A Country Called Childhood

When reading "A Country Called Childhood- A Memoir" by Deepti Naval, I became nostalgic and reminisced about my childhood. I recall the Shree Ji stores in Ramgarh which used to be my favorite shop. It rented out comics for Re 1 a day. Sometimes 4-5 Amar Chitra Katha or other comic books would be bound together and they would charge a slightly higher amount for renting it. Ramgarh did not have a library and that store filled the gap for me. They also had various candies and gift items that used to fascinate me.

I also recall the samosas and sweets of Rajasthan Kalewalaya and their dahi kachori on special occasions. Later, when I was slightly older, they started selling a sweet called Madhuchakra that became my favorite.

Priya Sweets was for special occasions. Especially when I went to the main road and the elder accompanying me was in a good mood and had a few extra rupees to indulge me. There used to be the occasional curry puff, pineapple pastry, and beetroot cutlet.

Then Mangal Singh's shop was perhaps the most aspirational shop. You went there to buy an odd pencil box or water bottle. But there were so many things I liked. There used to be games, fancy tiffin boxes, or water bottles, that were often out of bounds.

For as long as I recall, we bought dresses only from National Stores. It was a very fancy store for it's times. It looked glossy, clean, and neatly arranged. We bought very few dresses but bought only from there. In hindsight, it seems like a lesson in quality over quantity.

One distinct memory I have of Ramgarh during my growing up years is the mela that used to be put up every year during December and would go on till Jan 26th. It used to have the Maut ka kuan, the Ferris wheel, a circus, and various shops selling toys, clothes, utensils, etc. There is a memory of buying iron utensils such as kadhai and tawa from there on more than one occasion and getting the knives sharpened. I also remember buying Khaja- a sweet- that I used to love eating, from there. Mounds of colourful sweets on both sides of the road. But we would buy the Khaja and occasionally Balushahi. I remember going to this mela 3-4 times during the one month that it was there, every year.

Another favorite shop of mine was Sishu Gyan Kendra, and later its sister concern, Gyan Bharti. We would go there for all our stationery, notebooks, and books. I remember the rolls of brown covers and the carefully selected book-label stickers. It used to be a big exercise before the beginning of every new class and before the summer vacations ended. 3-4 people at home would be involved in covering all books and notebooks with those brown papers. I still remember the feel and the smell of the newly covered books and notebooks.

Another place I remember is the fruit market, just off the main road. I remember going to that market with my father on the bike and occasionally with my mother or aunts on rickshaw.

There was one dosa wala on Main Road. I recall everyone saying that his sambhar was awful. It used to look a dirty yellowish brown rather than a bright yellowish-reddish-brownish that good sambhars are supposed to look. I also remember it used to have mashed pumpkin. And I hated pumpkin. But somehow, the taste of that sambhar lingers in my mind. Fondly. I used to finish it. Perhaps because eating outside food was a rare treat. And dosa in Ramgarh was a rare treat, unlike in the South of the country where it is a staple.

Another vivid memory is the movie dialogues echoing from a shop behind our home in Saudagar Mohalla. Now, as I listen to books on Audible, I appreciate that even movie dialogues can be listened to. Back then, however, I couldn't fully understand why anyone would want to listen to movie dialogues.

The Deepti Naval memoir sent me down my own memory lane. I am surprised at the memories that the mind stores. 

And of course, I also revisited the three all-time favorite movies of her- Chashme Buddoor, Saath Saath, and Kisi se na Kehna. She will always be Miss Chamko for me.

Reading is akin to breathing

This post is inspired by Oneknitatatime:

https://oneknitatatime.com/2020/07/08/knitting-versus-reading/?fbclid=IwAR2MAT4obzDzuTqyEw47IFAblyvjFmMhiw8cGhMSN1IMC424LXnqwUDY9DQ

Dear Kni-der,

Your post brought back memories of the times when I used to borrow comics, magazines and books on rent in the small town of Ramgarh as it lacked a library. I remember making a trip to this small store called the “Shreeji Stores” with Rs 2 or 3 in one fist while carrying the pile of read treasure in the other almost daily. In those days, even those Rs 2 or 3 were not easy to get and I had to beg (well, not literally, but it wasn't easy) for them many a times.

I became more academic oriented and slowed down on reading as I went to a boarding school and during the 11^th and 12^th classes. After that, I do not remember a day when I have not read. When pursuing my CA exams, I would place books inside the accounting and auditing books and read them while pretending to study. It was important that I passed the exams in the first attempt and I could not give the impression that I did not study well just in case I failed. Thankfully, I did not fail.

Book purchases became the largest expense category on my credit card. I especially got bookshelves designed when we bought the house in which we currently live. The shelves were designed to accommodate books bought over the next 25 years but are already overflowing. Meeting authors, getting first editions, author signed copies and going for book readings all made me excited. The importance of books in my life is so profound that on my first birthday after marriage, my husband gifted the complete collection of Jeffrey Archer’s books to me, signed and addressed to me, by him.

As recently as in 2018, on a trip to Ramgarh, I went to Shreeji Stores and asked the bhaiya, who  was perhaps a teenager when I used to borrow the comics and magazines, if he still had that collection. I was interested in buying the entire lot if he did. Sadly, he did not. He did not exactly recall it but guessed that it was sold off to the scrap dealer during one of the store revamps. I was left with a feeling of emptiness for a few days at least.

I have never wanted to be a librarian. The thought never crossed my mind. But the quest to open a “chai aur kitaabein” parlour where people come, settle themselves down with a book, regular and unlimited supply of tea and snacks as they keep reading, no hurry to leave and conversations revolving around books, is a retirement plan that I keep mulling upon. Tea being the other love of my life.

Netflix and Prime became the prime contenders for the scarce time in the last few years. And like you, I did not like it. I do not like it. I started exploring audiobooks then and hated it. I would miss entire paragraphs, would go blank at times, kept rewinding, and missed the feel and smell of paper. For the record, I never enjoyed reading on the Kindle or e-books on iPad too. Coming back to audiobooks, after trying a couple of books, I gave up audiobooks as well as Netflix and Prime. I lived happily ever after for many months, just reading, and reading whenever I could during the day and compulsively at night.

I have been driving to work for 14 years now. I bought my first car in 2006. Since then, listening to music to and from my workplace became a ritual. I would spend hours updating my playlists at least one weekend in a month, adding new songs, organising old ones, making folders like “most favourite”, “just favourite”, “okay”, “not-so-good”, “latest”, and so on. About two years back, I started to get bored of listening to pretty much the same songs since 2006 for the “not-so-good” and “okay” hardly ever got played and very few songs from latest made it to the “favourite” or “most favourite” lists. Once again, I decided to listen to an audiobook. Dan Brown’s Origin had just released, and I downloaded the book on audiobooks.com with the free credit available with the trial version. The rest as they say is history.

I bought the Bose wireless, noise cancellation, sweat-proof, earbuds. They have been my constant companions for all non-car listening to audiobooks. I have subscriptions for audible, audiobooks.com and storytel. I mix paper books and audio books. From cooking to cycling, driving to dusting and shopping to sanitising, I listen.

A key takeaway from “hate at first listen” to “love of my life” now, is that the first book should always be one that is fast paced, is a thriller and one that you want to get to the end as fast as possible. I do not recall the book that led to the “hate” experience. But I do recall sitting in the parking lot of my office a bit longer so that a chapter of Origin gets over. I do remember going back to my car to get my earphones during the lunch time so that I could listen to the book when eating. I do remember avoiding friends during the evening walk so that I could listen some more. So, to all those who are still trying to get used to audiobooks, listen to some recommended crime fiction initially or a genre that you enjoy the most. Once you get used to listening, there is no looking back.

The number of books that I read/listen to has increased manifolds with audiobooks complimenting the paper books. I do miss listening to music at times. But let us face it. There are hardly any good new songs getting released now a days. I switch to music occasionally to revisit the old favourites. Netflix and Prime have entered a rationalised zone and there are rare spells of binge watching. Overall, to quote you dear Kni-der, “Life is good again!”, my old friend is the center of my universe again!

Happy reading/listening.

N

Our own Daphne Du Maurier

After a long long time, I have come across a book, which is not a murder mystery or does not classify to be a thriller, which I was not able to put down. And no, it is not because of the story, it is because of the writing style. Well, that should not undermine the story which must be given the credit for being unique too.
We have had many authors of Indian origin doing well in the international literary circles. Inspite of their achievements, the writing style would be uniquely Indian. Take for example R.K.Narayan or V.S.Naipaul. The settings, the characters, the stories mostly revolve around India or Indians or people who reflect the Indian mindset.

Over the years I had begun to believe that Indians cannot write like Gabriel García Márquez or Daphne Du Maurier and why should they?
That Summer in Paris by Abha Dawesar was a pleasant surprise which changed the notion that authors of Indian origin cannot paint with words. I was struck by the beauty of words used by the author. I had not experienced such urge to keep on reading a book just to find out how is the author going to construct her next sentence since I read Rebecca by Du Maurier.

Read this: "The spoken word was more fluid than the written; it could be modified with new words and adapt itself to the situation". This sentence made me rethink my belief that writing down once's feelings is more appropriate than speaking them. Spoken words are definitely more fluid, hence may be more expressive. Some expressions cannot be written about.

On the other hand this senence: "...the yin and yang of my life, the occident and orient, have really been about whether to devour all your books swiftly-for the pleasure of the moment, or to abstain-so that a new one and its promises are always on the horizon"...is exactly the way I used to feel when I was reading "Shantaram" by Gregory David Roberts. I don't think anyone else could have put it so beautifully.

I had started associating with Shantaram so much that I did not want the story to ever get over. Everyday I would deliberately restrain myself from reading too many pages so that I could keep on reading the book for more number of days. And the day I finished reading the book, I felt a kind of emptiness. I felt a kind of loss which is difficult to write down, reinstating the authors words that "The spoken word was more fluid than the written".That Summer in Paris is not the first book by Abha Dawesar.

Her previous work "Babyji" was also critically acclaimed and recieved many awards. Though, I must admit that Babyji gave me the impression of another one of those Indian authors trying to get recognition by overtly using sex and desire as the theme. I found it a grotesque narration of a confused, zealous, curious and perhaps a perverted girl.

But, with her latest book, Abha Dawesar has taken a leap which puts her in the same league as Du Maurier, Gabriel García Márquez or Lord Byron, in my eyes. In some of the places, her sentences reminded me of "She Walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron. Read this: "The point at which it diverges from reality is exactly where it becomes true. Its so strange. By being so unreal, it creates reality". Please don't get me wrong.

What I mean is that the creation of her sentences struck me just like the creation of Lord Byron's sentences. Ofcourse Ms. Dawesar is only three books old (have not read her first book Miniplanner) and has a long way to go. It might be too early to shower so much praise on her. But then I am only talking about this one book. And That Summer in Paris is worth all the praise.