life. On my deathbed, with a memory of a clock, these moments were sure to come back to me. How would I remember these five minutes?
I would remember them as a span of time spent in cooking extremely good pasta. I would remember the taste and salivate on my bedpan or mud filled trench. It is now that I realize that life is best spent in creating several such five minutes carefully. Sloppiness, my habit till recently, does not only botch up pasta. It also obliterates moments that can be cherished or enjoyed. As I write this, my novel has progressed further.
And now I must go to eat some really good pasta.
The victory
Are there only good and bad movies?
There are also good and bad audiences.
The latter focus on the inevitable, the scene where good triumphs over evil
The former devote their energies to contemplation and leave the auditorium thinking fluid thoughts.
Are there only good and bad movies?
There are also good and bad audiences.
The latter focus on the inevitable, the scene where good triumphs over evil
The former devote their energies to contemplation and leave the auditorium thinking fluid thoughts.
Rain
It rained all day in New York today. People walked around with solemn looks on their faces with looks that begged, Try me, just try me. The scenes were in direct contrast to Ethiopia where rains are usually greeted with fervent dancing. I suspect that this has more to do than the fact that there are more wheat farmers in Ethiopia than New York or that the temperature in Addis Ababa is hotter than on the East Coast of the United States. It might have to do with the fact that most self-respecting farmers in Ethiopia do not have alarm clocks to be dragged out of beds unwillingly only to go around acting intellectual like. In fact yoking the bull to the plough is a tougher task than most of us city dwellers undertake and I wager my life’s earnings on the fact that at least 75% of the farmers in Ethiopia undertake this task without the aid of PowerPoint.
Anyway as I walked around the streets noiselessly, I remembered an incident in Haiti, which I have visited not so long ago. I thought of a woman by a well who was delighted that it had rained in plenty causing the harvests to be to the satisfaction of one and all. I also thought of a schoolteacher who could not conduct class when it rained, as the water leaked through the porous roofs. 60 students had been unable to attend school for an entire season. He was not one bit happy.
Water drops. They are like people.
Thank God for people who converted their thoughts into books.
It rained all day in New York today. People walked around with solemn looks on their faces with looks that begged, Try me, just try me. The scenes were in direct contrast to Ethiopia where rains are usually greeted with fervent dancing. I suspect that this has more to do than the fact that there are more wheat farmers in Ethiopia than New York or that the temperature in Addis Ababa is hotter than on the East Coast of the United States. It might have to do with the fact that most self-respecting farmers in Ethiopia do not have alarm clocks to be dragged out of beds unwillingly only to go around acting intellectual like. In fact yoking the bull to the plough is a tougher task than most of us city dwellers undertake and I wager my life’s earnings on the fact that at least 75% of the farmers in Ethiopia undertake this task without the aid of PowerPoint.
Anyway as I walked around the streets noiselessly, I remembered an incident in Haiti, which I have visited not so long ago. I thought of a woman by a well who was delighted that it had rained in plenty causing the harvests to be to the satisfaction of one and all. I also thought of a schoolteacher who could not conduct class when it rained, as the water leaked through the porous roofs. 60 students had been unable to attend school for an entire season. He was not one bit happy.
Water drops. They are like people.
Thank God for people who converted their thoughts into books.
The party
Like the Strait of Gibraltar or the last day of winter, I was a forgotten entity. It was not very often that I was invited to parties or social gatherings of any kind. Which is why I looked forward to attending a summer party in a garden district with great enthusiasm. I shaved meticulously as even in those days, beards were out of fashion.
I considered slurping down a few strands of spaghetti to give me that dash of reckless confidence, so essential before a first date or a large party. Somehow this action seemed out of tune with what was taking place at that moment in time. I went to the party on an empty stomach. It was just as well that I hadn't eaten, for the first thing I noticed on reaching the garden was the abundance of pastries on the table. These were coming out of an elliptical hole in the centre before making their way to all corners of the table. Everyone was feasting on these pastries with great abandon- guests of the party and residents of the neighbourhood that included ants, worms and other droning insects.
Some girl sang a song. She was very beautiful and the song was very beautiful. It actually succeeded in withdrawing the attention of the attending public at large from the pastries. Somebody clapped. It seemed like a good gesture to express appreciation and many people brought their hands together to express their admiration. The singer blushed and withdrew. An old man said, “Remember, it is not possible to clap with one hand.”
I looked askance at the old man for introducing a note of dissent-albeit philosophical-into the proceedings. It was bound to spark a counterargument. And it did. Somebody opened their palm and slammed it against the table. “See, I did it”, he said. “I clapped with one hand”. He burst out laughing. Everyone wanted to be a part of the merriment and very soon the air was filled with noises of palms going thud, thud against the table. The effect was two fold. The old man was quietened. Also, people discovered that by hitting their palms against the table they had inadvertently killed many flies, worms and insects.
“More cake for us,” they shouted in glee and proceeded to kill many more insects till there were very few of them left on the table. A stall was opened where people were taught about the evils that flies, ants and insects wreaked upon the world.
People proceeded to eat cake, their stomachs now bottomless reservoirs of pastry puff, chocolate and beaten egg. I too reached for many pastries and felt happy that there were now fewer beings to share the cake. However, I was proven wrong. It is the way of nature that the supply of ants, flies and insects will never dry out. Very soon, larger number of insects had come out of perfectly nowhere at all to take the place of their deceased brethren. This re-emergence at first surprised the people and then made them angry. Three people pulled out the fifth leg from the table and using a saw made three clubs. They told the other people that difficult situations called for tougher measures. Hands would not suffice. Clubs were needed. Everyone present cheered his or her assent. The three people seated themselves at the three corners of the table and began hitting the table with great force with the clubs with one hand, while gorging pastries with the other. The larger surface area meant that more insects died with one blow. As the sugar levels went up, so did the frequency of the blows. Sometimes, flies perished; at others drones. Sometimes, other hands too got hurt by the clubs. These were human hands, which withdrew rapidly, anger giving way to pretence of a satisfied appetite.
Suddenly some people spoke out against the club wielders. Others even spoke out in favor of the flies. Some looked at the pastry as if it were the worst thing they had ever seen.
This mock surprise was too much for me to handle. I left the party.
I liked pastries. And like the rest, once upon a time I didn’t mind the flies.
Like the Strait of Gibraltar or the last day of winter, I was a forgotten entity. It was not very often that I was invited to parties or social gatherings of any kind. Which is why I looked forward to attending a summer party in a garden district with great enthusiasm. I shaved meticulously as even in those days, beards were out of fashion.
I considered slurping down a few strands of spaghetti to give me that dash of reckless confidence, so essential before a first date or a large party. Somehow this action seemed out of tune with what was taking place at that moment in time. I went to the party on an empty stomach. It was just as well that I hadn't eaten, for the first thing I noticed on reaching the garden was the abundance of pastries on the table. These were coming out of an elliptical hole in the centre before making their way to all corners of the table. Everyone was feasting on these pastries with great abandon- guests of the party and residents of the neighbourhood that included ants, worms and other droning insects.
Some girl sang a song. She was very beautiful and the song was very beautiful. It actually succeeded in withdrawing the attention of the attending public at large from the pastries. Somebody clapped. It seemed like a good gesture to express appreciation and many people brought their hands together to express their admiration. The singer blushed and withdrew. An old man said, “Remember, it is not possible to clap with one hand.”
I looked askance at the old man for introducing a note of dissent-albeit philosophical-into the proceedings. It was bound to spark a counterargument. And it did. Somebody opened their palm and slammed it against the table. “See, I did it”, he said. “I clapped with one hand”. He burst out laughing. Everyone wanted to be a part of the merriment and very soon the air was filled with noises of palms going thud, thud against the table. The effect was two fold. The old man was quietened. Also, people discovered that by hitting their palms against the table they had inadvertently killed many flies, worms and insects.
“More cake for us,” they shouted in glee and proceeded to kill many more insects till there were very few of them left on the table. A stall was opened where people were taught about the evils that flies, ants and insects wreaked upon the world.
People proceeded to eat cake, their stomachs now bottomless reservoirs of pastry puff, chocolate and beaten egg. I too reached for many pastries and felt happy that there were now fewer beings to share the cake. However, I was proven wrong. It is the way of nature that the supply of ants, flies and insects will never dry out. Very soon, larger number of insects had come out of perfectly nowhere at all to take the place of their deceased brethren. This re-emergence at first surprised the people and then made them angry. Three people pulled out the fifth leg from the table and using a saw made three clubs. They told the other people that difficult situations called for tougher measures. Hands would not suffice. Clubs were needed. Everyone present cheered his or her assent. The three people seated themselves at the three corners of the table and began hitting the table with great force with the clubs with one hand, while gorging pastries with the other. The larger surface area meant that more insects died with one blow. As the sugar levels went up, so did the frequency of the blows. Sometimes, flies perished; at others drones. Sometimes, other hands too got hurt by the clubs. These were human hands, which withdrew rapidly, anger giving way to pretence of a satisfied appetite.
Suddenly some people spoke out against the club wielders. Others even spoke out in favor of the flies. Some looked at the pastry as if it were the worst thing they had ever seen.
This mock surprise was too much for me to handle. I left the party.
I liked pastries. And like the rest, once upon a time I didn’t mind the flies.
Early morning
The Dalai Lama wakes up at 4:00 every morning. And if one were to go by the biography published in the Guardian last month, so does Haruki Murakami, one of the greatest and undeniably the coolest writer of our times.
Guardian Unlimited Books | Review | Marathon man
This article speaks of Mr. Murakami's themes that have to do with love and longing. That is true and Mr. Murakami must rank as one of the best thinkers to have ever penned thoughts regarding these complex matters.
However, the one thing that makes him stand out is the great intensity, love and detail with which he lives his life. He could be talking about ironing shirts or the ears of a woman. There is no flitting by any matter, however trivial it may seem. He deals with every topic in a detailed manner, where time stands till and the futility of “hurrying up” is revealed. Mr. Murakami does not make pasta. He heats the oil, then minces the garlic, waits till it turns brown, adds the spices and mixes it with the spaghetti. Step by step.
I always have two criteria while deciding whether an author is worth my money and time. Like the protagonist in the Catcher in the Rye, I ask myself after reading his/her book: “Do I feel like picking up the phone, calling the author and hanging out with him/her for a drink and conversation?” Secondly I ask no one in particular, but someone inside me always provides the answer. I wonder as to whether the author in question could ever write something original like “Alice in Wonderland” all by himself/herself if it had never been written before? (And yes James Joyce could have done it easily.) The answer in both cases as far as Mr. Murakami is concerned is a resounding yes.
If you are wondering about the purpose of your life on this planet and Gandhi’s “service of the fellowman” philosophy sounds like it is too much or too vague, then try to be like Mr. Murakami. Do everything with great love and attention. You might just find that the end result of the Gandhian and the Japanese way are one and the same.
And having said that, there is no excuse for me to not go in front of the mirror and straighten out the tie that I put on so carelessly this morning.
The Dalai Lama wakes up at 4:00 every morning. And if one were to go by the biography published in the Guardian last month, so does Haruki Murakami, one of the greatest and undeniably the coolest writer of our times.
Guardian Unlimited Books | Review | Marathon man
This article speaks of Mr. Murakami's themes that have to do with love and longing. That is true and Mr. Murakami must rank as one of the best thinkers to have ever penned thoughts regarding these complex matters.
However, the one thing that makes him stand out is the great intensity, love and detail with which he lives his life. He could be talking about ironing shirts or the ears of a woman. There is no flitting by any matter, however trivial it may seem. He deals with every topic in a detailed manner, where time stands till and the futility of “hurrying up” is revealed. Mr. Murakami does not make pasta. He heats the oil, then minces the garlic, waits till it turns brown, adds the spices and mixes it with the spaghetti. Step by step.
I always have two criteria while deciding whether an author is worth my money and time. Like the protagonist in the Catcher in the Rye, I ask myself after reading his/her book: “Do I feel like picking up the phone, calling the author and hanging out with him/her for a drink and conversation?” Secondly I ask no one in particular, but someone inside me always provides the answer. I wonder as to whether the author in question could ever write something original like “Alice in Wonderland” all by himself/herself if it had never been written before? (And yes James Joyce could have done it easily.) The answer in both cases as far as Mr. Murakami is concerned is a resounding yes.
If you are wondering about the purpose of your life on this planet and Gandhi’s “service of the fellowman” philosophy sounds like it is too much or too vague, then try to be like Mr. Murakami. Do everything with great love and attention. You might just find that the end result of the Gandhian and the Japanese way are one and the same.
And having said that, there is no excuse for me to not go in front of the mirror and straighten out the tie that I put on so carelessly this morning.
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