TIme for a Break!

                                                                                                         Pinterest

Some days are so busy that one needs to take a break! Hence, I decided that since I have already completed 15,206 words in the #Blogchatter #WriteaPageaDay Challenge, I could take it a bit easy today... Saturday Night Blues, as one might say. 

                                                                                                 The Spring Break Family

It is also a fact that, when you take a well deserved break, the world will not fall apart without you. So, take time off, when your mind and body need it. 

                                                                                                   MoveMe Quotes

If, of course, you are ever stuck and have no idea what to do on a break, the poster above will give you many options. 

Now I am going to sign off for the day! I will be back tomorrow. 

Power Pop

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WINDCHIMES BY THE SEA – STORIES BLOWN ASHORE BY BEETASHOK CHATTERJEE - BOOK REVIEW

                                                                                                   Amazon.in

“The sea has so many stories to tell.”

With that sweeping statement, the author who dubs himself “this old sea dog” has taken on the mantle of bringing his second collection of sea stories, the first one titled ‘Driftwood’. Published by Readomania, this collection has eleven stories that wax eloquent on war and peace, trials and triumphs and sadness and laughter.

The cover in blue is as evocative as the melodious title of the book. Every story is preceded by a black and white illustration that gives a subtle hint about the story to follow.

The first story titled ‘Service to the Nation’ is narrated against the backdrop of the Indo-Pak war of 1971, where a stroke of luck prevented a major catastrophe. Many are the sagas of the unknown sailors who wreak miracles without realising what they have done, and go down in history leaving no traces behind them.

‘In the Heat of the Night’ kept me transfixed as 22-year-old Harjit, lands in New York with stars in his eyes, only to get stuck in a total blackout that turned the entire scenario around. “The great city lay stunned and passive, indifferent to tiny scurrying humans.” How easily dreams get shattered!

A rare romance in a collection of sea stories – that is what the picturesque ‘Island in the Sun’ is. It deals with love at first sight at Hispaniola in the Caribbean, a strategically planned sea battle, and the pain that speaks “of long lost loves in distant shores, blurred in the mists of time.” This again is a favourite of mine as it ends with a revelation that stays on in the heart.

‘The Wreck of Edmund Fitzgerald’ speaks of a ship that disappeared, carrying her secrets to the grave. The author ends this story with a beautiful quote. “The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy.”

‘Shore Leave’ can go terribly wrong, as is proved in the case of Abhay Rangnekar, who starts off on the wrong foot, and ends up with numerous mishaps as he goes ashore for a medical emergency. Is it a case of vendetta or pure malice? The reader is left wondering.

Captain Beetashok Chatterjee proves to be the proverbial storyteller at sea as he provides interesting nuggets about ‘Okinotori Shima’, a small uninhabited island, a coral reef between Japan and Australia. His sense of humour peppers the story titled ‘The GM Diet’ which is described in detail as sailors strive to lose weight, some unwillingly.

There are circumstances which are so dire that one’s mental depth come outs at the right moment. Jaya, the mother of a one-year-old baby, discovers her inner reserves, during a nightmarish experience that brings out the innate strength of a fauji daughter in the turbulent tale ‘There and Back’.

Another interesting tale titled ‘The Forgotten’ describes the mental state of sailors during the travel restrictions of the Covid scenario who feel that they are prisoners at sea forgotten by the rest of the world. However, sometimes it takes only a couple of vital connections to turn the whole scenario around. A cleverly imagined plot that keeps the reader intrigued!

‘Frozen’ is portrayed through the diary leaves of a young Chief Mate whose ship sails to the freezing port of Nampo in North Korea and the various travails experienced by the crew caught amid ice floes of varying sizes. When they finally sail out from there, the Chief Mate’s diary records the following words: “Nampo, I will not forget you. You are a sore that hasn’t healed.”

The last story is aptly named ‘All’s Well That Ends Well’ and describes the urgency of Chief Engineer Narciso, a grumpy Croatian, who wants to get to Australia before the first entry deadline, and finally decamps without a replacement in the ship. The tale ends with a twist, which is the best way, I personally feel, to end any tale.

To end with a quote from the blurb of the book – “Veteran sea captain Beetashok Chatterjee… whips up 11 windblown stories with a hint of brine for you, intended to transport you to the world of the seafarer.”

He most certainly does that with flair!

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                                                                                                    Amazon.in

 Name of the Book: Windchimes by the Sea – Stories Blown Ashore

Publisher: Readomania

Price of the Book: Rs 399

Buying Link: https://www.amazon.in/Wind-Chimes-Sea-Beetashok-Chatterjee/dp/819741243X

 

 

 

 

 

SHOCK TACTICS BY SAKI (HH MUNRO)

 
eBay

Hector Hugh Munro is a writer who is known for his whimsical style of writing, his amazing sense of humour, his love of animals, his generous nature, and his consideration for others.  He took the pen name of Saki, the name of the cup bearer in Omar Khayyam’s The Rubaiyat. He was called the master of the short story even as he satirized Edwardian literature and culture, regaling readers with his rich political satire, his intriguing characters and his narrative style. The story titled ‘Shock Tactics’ is replete with all these characteristics.

The story begins on a late spring afternoon as Ella McCarthy was siting listlessly in her garden when Bertie appeared before her, and sat down on an adjoining chair. She was elated to see him and began thanking him for the lovely handkerchiefs he had sent to her as a gift. She had wished to write and thank him for them immediately, but when she said so, Bertie’s face fell.

“’You know what mother is,’ he protested; ‘she opens all my letters’.”

The fact was that if his mother had found out that he had been giving a girl gifts, she would talk about it all fortnight. Ella was shocked, Bertie was almost nineteen and she felt there was need for him to keep his correspondence private. Bertie and his two sisters had argued with her repeatedly, but their mother paid no heed.

Saki’s sense of humour is pronounced in many parts of the story. For instance, when Bertie met his friend, Clovis, at the swimming pool that evening, the latter asked him what the matter was. Bertie wondered why he was asking him that.

“’When you wear a look of tragic gloom in a swimming bath,’ said Clovis, ‘it’s especially noticeable from the fact that you’re wearing very little else.’”

When he realised that Bertie was upset about his mother opening all his letters, Clovis was surprised that he had let her do so. He advised him to lie on his back on the dining table and throw a fit, or wake up the entire family at midnight to hear him recite one of William Blake’s poems.

A day or two after, a letter addressed to Bertie Heasant appeared in the letter-box, landing up in the hands of his mother, who was “one of those empty-minded individuals to whom other people’s affairs are perpetually interesting”. Intrigued by the word ‘private’ inscribed on it, as also with the delicate but penetrating aroma from it, she opened it hastily. The letter addressed Bertie as carissimo (my very dear), and it questioned whether he had the nerve to do it. “Don’t forget the jewels.” The sender’s name was Clotilde, and she did not want Bertie's mother to know of her existence.

The excitable mother who had been hunting for proof of Bertie’s indiscretions for years screamed, “’Bertie is in the toils of an adventuress.’” She and her daughters discussed incessantly about his guilty secret. When Bertie arrived, his mother demanded to know who Clotilde was, but he denied her existence and escaped to his room with a few hurried scraps for supper.

An hour later, a second letter landed up. It began abruptly.

“So you’ve really done it.” It mentioned someone as “poor Dagmar” and went on to say, “You did it very well, you wicked boy. The servants all think it was suicide.” The letter exhorted him not to touch the jewels till after the inquest. The letter was signed with the name of Clotilde.

 Bertie’s mother was distraught.

“’Miserable boy, what have you done to Dagmar?’”

Bertie denied knowing Clotilde and even said that he would fetch a doctor to treat his mother for her delusions. There seemed no explanation forthcoming from Bertie. However, the last post of the evening brought another letter for him. This letter made things clear to both Bertie and his mother. It was from his friend, Clovis Sangrail.

“I hope I haven’t distracted your brain with the spoof letters I have been sending in the name of a fictitious Clotilde.’” It went on to say that Bertie had told him about his letters being tampered by the servants, or somebody at home. “So I thought that I would give any one that opened them something exciting to read. The shock might do them good.”

Bertie’s mother was chastened. She knocked at Bertie’s door telling him that it had all been a stupid hoax by Mr. Clovis Sangrail who had written all those letters. Bertie was on his way out. He told his mother that he was going to get a doctor to see if there was anything wrong with her as no one in their right senses would have believed all that rubbish about jewels and suicide and murder.

His mother whimpered, “’But what was I to think of all those letters?”

Bertie had the perfect opportunity. He told her that it was her own fault for opening other people’s correspondence. Anyhow, he was going to find a doctor.

Bertie’s mother knew she would be an object of ridicule of the story got about. She was willing to do anything to hush it up.

“’I’ll never open your letters again,’” she promised.

From that day onwards, Bertie was Clovis’s devoted slave.

 This short story is a typical example of the simplicity of Saki’s themes and the crispness of his language. He holds the interest of the reader as he elaborates on a spoof that cures an incorrigible mother of her penchant for opening the correspondence of others. The humour is effective, the comic timing impeccable, and that is why so many readers love Saki and his inimitable stories. 

                                                                                 Penguin Random House

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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BIOMETRIC DEVICE

                     

                             Iris Scanner - Mantra Softech

When you walk into the lobby in school, you will find me on the wall in front of the office. A biometric device that captures the gaze of the teachers in school! Had I been human, I would have been the luckiest man ever… with so many ladies gazing into my attentive eyes. Some walk in and gaze languidly at me, others rush in like hurricanes, aware that time is ticking by, inexorably. Yet others make a beeline and look at me, not paying any heed to anyone around, singling me out for attention. Only after I capture their gaze do they even relax and wish others around them. That is how important I am in their lives.

One teacher walks towards me, and stares into my eyes. She moves her head up and down, trying to reach that sweet spot when I can help her. When that does not work, she swivels her head from left to right, irritation writ large on her face. The other day, someone ribbed her saying that she is probably cock-eyed, and that even though she is looking at me, I feel she is looking elsewhere. I do not think she was very amused, because if looks could kill, and I was human, I would probably have been burned to a crisp.

                                                                                              Adobe Stock

Many are the sighs I have heard as ladies look longingly into my eyes, hoping against hope that I oblige them by capturing their gazes sooner than later. The male teachers have less of a problem, I feel. Is that because they are fewer in number or because they are more patient?

                                                                                              Adobe Stock

Every morning, the young Principal swishes in in her crisp cotton sari, efficient and as fresh as a daisy. She glances into my eyes, and I respond immediately. After all, she is the top authority in school and I know how choc-o-block her days are, as parents of all kinds stroll into her office, either to complain or be complained against. Their requests are myriad.

“Ma’am, we are going to attend my sister’s son’s wedding. I need three days leave for my son.”

“My grandmother had a fall and fractured a rib. I need to be there for her. May I request you for leave for my daughter, please?”

Requests waft in like the breeze on a cool summer morning. A temple festival, a classical dance arangetram, the demise of a close relative, stomach upsets and headaches, a trip abroad… followed by irate parents with sharp complaints against that teacher and this master, that pesky boy or that girl who thinks no end of herself.

                                                                                                          iStock

Strange are the sights I see during the day. Once the bell has rung in the morning, there is no more activity in my vicinity. I watch as visitors, Committee members and teachers scurry by me, each engaged in his or her own tasks. Not one person even glances at me. However, I remain entertained as people do not realise how closely I am watching them.

The day goes by and by the end of it, the Principal comes back to look at me, this time unrecognisable as the strain of the day has percolated down, leaving her exhausted. No wonder I take longer to give her that look that she so eagerly waits for. As she joked, “Maybe the device does not recognise me once all my make-up has disappeared?”

                                                                                             Vecteezy

The day goes by eventfully. I do not have a moment to get bored. On the ground, even in the scorching sun, while the girls play dainty games, you have boys playing football with gusto, their shirts soaked with sweat, as they shout instructions to one another. Having been around for a while, I now know that everyone, without exception, must speak in English while in school. I believe it has to do with the ethos of the school which dictates that children need to work on their personalities so that they stand out, wherever they go. I have seen some children standing outside their classrooms… I wonder if that counts!

Going back to the football players, as the play gets heated, they lapse into their mother tongue, Malayalam, and then look around to ensure that they have not been heard. Sometimes, they do catch the attention of a teacher whizzing by and are made to sit out the game. Most of the time, their drawls fall only into my ear, probably because I have nothing better to do, but listen to every word, to hear the rustle of the leaves, and watch the dust motes swirl in the air.

                                                                                                          Freepik

People can be funny, though. The other day I was in my own world when I suddenly saw this gentleman with a bright shiny head talking into his mobile intently. He was right in front of me, and I was busy eavesdropping when suddenly, he lifted his foot several times and aimed it straight at my centre. Had I been human, I would have ducked, but luckily, he was too engrossed in his conversation to actually kick me. Maybe, he had missed his gym session in the morning and was flexing his muscles here, or so I assumed.

By evening, it is time for the whole rigmarole to start again as teachers and school staff come back to gaze into my eyes again. One by one, they smile as I record their expressions, and meander towards the main gate. There are vehicles on the grounds – vans, autos and two wheelers that whiz in and then move out, carrying precious burdens within. I enjoy the sight of children chattering away, their uniforms crumpled, their shoes dusty but their spirits still high. Many teachers sit down in the chairs in front of the office, waiting for that bell to go, as they recount how their day went. There are sighs beneath the smiles, for the day is not over yet. It is only the school day that has ended, and most have to go home and start all over again.

Finally, there is silence. I see only one little man, hunched over at his desk, busy writing down his accounts. His timings are different from all others. The night watchman appears and takes a cursory walk around the school. Already, his eyes are leaden, and he will soon disappear into dreamland, as the accountant also makes his weary way home.

In the silence that is overwhelming, I close my eyes and settle down to slumber. For as the fascinating Scarlett O’Hara remarked at the end of the classic ‘Gone With the Wind’, “After all, tomorrow is another day!”

 
Amazon.com

 PS: Credits for this post to Ms. Neena Harishankar, who gave me the idea and to all the other heads in school, who added on their pennyworth as well!

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THE HAPPY PRINCE BY OSCAR WILDE - A REVIEW

 
Medium

As a child, I remember reading ‘The Happy Prince’ and falling in love with the writing style of Oscar Wilde, born Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, a writer whose initial foray into writing was unsuccessful. After facing a bleak writing career, in 1888, he wrote his volume of short fiction titled ‘The Happy Prince’ followed by ‘Lord Arthur Saville’s Crime’ and ‘A House of Pomegranates’ both in 1891. These three volumes along with the unusual themed ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ (1891) finally caught the public eye, winning him the reputation of an original writer with extra ordinary talent.

                                                                                         Amazon.in

‘The Happy Prince’ has remained a favourite tale of mine for its lyrical quality and its beautiful theme. The statue of the Prince loomed on a high column high above the town.

“He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.”

The statue of the Happy Prince was admired by all in the city.

                                                                                                Amazon.in

One night a little Swallow flew into the city. He had been in love with a beautiful Reed with the slenderest waist.

Wilde’s nuanced humour comes out in various parts of the story. While the Swallow courted the Reed, the other Swallows made fun of him.

“‘It is a ridiculous attachment,’ twittered the other Swallows, ‘she has no money, and far too many relations,’ and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds.”

When he asked her to go away with him, the Reed shook her head because “she was so attached to her home.” Wilde’s love for puns is also revealed here.

The Swallow was so upset that he flew away. He travelled for a day and by night he reached the town of the Prince. When he saw the statue, he alit between its feet and prepared to sleep when he suddenly felt large drops of water falling on him. When a third drop fell, he looked up.

“The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks.”

The little Swallow’s heart was filled with pity. He looked at the beautiful, though tearful, face and asked him who he was.

“‘I am the Happy Prince.’”

The Swallow wondered why he was crying. The Prince told him his story. When he was alive with a human heart, he lived in the palace of Sans-Souci where there was no sorrow. Everything was beautiful and he was happy all the time. His courtiers called him the Happy Prince. When he died, his statue was placed on a column high above the city from where he could witness all the ugliness and the misery of the city. Hid leaden heart was heavy and he was moved to tears.

The statue continued talking. He spoke about a poor house where a weary seamstress sat embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for a lovely lady to wear. However, her little son was ill in the next room with a fever. He was asking for oranges, but his mother had no food to give him, only river water. The Prince made a request to the little Swallow.

“’Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt?”

                                                                                                   Plus One

The Swallow wanted to fly to Egypt to be with his friends, but the Prince begged him to stay for one night and be his messenger. The Swallow agreed reluctantly and carried the ruby to the poor woman’s house. He placed it by her thimble, fanned the sick boy’s forehead with his wings and flew back to the Prince, feeling warm because he had done a good action.

The next day, the Swallow was all set to fly to Egypt when the Prince asked him if he could stay for one night longer. The Prine wanted the swallow to pluck out one of his eyes made of sapphire and give it to a starving young man in a garret who was trying to finish writing a play. The Swallow began to weep but he did as the Prince asked him to do.

On the third day, as the Swallow set to fly away, the Prince said, once again,

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not stay with me one night longer?”

This time he bade the Swallow to pluck out his other sapphire eye and hand it over to a little match girl who had dropped all her matches in the gutter. She was afraid that her father would beat her if she took home no money.

The Swallow was extremely sad. He knew that if he plucked out the second eye, the Prince would be blind. Yet, he did what he was told to do. When the Swallow returned, he said to the Prince that he would stay with him now that he was blind. The next day, he sat on the Prince’s shoulder and told wonderful stories of the things he had seen on his travels.

                                                                                        YouTube

However, the Prince wanted to the Swallow to fly over his city and tell him about what he saw there. As the Swallow described the lives of the poor people he saw, the Prince had another request.

“’I am covered with fine gold,’ said the Prince, ‘you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.’”

The swallow picked off leaf after leaf, and gave it to the poor, who were happy and laughed. As the days went by, the season changed and winter set in. The poor Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not desert the Prince. The day came when he knew he was going to die. “’Goodbye, dear Prince!’ he murmured, ‘will you let me kiss your hand?’”

The Prince replied that he was happy that then Swallow was flying to Egypt finally, but the Swallow said, “I am going to the House of Death.” He kissed the Prince on his lips and fell down dead at his feet.

At that very moment, a crack sounded within the statue as the Prince’s leaden heart snapped into two.

The next day, the Mayor suddenly caught sight of the Prince’s statue and remarked that the statue looked shabby. As he went closer, he saw a dead bird lying at his feet. The statue was pulled down because he was not beautiful anymore. The people melted it in a furnace, but the leaden heart would not burn. So, they threw it in a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.

“’Bring me the two most precious things in the city,’ said God to one of his Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.”

God commended the Angel for having chosen rightly. He decreed that in His garden of paradise, the little bird would sing for evermore, and in His city of gold, the Happy Prince.

                                                                                                     Blogs@Baruch

             Facebook

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Integrating Technology into Education and Learning

                                                                                              Pin Page

 “Technology is just a tool. In terms of getting the kids working together and motivating them, the teacher is most important.” Bill Gates 

What is educational technology? 

The concept of educational technology or Edutech is defined as a set of tools that enhance the educational process, and help improve the performance of both teacher and pupil through the use of fresh and new technologies. 

What will educators have to do to adapt their teaching methodology and strategies to integrate technology into the teaching process? 

The teacher has always been at the centre of education, the human element. Technology has always needed a teacher who is well versed about its advantages and disadvantages, and who is able to implement it to meet educational goals.

                                                                                                    Southern Living

Teacher and Technology

The ideal solution is the personalised approach to education which is a beautiful blend of the teacher and technology. Education is about human connections and relationships. We cannot replace the magic that happens between the teacher and the student in an in-person environment with a tech style of teaching. However, a ‘rotation’ mode is workable wherein a student moves between online and offline classes – a hybrid model as it has been named.

Gone are the days of ‘chalk and talk’ where the entire focus was on the teacher lecturing and the students listening.  The shift has ‘the sage of the stage’ being replaced by the ‘guide on the side’. Technology has brought in many innovative methods by expanding access to education. Any kind of information, good, bad and ugly, is available at the click of a button. It requires a teacher to sift through these piles of information and give the student that which is relevant, up to date and correct.

                                                                                          AtoZ Quotes

The Teacher’s Role

Technology starts at a point where the teacher needs help to further reinforce what the student needs to know… this can be at the beginning, the middle or the end. Everything depends on the teacher’s discretion, on how she wants to guide her students, on how interactive she wants to make her classes and make her students love her subject. There is a vast ocean of knowledge out there to be sifted and deciphered by the teacher.

The role of the teacher has changed, from a lecturer to a facilitator, coach and mentor. Students are now more aware of their surroundings and the topics in their curriculum through experiential learning classes which are more interactive and interesting. In this regard, integration of subjects is also a concept that has been introduced over the past few years. It is also important to engage students emotionally and socially to create a more authentic learning experience. After all, education is not just an academic process but the holistic experience which turns students into balanced, empathetic and caring human beings – true citizens of the world.

                                                                                          PictureQuotes.com

Digital Tools

With digital tools, the teacher he can bring real life situations into the classroom through videos, audio clips, power point presentations, dramatic tools, AI and the latest trend, virtual reality. Students are also comfortable with their devices – laptops, cell phones and tablets. The real danger is students getting swamped with too much information, and it is the teacher’s responsibility to ensure that only the right information gets through.

The Importance of Integrating Technology in Education:

a.     Instant access to Information

b.     Keeps students Engaged

c.     Encourages individual Learning at one’s own pace

d.    Provides a deeper and broader Knowledge

e.     Aids Teamwork and Collaboration

f.     Preparation for the Future

Teachers need to be guided and primed to deal with technology to

a.     Identify modern technological tools

b.     Need the necessary training and tech support for effective use of technology

c.     Need access to online educational resources and study material

d.    Update educational plans periodically

Online learning does not mean the abolition of the role of the traditional teacher. His role only becomes more significant. Traditional teaching methods must be further enhanced through modern methods of teaching and effective strategies through his role as mentor, motivator, supervisor and trainer, combining his experience with specialisation.

                                                                                                        Education Week

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GENTLEMEN ON THE ROAD? YES, THEY DO EXIST!

 
               iStock photo

Can you imagine a time when there were no cars or vehicles on the road? When cavemen would use their legs to walk and run and probably, kick a stubborn mule or two? Or switch forward to the first man who made a round object and used it as a wheel, an invention which would take over human lives in the distant future?

Today, I live in a town where wheels have certainly taken over our lives – and how! Most households have an equal number of cars as there are adults in the house, even if some of those adults do have no idea of what it means to be an adult. Of course, that is fodder for a whole new topic of discussion, maybe, on another occasion.

My title shines a light on the topic I intend to wax eloquent on. Are there gentlemen on the road? Is there a method in the madness? Or is the Almighty looking down at the chaos on our streets and sighing, “Gosh, did I actually create this mayhem?” For, yes, he did create order out of chaos, and now his intelligent creations are creating chaos out of order. A tall order, indeed!

                                                                                 Getty Images - God Creating Order

Let us start with the rules of driving. There are umpteen driving school instructor who weave through the traffic, shepherding nervous first timers with gentle but firm instructions. “Watch out for that signal! Slow down, now… no, not the accelerator, the brakes! Watch where you put that foot of yours!” As the nervousness increases, the tone becomes peremptory, and at the final point of almost-collision, the instructor sends up a silent prayer that he had the sense to instal parallel brakes in his car.

Of course, no one follows the rules on the road. The bus drivers drive as if they have a right to every passenger on the side of the road, the auto drivers perform acrobatic stunts as they squeeze into the tiniest of spaces, the motorbike riders behave like James Bond on two wheels. The poor pedestrians look around desperately for a pavement to clamber onto, but every inch of every pavement is choc-o-block with vehicles or sleeping stray dogs.

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The worst times to travel are in the morning when everyone is off to work, and school buses ply to and fro. The same is the case in the evening when the reverse happens. As Thomas Gray quoted in his famous ‘Elegy’ –

“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.”

Now to my question – Are there gentlemen on the road? Well, I have not seen very many, but one for certain is my better half, maybe because the Army has trained him well, or because he keeps his cool better than I do. Having been a participant in the Himalayan Car Rally twice, he has learnt the ropes the hard way, most of all to keep his head when all around him are losing theirs.

Hence, when vehicles and drivers around him try to force him off the road with sheer speed, he refuses to let them do so. He stays at a steady pace, even as they honk frantically, glaring at him. The moment he sees pedestrians waiting to cross the road, he slows down, and lets them to go across. He allows cars to come in from alleys on to the main road, even if there is a long line of excitable drivers behind him. In fact, there are times when I feel like putting down the window and giving a piece of mind to a person who is bent on a blatant disregard for rules, but my better half stays calm. No wonder he is called the ‘better’ half; better behaved, and better tempered, I guess!

Let us not even get to the potholes on the roads of our town. There is the majestic Swaraj Round that circumambulates the main Shiva temple, the Vaddakkunathan, and there are myriad roads leading to this round, all of them narrow, and getting narrower by the year, with all the buildings coming up everywhere. The monsoons do their share of damage, and every year, there is a quick repair job that is meant to last till the next monsoon.

Luckily, there is one rule on the road that never gets broken, and thank God for that – the moment the siren of an ambulance is heard, all the vehicles make way for it. Lives have been saved because of this. However, accidents have become more common, for there are more hotheads than gentlemen on the road. Road rage has earned a category of its own, and many are the cases when the rage has spilled over and claimed lives. Sad, but true!

If only, rules could be followed, fines charged stringently, and safety measures be taken more seriously! So many lives could be saved and damage to property be avoided. Using public transport could also bring down the number of vehicles on the road, which would reduce pollution as well.

Many countries abroad advocate walking and cycling to workplaces. Not only do these activities bring down the congestion and the pollution, but they also work as wonderful methods to make people healthier and happier.

Will that ever happen in our country which is growing by leaps and bounds, and using technology to move into the category of developed countries? Maybe when pigs start to fly! Or when we find more gentlemen on the road! Whichever is sooner!

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940 words

MY NAME IS CINNAMON BY VIKAS PRAKASH JOSHI

BOOK REVIEW

                                                                                           Photo Credit: Deepti Menon 

‘My Name is Cinnamon’ is the heartwarming tale of Roshan Rishikesh Paranjape, aka Cinnamon. He refers to himself as a ‘heart baby’ who lives with his adoptive parents in Pune. From the first chapter onwards, the readers get drawn into this sensitively crafted narrative, as they travel with Cinnamon and his parents along the path that leads him to his birth parents. There is no evading the fact that the young boy is adopted, and the way the author has tackled this fact is exemplary.

The attractive cover is reminiscent of the covers of yore – maybe those of RK Narayan or Mulk Raj Anand. A sense of warmth and bonhomie pervade the pages of the book with its endearing illustrations. Cinnamon lives the life of a normal, fun-loving boy, a winning goalkeeper for the Diamond International school, a skilful artist, a history buff and like so many children today, petrified of math, as is evident from his childlike query to his friend,

“Don’t you think math was basically invented to torture us?”

 Vikas Joshi purposely keeps the tone of his book light through gentle humour.

“It was impossible for anything thrown at Teacher not to hit him, there was so much of him.” An aside about a portly friend of Cinnamon’s!

“It is Newton’s fifth law that when a teacher steps out of a primary school class for more than a decent period of time, somebody starts singing.”

Cinnamon’s schooldays are full and interesting, sometimes thrilling when they win matches, otherwise dull when it comes to Mrs. Godbole’s (nicknamed Kadubole by Cinnamon) Math classes. The author makes this even more evident through a Blake parody.

“Teacher, teacher … boring right?

In the classroom of the fright

What inhumane hand or eye

Could frame such monstrous syllabi?”

The most heartening part of the theme right through is how Cinnamon refers to himself as a ‘heart baby’ and his birth mother as his ‘tummy-mummy’. He declares that he is adopted, a fact that he has known ever since he could understand the situation, His adoptive parents brought him up on beautiful parallels of the lives of Krishna and Karna, leaving him with not a trace of shame or embarrassment about his own adoption. A wonderful message that touches the reader’s heart!

The moment comes when Cinnamon sets out to meet his birth mother who lives in Ratnapur after her first husband’s death. The author brings out the nuances of his nervousness, his excitement, his doubts and his fears before the meeting. The understated emotion of his adoptive mother is also revealed equally subtly through her silence, her loss of appetite, and her wearing black shades. It is a revelation to both Cinnamon and his birth mother when they finally understand each other, realising that there are shades of her in him – his confidence, his curiosity, his courage, and his intelligence. He watches her with awe, as he realises that “Bravery was also in the small, everyday things you did in your life to keep going from day to day.”

Other subtle messages stud the narrative – the significance of the Swadeshi movement, and support to Indian products and services is woven in without a fuss.

The beautiful and unexplored district of Nandurbar also serves as an example of how life can be simplified – “the trees, the pure air and water, the forested hill, the clean streams and ponds, and the healthy village food grown without using any chemicals” – a message of sustainable living explained simply by Devendra to Cinnamon.

That the author is a gastronome is obvious in the evocative food descriptions wherever Cinnamon goes. It starts at Pune with tambda, kosha mangsho, chingri malai curry, missal pav, vada pav and many more. The cuisine at Kolkata is also described lovingly – aloo posto, kumro chingri curry, narkel ladoos, ghugnee and luchis, doi maach. How can any gastronomic experience in Kolkata be complete without its mouthwatering rosogullas, sandesh and chom-chom? Finally, at Ratnapur, Cinnamon samples paatre, sev bhaji, phalari chewda, upma with green peas and kadhi khichadi. This is only a sample of the delicious food mentioned across the book.

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I have read this book twice, once to envisage the story being told, and the second time to fathom the depth of the experiences that Cinnamon goes through. As the author himself said in his note about the book, “I hope the book has provided both a mirror to reflect the reader’s experiences and a window to provide a glimpse of another world.”

This book needs to be read by many, many readers. It is a testimony of how a simply, but lucidly told tale, can transcend the normal and soar towards the sublime. I congratulate Vikas Prakash Joshi on a tale, sublimely told.

802 words

 

Amazon.in

 Book title – My name is Cinnamon

Publisher –  Hay House Publishers India  Pages –  210 pages   Language – English

Genre – Drama, humour

Author – Vikas Prakash Joshi

Available on – amazon.in

Purchase link – https://www.amazon.in/Name-Cinnamon-Vikas-Prakash-Joshi-ebook/dp/B0BRYKFB17/ref=sr_1_1?crid=32R2AULBDYCA0&keywords=my+name+is+cinnamon&qid=1675393561&s=digital-text&sprefix=my+name+is+cinnamon%2Cdigital-text%2C266&sr=1-1