Rudderless Again

I never wanted to teach. Every time somebody reacted to my choice of English Literature as a majoring subject by saying I'd end up a teacher, I used to bristle with anger and stamp out any such ridiculous notion. On that front, the only thing I can say in my defense is that I am not teaching English Literature or even English for that matter. I took on teaching as an experiment, when I was quite completely rudderless and lost. That it proved to be the only anchor in my life for the longest time is perhaps one of the reasons why I am so stubbornly passionate about it. I should be fair, it has brought me immense pleasure and satisfaction. There is little else that makes me feel as happy as I do after a good class and the satisfaction of seeing a class pass from my class and go on to a higher level is difficult to beat. And of course there is the undeniable joy of students staying in touch...

Today for the first time in 4 years, I am forced to question my decision and wondering if it isn't time to change tracks and perhaps move on. The sense of fatigue, defeat and disillusionment is so great I almost don't feel like going back into class tomorrow. I hate this feeling and it makes me hate the people who are taking away the one joy I could count on, replacing it with doubts and uncertainty, almost as if I was rudderless and adrift. Again.

Cut To The Chase Babe...

Cut to the chase babe...

In three sentences if you can please?

Make this one short and sweet kiddo!

You need to evolve beyond this Victorian style of writing and learn how to leave out the unnecessary details. People have neither the time nor the patience for sentences that are a paragraph in themselves.

How many times have I heard that and fumed over the lack of appreciation of my personal style? I ramble. I provide details. I love to build a story, so yes, I love indulging in that long and winding preamble. I absolutely revel in long, winding sentences that unfold new nuances with each pause, sentences that dip and rise and linger on my tongue. And I hate being brief and concise. The only time I succeeded in actually sticking to the point and wrapping up in a minimum of words, sticking to the bare necessary bones and flesh required to cover the subject was in my exams at the B.A and M.A level. I could never write more than four pages for my assignment during my days as a Literature student.

Last week, correcting a pile of assignments written by my students of the intermediate level, i.e. level 2, I suddenly understood what my friends and critics have been grumbling about all these years! Faced with a convoluted sentence that started on the second line of the page and wound its way half way down the page, I frowned in compounded frustration as I struggled to comprehend just exactly what my student was trying to say (just like you are probably doing right now!)...and gritting my teeth, almost pulling my hair out in frustration, I brusquely wrote on the page, "Faut que tu sois bref!" (You should be brief!) ;-)

Julie and Julia

A Meryl Streep film is showing at the cinema and you know you just have to go watch it. So off I went this afternoon to watch Julie and Julia, dragging an unwilling friend along with me. There were loud protests of being dragged for a chick’s flick though I think the said friend secretly suspected it had one of my favoured subverted, depressing feminist storylines…as you guessed correctly neither of us had a clue about the film, apart from the fact that Meryl Streep was in it!

Two hours later, we walked out with smiles on our face, content with an afternoon spent well. My friend, refusing to give me any credit for having chosen a good film for us, reiterated the fact that you can’t go wrong with Meryl Streep! I, for one, am completely delighted with the film and am going to get Extempore to procure Julie Child’s book for me!

Based on two real stories about Julia Child, the lady who revealed the secret of French cooking to American women and Julie Powell who found a passion in life after rediscovering Julie Child’s recipe book and starting the blog The Julie/ Julia Project in which she pledges to successfully try out all the 524 recipes in 365 days. Smoothly intertwining the two lives of Julia Child in the 1940s and Julie Powell in the 21st century in a classic palimpsest, the film whets the appetite, amuses and warms the heart.

The story starts in 1946, Julia Child, lands in Paris with her husband Paul Child, a diplomat working with the American Embassy. After trying unsuccessfully to engage herself in various activities organised for the wives of the American diplomats, Julie finally finds her calling in The Cordon Bleu, a school for professional cooks. Despite the scepticism from those around her, Julia soon masters the art of French cooking, investing in it the same love and passion that she invests in her marriage. She goes on to publish a book of recipes in collaboration with her friend Simone Beck and Louisette Bertholle,

Fifty years later, Julie Powell, a government employee and failed writer who enjoys cooking launches the Julie/ Julia project in which she signs up for a deranged assignment of making each and every one of the dishes in Child’s book and blogging about her experiences. Over a series of adventures and misadventures in her tiny kitchen in an apartment above a pizzeria in Queens, Julie’s project grows from a tiny, unknown fledgling to a proud swan that not only brings her fame but also helps her realise her dream of finally becoming a published author.

The inimitable Meryl Streep is perfect as Julia Child. Her Americanised “Bon Appétit” is still ringing in my ears and I find myself chuckling every time I remember the scene in which Paul returns home to find her chopping onions. The lady is pure genius all the way from She Devil to The Devil Wears Prada and now this film. She is complemented wonderfully by her co-actor of The Devil Wears Prada, Stanley Tucci, who plays the role of Paul Child, her loving and supportive husband. The younger Julie Powell, played by Amy Adams, who struggles to successfully try out each and every one of the recipes in Child’s masterpiece, is delightful as well, especially in the scenes when she has to kill the lobster and when she fails to truss a chicken!

A film about the passion and conviction to follow a dream to the end, this gourmet film is perfect to complete a lazy Sunday afternoon…a must watch :-)

An Afternoon Well Spent...

...is not an easy task when you are me and work 7 days a week and thus have a precious few afternoons to spare. This last month, I've rediscovered the perfect recipe of an afternoon well spent.

Ingredients:

• A film - preferably a good one, but even a strange film does the trick.
• Some good food - it does not have to be fancy, even the most basic food at a place completely devoid of ambiance can work like magic if the ingredients are mixed well.
• The company of a good friend - some would say that this is optional, but nothing works for me more than the certitude of a good conversation over that cuppa tea.
• A lovely warm Sunday afternoon with a gentle breeze fanning the face, keeping the droplets of perspiration at bay and gently whistling through my hair even as it makes the skin on my arms break into goosebumps.

Method:

Toss all the ingredients together in a large bowl and serve warm :-)

My Students and Other Animals...

Times a plenty when I find myself wondering why people must insist on behaving like the lesser evolved species and display a complete lack of culture befitting a cow or worse a bull. It doesn't help that I have been chased twice by a cow, making me not the least bit fond of this animal, sacred or not. If you ask me, it's a dumb creature with some seriously disgusting eating habits. And then I walk into class and see a student's jaw moving in a circular motion and I see the student metamorphosing into a bovine creature and when the student says "Bonjour," I hear "Mooo!" I'm referring to the abhorrent habit of chewing gum which always reminds of masticating cow. I'm forced to ask the human cows to go and spit out the gum, more out of my intense disgust at this image, than because of their obvious and dismal lack of manners which permits them to chew gum in the presence of a professor.

But human cows aren't the only animals that inhabit my classes. For the longest time, I was teaching in a classroom (where I still have to teach every once in a while) which had boxes and boxes of the last decade's archives (read junk which should be either sold or simply burnt) belonging to the Alliance Française de Poona. Now cartons and boxes provide perfect nooks and corners for spiders and other vague insects and creepy crawlies to thrive and where there are creepy crawlies, there must be reptiles, or at least lizards...and thus every now and then, a lizard would decide to come and attend class. And of course the lizard would just *have* to be the more ardent of my students and had to come padding its way closer to me, while my insides squirmed in disgust and I tried my best to restrain the urge to jump over to the other side of the class like a skittish foal!

The appearance at my classroom window, of the occasional crow who tries his level best to drown out my voice, much to the mirth of my students isn't quite as comforting to my teacher's ego...but little beats the damage done by my canine friends. On one occasion when I was teaching and fifteen minutes into class, the door was suddenly pushed open. Turning around expecting to see a student and prepared to ask "Pourquoi es-tu en retard?" I was puzzled when my eyes didn't fall on any face...searching, my eyes fell further down, to encounter a muzzle...the owner pushed the door further and in walked Monsieur Deshpande, the local dog. He proceeded to saunter right to the center of the classroom and settled there with a rather questioning look on his face! I had a tough time getting him out of class - and much to my chagrin, I was forced to acknowledge that this was not one of my fans, for he was there not to gain the seeds of knowledge or bask in my enthralling presence, but to inquire about the source of his daily dose of Parle G biscuits!

Recently, I had to teach once again with a canine friend in class - much to my disgruntled amusement, this one also didn't seem to find my pedagogic practices particularly interesting for once he'd rubbed himself against my calves and got himself petted, he proceeded to stretch, yawned straight into my amused face...and then stretched himself at my feet and promptly fell asleep! I continued to teach, hopping over him and moving around him till he finally roused himself from his power nap some thirty minutes later, threw me a bored look and sauntered out of class once again!

I've now been teaching for nearly four years and just when I thought I'd seen all sorts of creatures stroll through my class, with the strangest of mannerisms and gaits, I have yet another visitor...one who walks sideways. A handicap, I'd say but this fellow moved with amazing speed and accuracy, making his way across the room speedily towards me. Spotting him from the corner of my eye, I paused in the middle of explaining the conjugation of a verb, and turned my head to ensure that I wasn't hallucinating...and it truly was a crab that was racing across the floor towards me! Funnily enough, despite my alarm, I continued in almost the next breath, calmly as though I was still talking about the verb, "Il y a un crabe dans la salle..." I leave you to imagine the chaos that followed my declaration!

After calming my students, who had succeeded in making the crab take refuge amongst the wires in a corner of the podium at which I was standing, I continued teaching, keeping a wary eye on the crab that crawled out a few minutes later and settled himself a few inches away from me. The crab insisted on scurrying after me every time I moved, leaving me quite pleased by his devotion to French. Now if only I inspired such devotion in my human students! Sigh...

P.S If you found my experiences even remotely interesting and/or amusing, you'll definitely enjoy this book.

Whisk Me Away...

The recent trips seem to have stirred the wander-lust in me for I find myself strangely restless, unable to focus on work for long and amazingly enough loath to spend time at home. I find myself building castles in the air about trips I'd like to make later this year - Aurangabad for another visit to the Ajanta-Ellora caves and Bangalore to *finally* visit Hampi with Umelette (she seems to be the only one who has not yet been there)...

So it is that in the middle of planning a new class or slogging my way through a translation I suddenly find myself wondering what is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?

Flights of fancy apart, I've been drowning myself anew in the world of literature (or atleast attempting to do so) and thus the pile of books on my bedside table is becoming taller and increasingly precarious as I pull out a different book every night, depending on my mood, and proceed to drench myself in a world vastly different from mine. Joyce Carol Oats, Gerald Durrel, Michel Tournier, Franz Kafka or Sue Rose - every night I'm whisked away to a new world and slip blissfully into a wonderful dreamless sleep. :)

Now if only, someone would organise a magic carpet that could truly whisk me away!

Appreciating the Female Nude...

While I've always admired and appreciated art, not until very recently did I start understanding it and learning to read a painting and see what the artist is trying to say. Obviously in my less informed days, I expected all art to be beautiful in a gentle, pleasing manner and anything that was raw, asymetrical or unconventional failed to inspire me. So it is hardly surprising that my favourite artists were all Impressionists. I did however admire a few other artists, Edgar Degas being one of them. Very often recognised as an Impressionist, Degas infact worked more often in the studio than in the natural light and his subjects and techniques differed slightly from those of his contemporary Impressionists. I've always appreciated Edgar Degas' series of women at their toilette, finding the voyeur's perspective fascinating and sensual at the same time. That was perhaps my first step towards appreciating nudes in art.

As I slowly discovered other works with the female nude as their subject, I began to analyse them further. For instance, none of Degas' women meet their viewer's eye, unlike Velazquez's Venus (1644-48) who coyly looks at her viewer through the mirror held up for her toilette by an angel.

The sensuality of Ingres' Odalisque (1840) who looks over her shoulder and meets the viewer's eyes with an open frankness and not the slightest hint of coyness stole my breath, even if the proportion of the back in comparison to the rest of the body was a little skewed. Or maybe it was that sensual curve of her back that added to her appeal?

Odalisque with a Slave, in stark contrast presented a frontal view of Odalisque stretched out sensually while a slave played music for her pleasure and another one stood at guard. Obviously influenced by Ingres' study of Oriental culture, it is an incredibly sensual work of art, but I personally prefered Georgione's Venus Asleep (1510). The casual indolence with which Venus is stretched, demurely covering her sex with her hand is far more sensual than the obvious sensuality of the Ingres' Odalisque.

But if Georgione's Venus hand covering her sex is a demure gesture, when one sees Titian's Venus of Urbino (1538-39)covering her sex, it seems almost like an after-thought as she stares straight into the eyes of the viewer. The dog curled at her feet and the familiar household scene in the background seem to add to the erotic nature of the painting. However, she still seems demure, despite the openness of her look.

On the other hand, Manet's Olympia (1865), reposing on her bed while similarly covering her sex is anything but demure. The bold look invites the (male) viewer to enter her private chambers and sample what's very obviously on offer. The blatant sexuality of this work scandalised the public in the 19th century. While the nudity itself no longer shocks, the intent of the painting when considered in its contemporary social setting does indeed shock me as well. But I must profess to hugely admiring this particular work of art and all that it suggests, whether subtly or obviously.

Whatever be the intent and the style, none of these have truly bared the female sex to the viewer as do the modern works of art. Call me prudish or conventional, but I prefer this sensual representation of the female nude in comparison to the deconstructed nude which holds little as sacred (and the female sex is definitely not sacred for the modern artist). If I had to have a print of any one of these works of art in my house, I'd reach out for Olympia without batting an eyelid.

Diasporic Angst...

I remember the first time I went back to Bombay in June 2004 - my heart was singing from the moment we crossed the toll naka in Vashi, my eyes soaking in the sights of the familiar roads, rolling down the windows to take deep, gulping breaths of that salty wind. It was the same each and every time I disembarked from the plane on my way back home from Germany/France. Muggy, disgustingly hot even in the middle of the night or not, breathing in the air of Tinsel Town put a spring in my step. Bombay, I have always maintained, has a unique smell that only a true blue Bombayite can appreciate. My trips to Bombay decreased in frequency over the years, but the feeling of going back home everytime didn't change...till this time.

This time, for the first time, I felt out of place. The humidity and heat made me feel almost sick the first evening - the squalor and dirtiness of the streets made me wonder when the city had turned into a gigantic garbage dump - the smell pervading the streets made me screw up my nose in disgust - the ambitious metro project which is being awaited eagerly by everybody struck me as a huge eyesore. Of course work is still under way and what I saw of it, was just dug up roads, leading to mucky roads and massive traffic confusion, but it hasn't appealed yet. The worst was the feeling that I no longer recognise the city. The shopping centers and malls cropping up at every corner make me feel rather lost, when I can't locate the familiar landmarks.

Yet, I can not deny that the city still rocks my boat, like little else. Is it merely because nothing better exists or because my city truly does rock, mugginess, squalor et al?

Impressions of a Sunrise

Have you ever woken up before the crack of dawn and sat in the dark listening to the sounds of silence envelopping you in their silvery embrace?

Have you ever heard the adhan from the neighbouring masjid or the crowing of the roosters announcing the dawn of a new day?

Have you ever seen the fiery rays of the rising sun streak across the sky and set it aflame? Or watched as stars twinkling against the inky blackness of the night slowly fade as the sky became progressively lighter?

Have you ever started your day with nothing for company but a mug of tea/coffee, your myriad thoughts and the strains of the santoor strummed by none other than the great maestro Shiv Kumar Sharma?

If you haven't, you must, for I have mere words which don't even come close to describing the pleasure of these experiences.

Claude Monet - Impression du Soleil Levant (1873)

Rien de Spécial

Standing at the fag end of the weekend, I smile as the warmth of content spreads slowly but steadily through my tired body, making me forget how sleep deprived and exhausted I am and that an extremely tiring week lies ahead of me...so what did I do this weekend? Rien de spécial - a visit to one of my favourite places in the city, i.e. the Khadki cemetery(which is also hopefully the first of several such visits in the Pune Darshan plan for a new friend), efficient and quick shopping expeditions for friends, rambling conversations, drinks and a midnight meal of Maggi with friends, Dhansak and Salli boti at Dorabjee's café with Extempore who is here to help Landmark shift across the road to a much larger space with a hugely improved stock which makes it difficult to resist the urge to splurge which obviously means new books, in this case two new books by Gerald Durrel (whom I blogged about here) both of which I'm most eager to start reading...

As I said, rien de spécial - just an extremely satisfying week-end :)

Tchin Tchin

From 2004 to 2009, I've attended five 14 juillet soirées organised by Alliance Française de Poona. I started the journey in 2004 as a new student lost in the crowd, painfully awkward and bored stiff due to lack of company. A year later, I still didn't know many people but sure had fun with Kitana and PJ. The following year saw me in a new position as a professor, but back in the old shoes where I found myself isolated since I didn't know any of my colleagues well enough to spend time with them and ended up spending the evening on the dance floor with students...it was also the first time I condescended to drinking beer! A couple of years later, things have changed so much. For one, the party was not on 14 juillet but (for a bunch of strange reasons) on the 1st of August. Secondly, I now enjoy glugging beer. Thirdly, our party was a complete disaster in comparison to the rocking parties we've had in the past. There was no music and I never got around to eating so I can't comment on the food. Yet for some strange reason I had a great time - I was on my turf, flitting from one group of students to the other, stopping in between to gossip with P, N and K. Times like this, I am most tempted to pinch myself and check if this butterfly is the same Plain Jane who would not so much as indulge in small talk with people, leave alone flirt outrageously, tease mercilessly and refuse to let anyone get bored or feel lonely. I think I quite like the butterfly, so let's drink to that, shall we?

Because...

...I was grounded today because of the most severe stomach upset I've had since February 2006, I am going to ramble once again.

I absolutely hate having a stomach upset. It unhinges me like little else, leaving me feeling mightily crabby and out-of-sorts. A nasty cold with a running nose, sore throat accompanied by a spell of sounding sexy and husky (read, braying like a donkey) and congestion that leaves me with palpitations and breathing problems - now that I can handle. I may claim that I'm dying atleast five times a day, but I can keep moving and more importantly, teaching. But a stomach upset like this, leaves me drained and forces me to cancel class. I do not like. At all.

In a house that increasingly resembles a zoo with two little brats we had a little incident a few days ago that tickled my funny bone immensely once the initial trauma had subsided. I was cleaning the chicken for dinner when the elder of my two nephews came running out of his room bawling his lungs out. My mother, sister-in-law and I came running from the different corners of the house and were just standing there in mute horror, aghast at the sight of my nephew's bleeding mouth (or so it seemed to us), till one of us sprung into action and got ice from the fridge and the other ran to get some ghee for some desi treatments. While they were busy trying to calm his wailing, I went to investigate and what should I discover but a brand new razor with some soft hair lodged between the blades. My four year old nephew had decided that he needs to shave like his father! I emerged from my brother's room chortling with unbridled amusement and proceeded to chuckle over it for the rest of the evening. Boys can be such monkeys!

Every once in a while I come across a student that presses the wrong buttons and sends my blood pressure shooting by the mere fact of having opened his/her mouth. But I have never come across somebody who is so skilled in accomplishing this feat, that not a single class goes by without me wanting to exterminate him à la manière de SG who once threatened to incinerate his students. Not only is this student too big for his boots and extremely irritating, his abysmal lack of manners makes me want to throw him out of my class (after slapping him and if possible breaking his teeth).