“[…] the same couch where they had made such abandoned love the night before.”
………….I think you mean “made love with such abandon,” my dear writer.
Although I must admit, your version certainly has a certain poignant charm to it. I’m kind of enjoying the image of the characters abandoning their love on this couch one night, like spare change fallen out of a pocket, and having to dig around under the cushions for it the next day. “Have you found our relationship yet, honey?” she’ll say. “no,” he’ll reply, “but I did find the remote, a pen, two hair elastics, the intangible concept of loss, and $2.75 in nickles.”
Too soon it was time for Lakshmi to return. Vijay noticed her throwing worried looks towards him but she hadn’t said anything. That didn’t surprise Vijay. He knew that his parents only recognised a few modes - happy, angry, disappointed or, simply, strong and silent; anything else was a vulgar expression of weakness and, in his father’s words, “Talking never solved anything. DO something.” On the morning of her flight home, she went so far as to pat his cheek and nod silently, as if trying to tell him to stick it out and emerge stronger from whatever was bothering him. He had offered to drop her at the airport, but she had turned him down, saying that she didn’t want to disturb his work day. A few weeks ago, Vijay may have still tried to wrangle an hour off to ensure she was OK, but he realised that his mother was utterly comfortable and confident negotiating the city. He also had a meeting that he was looking forward to, with the people managing the outreach effort of his company. They had loosely scheduled a meeting ‘over tea’ at their department and Vijay wasn’t entirely sure he knew what that meant or when he was supposed to turn up.
He needn’t have worried, however. A couple of them came to look for him at his desk and took him to their nook on the seventh floor. In a large, open room with a high ceiling and giant windows overlooking the bay, he spent an exhilarating hour talking about their projects and the vision they had from each of them. He started asking them about the work Anusha was doing and realised that it was a small cog in a giant machine that was working in nine cities in India. He offered to visit the schools that were part of the programme and tell them about the impact of their work, and found them excited to have an ‘external’ person work with them.
“And if you like the work, maybe we can steal you from your team,” hinted Charles, who had started the project in Madras.
He booked tickets for the next long weekend and boarded the flight with a novel sense of eagerness and enthusiasm. He wasn’t anxious about meeting his parents or discussing Deepa or blocking curious questions about his marriage and ‘family’ plans. He could only think of going to schools and meeting the kids who had shown such perseverance and commitment to vandalising Anusha’s handiwork. And, he thought cheekily to himself, get hold of the man who had inadvertently lent his backside to serve as a company billboard for a few hours.
Soon after landing, he called up Anusha and found himself in her office. It was in one corner of an independent house that had been built in the early part of the 20th century. Instead of demolishing the beautiful structure, the owners had renovated it and lent out portions to different companies. Vijay wondered for a minute whether it was even legal to do that in an residential area and was asked to Please Shut Up by Anusha. Did he want to be thrown out before he even stepped in? She had a table surrounded by cardboard boxes, mangled bits of plastic and a small blowtorch. Behind her desk, a small wooden window with metal bars (that could be shut when the mosquitoes became rather too bothersome) overlooked an ancient looking nagalinga tree.
“Ready to go?” asked Anusha, gathering a few of her things and dumping them into a voluminous yellow bag that had a giant picture of a multicoloured owl on the side. Vijay felt mesmerised for a second by the onslaught of colours. He nodded his head after a pause and they set out into the blazing hot sun.
They made their way towards the local train station and started towards Tiruvotriyur. “I have lived in Madras nearly all my life and haven’t ever gone beyond Chennai Central,” said Vijay. “You are hardly the exception,” said Anusha shortly. “And you will probably see why in a little while.”
Over the next twenty minutes, Vijay had the odd feeling of travelling back in time. Apartments were replaced by individual houses that looked like they desperately needed some maintenance. Those forlorn structures were separated by scrub land that had its fair share of plastic bags stuck on thorny bushes. The air seemed to become dustier, mustier, hotter. In gradual changes, the clothing of people changed. There were more girls now with oiled hair neatly 'double’ plaited, vibhuti and kumkumam on their foreheads being escorted to school by their fathers or travelling carefully in groups. Boys with their once-white shirts partly untucked, wearing grey rubber slippers hooted and hollered in their vicinity before slouching ahead. There were hardly any cars on the road, which was just as well, because the roads could barely accommodate three or four bikes at once. Sometimes, a dilapidated bus grumbled by and seemed to cleave through the sea of two wheelers.
“Sometimes, when I come back from Singapore, I feel like I have travelled back in time by about fifteen years. The airport is the thing that solidifies that impression. But now, I think I am moving back by another couple of decades. I almost expect to see our fathers and their friends in bell bottoms, being pursued by a villain who had a mole on his cheek.”
“And the villain is after the suitcase with smuggled gold, of course?” asked Anusha.
“It almost seems like different parts of the city live in different times in history. What seems like the ‘70s to me is just the reality of 2009 for these children. Perhaps they will look back when they are adults and find some other backwater that appears like this and say, “Doesn’t this place seem to be stuck in the early 2000s?”
“I think that most of us are living in different decades, even centuries at once. Didn’t you repeat rituals that have remained largely unchanged since the Vedic times at your wedding? And don’t you revert to your childhood when Perima makes sundakka vathakozhambu with appalam?
Vijay was spared the need to respond to this rather alarming sentence by the fact that they needed to get off. His face was coated with grime and the sweat was making steady inroads along his collar. He wished he had his parents’ ‘70s habit of carrying a handkerchief.
“Hi di! Epdi irke?” asked Vijay, when he heard Anusha’s voice over the phone. It was late evening, and he could see the city lights from his window. He leaned out a little to feel the breeze on his face.
“Heyyyyyy loser. Enna adisayama phone le pesare? Usual busy busy nu solluviye?” (What a surprise. Aren’t you usually too busy to talk?)
Vijay smiled. He remembered a time when they were kids and were climbing trees. When the rest of the kids in the neighbourhood chose simpler ones like mango, with it spreading branches and cozy nooks, Anusha had said that she would climb a coconut tree. While VIjay had protested mildly, she had shushed him and proceeded to clamber up nearly ten feet. He had watched in awe, her sturdy brown arms and legs imitating the man who clambered up the tree to pluck coconuts. Her short curls had bobbed in the wind and she had laughed then; free and wild, utterly sure of herself. The magic had lasted till their uncle had found the two of them and ‘rescued’ her. They were never more than a few meters away from an adult for the rest of the summer.
“Adaan pesarene, edukku shanda podare?” (So what? I am talking now, don’t pick a fight with me)
Vijay realised, in those two casual sentences, that he had nearly forgotten how it felt to have unvarnished conversations; barbed with sarcasm, but blunted by affection. There was no politeness, no real consideration for feelings, just the utter confidence that the relationship was solid. He felt like the girl on the coconut tree for a minute. Free.
“Enna matter, pondati tirumba oorku poidcha?” (What’s up? The wife is away? [A reference to a vintage comic piece from Tamil cinema])
“Haha, but I am not yelling about it at the bus stop.”
“Yeah, perima was telling me that you have become one depression case. Why da?”
“Depression case a? Nothing of that sort.”
Vijay could almost see her shrug. “You are that type,” she said, quite frankly, and unfeelingly.
“Enna vidu, what is up with you? I heard you resigned? Accenture velai pidikkalaiya?” (Let’s not talk about me. Why did you resign? Didn’t like the work at Accenture?)
“You should only be surprised if someone likes their job at that place. Nothing to like, really. The paycheck used to be pretty nice, though.”
“And now?”
“I am trying out a couple of things ... Let’s see where it takes me ... I have the time, and thankfully, no financial obligations. Three cheers for Appa’s fantastic money management.”
Vijay knew that her father’s frugal living had grated on her as a child. His Chitappa would painstakingly sharpen a pencil that was nearly too small to be held but he wouldn’t hear of buying a new one (and it would always be bought in bulk) till its width outstripped its length. Vijay had heard that she had splurged on every possible thing for the first couple of years after she had begun work. But maybe that phase was done.
“What about you?” she asked. “Still in FMCGs? Still peddling diapers?”
“Hoi,” he said, when he heard her chortling a little. “What so bad about selling diapers?”
“Nothing, nothing ... but that’s not what you guys call it, though, is it? It is all high fundu words and managementese.”
“Whereas you are changing the world, of course?”
“I am changing some kids, for sure,” countered Anusha, to Vijay’s surprise. “Whether for better or worse, I don’t know yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of the places I volunteer with reaches out to the Corporation Schools in north Madras. I help prepare study material, design educational games. Stuff that explains a concept, something that provides a visual for an abstract concept. Most of them are vandalised in a few days. I am impressed when something lasts a month, but that just means I get a little more creative with the design, try and find more durable material the next time around. I am locked in a battle of wits with these kids, and we haven’t even met each other.”
“And who funds this stuff?” asked Vijay, true to his training of always looking for the head waters.
“Surprisingly enough, your company. We stick your little logos on the side of each of the models. I run out of those sticker strips pretty quickly, they are the first to be vandalised. I heard they pranked a teacher and he had a whole backside of stickers for a while. Maybe you should recruit him as a brand ambassador,” she suggested, most helpfully.
“I am sure. He must be so full of gratitude and positive feeling towards the company.”
Anusha giggled. “I will try to find out some more, and if I can, will make a ‘work’ trip to Madras and check out what you are doing with our money,” said Vijay.
“Our money it seems. Shameless fellow,” said Anusha, before begging off and telling him that she needed to meet her friends. Without some normal conversation and weekend masti, it would become difficult to repair the next set of mangled plastic pieces, she said.
Vijay hung up making a mental note to talk to the people in CSR at his office.
So, You Want to Work in Publishing: Advice from a Chronicle Books Editor
By Ariel Richardson
When I graduated from college, I knew I wanted to work in children’s literature but I had no idea how to go about doing so. What does this thing called editing actually involve? How does one get started in the industry? Where should I look for job postings? Feeling pretty lost, I spent every spare moment over the course of several months researching the answers to those questions.
Since I love chatting with people just getting started in the industry, but don’t always have the time to do so in my day-to-day, I wanted to share some resources I find valuable—and resources I regularly pass along in informational interviews.
This is a competitive industry; landing your first internship or your first job can be tough! I’m hoping these tips will help you out on your path.
What kinds of jobs?
There are SO many cool jobs within publishing. Here are just a few of the many departments: Editorial, Managing Editorial, Design, Production, Digital, Marketing, Publicity, Subrights, Sales, Web/IT, Contracts, Finance, and Operations. Do you love international travel? Perhaps Subrights is the right fit for you. Do you lust after foil covers and painted edges in the book store? Perhaps Production is where you’re meant to be.
Although this post is about working at a publishing company, I want to point out that there are so many other jobs within the book pipeline that may also be of interest: artist (writer/illustrator), agent, reviewer, blogger, bookseller/book buyer, librarian, reading specialist/teacher, and professor. Publishing wouldn’t exist without these smart and passionate partners.
Education
So often I’m asked whether you need a publishing or copyediting certificate or a masters degree to get a job in publishing. Definitely not! Publishing is a mentorship industry—the only place you can really learn the job is on the job.
But extra credentials can help your resume stand out from the pack by showing your commitment and knowledge; the other perk is that your time in a relevant educational program can be incredible for networking! When you graduate, you may suddenly have friends at major publishing houses, and when you need help, they’re only a phone call away. Only pursue if you’re interested, but if you are, you have a wide variety of options to choose from.
You can consider a publishing course—usually a time commitment of one to several months—like the publishing courses at Columbia, Denver, and NYU. You could consider a copyediting certificate (usually made up of several courses, often offered online) from places like Editcetera or UC Berkeley Extension. And finally, you could consider an advanced degree, like a masters in publishing at NYU or Emerson, or a Children’s Literature masters at Simmons College, and many more.
Vijay started to expect mild surprises at the end of nearly each day. Well, the impact of the surprises grew milder, though the first couple of days had been bigger jolts. A couple of days after she had landed, his mother laced up fluorescent green walking shoes and stepped out for a stroll at night, wearing a tracksuit and an outsized tshirt (”What? It’s good to go for a walk after dinner”). Another time, he didn’t find her at home when he returned and spent an anxious half hour. She told him that she had gone window shopping and spent a very enjoyable couple of hours trying out the latest phone models (”They have ones with internet. You should get one of those for yourself.”) Once she had woken him up really early in the morning to tell him that she was taking a day-tour of the city and would be back by evening (”It’s called a Duck Tour. Their bus even goes into the water! I can’t wait.”) Vijay hadn’t had the time to tell her that she may look conspicuous in her round rimmed hat, baggy jeans and hip pouch. He had a feeling that she wouldn’t care. So he was pleased when he saw her home on a Sunday.
“No plans today?” he asked, remembering with some irony that he had earlier hatched schemes to entertain her.
Lakshmi looked up from the book she was reading, plonked on her favourite spot in the sofa, with her feet on the glass top coffee table. “No. I am a little tired. And I am craving home food...” she said, and hurriedly added when Vijay’s eyes sparkled with anticipation, “... but only if you help. Do you remember how to make sambar?”
“Remember? Did you ever teach me?” teased Vijay.
“Haiyeh,” she snorted, “as if the only things you know are stuff that I have taught you. And I did teach you, and tried to refresh your memory each time you came home and complained about college food. Of course, that mind of yours is like a sieve; always lets the important stuff pass right through.”
“I can get the vegetables if you want,” offered Vijay.
“No need,” she countered, getting up from her cozy spot. “I went shopping in Cold Storage yesterday. So you are only going to be useless. Oh well, I will make something simple.”
There was something about Lakshmi that made her company specially enjoyable to Vijay. She had dismissed it by saying that he was merely wanting what he couldn’t easily have, absence making the heart grow fonder yada yada. But Vijay sensed that it was something more. For the first time, Lakshmi seemed relaxed, happy ... in some sense, at peace with herself and that attitude leaked into Vijay when he was around her. He followed her into the kitchen.
“Amma, something has changed,” he said.
“Hmm?” asked Lakshmi distractedly as she rummaged in the shelves and shuttled between the stove and fridge. There was a small assortment of brightly coloured jars on the white marble top counter, each filled meticulously with a fragrant spice. The containers looked new, with designs in bright blue and red and yellow.
“You seem so much happier,” persisted Vijay.
“What is there to not be happy?” asked Lakshmi, frowning a little.
“I mean the new clothes and ... you know ...” Vijay’s voice trailed off as he struggled to put his questions into words. “You think I am happy because I wear a track pant instead of a sari?” asked Lakshmi, rolling her eyes while placing a pot on the stove and setting the water to boil. She started chopping some virulently orange carrots and they leaked some of their juice onto the cutting board.
“Of course not,” said Vijay. “Just that I haven’t ever seen you this happy. This is like joy, not even happiness. You are bubbling over.”
“My basic duties are all done, your father and I have some disposable cash, we have family living nearby, and I get to visit you occasionally. What more can I ask for?” she said, dicing and slicing a capsicum into chunky pieces.
“That’s all it takes?” asked Vijay, incredulously.
The knife paused for a second over the plump, perfectly red tomato before neatly cutting it into quarters. After depositing it in a bowl with the capsicum, Lakshmi turned to Vijay. “What is it with you kids?” she asked, with a weary shake of her head. “Three months ago, Anusha called me and said that she wanted to take a sabbatical because she wasn’t feeling fulfilled by her work. Her work was interesting, the pay was decent and she got some time to spend at home, and had a few friends. And it wasn’t enough apparently. There had to be some meaning. ‘Amma doesn’t understand, can you help me Perima?’ she asked. As if I understood it any more. I spoke to Chinni for a long time after that and she was thoroughly anxious. It is hard having only one child ... both Chinni and I face this. Every single thing you kids do is magnified for us; the good and the bad.”
“What did you tell Anusha?” asked Vijay, curious about his cousin’s trajectory.
“I didn’t tell her anything. She resigned her job and is now working with some NGO. She is happier, but I don’t know how she can manage her finances later in life. It doesn’t pay much.”
“How do you guys make life and happiness seem so simple?” asked Vijay. “Job, marriage, kids, save, scrimp, buy a home ... through it all and the end of it all, you are cheerful. In fact, going by your example, you seem to begetting happier as you grow older. And I am reading articles about Ten Places to See Before You Die.”
Lakshmi shrugged. She stirred the sambar after plonking the vegetables in and a strong, pungent aroma filled the kitchen. “We didn’t really think about it, I guess,” she said. “Took happiness for granted. Took some amount of hard work and toil for granted. Perhaps that’s your problem.”
“You think I don’t work hard?” asked Vijay indignant. His shoulders and neck still hurt from the day he had spent at office, hunched over his laptop.
“I think you are working too hard,” she countered. “It seems like a fool’s errand to me, to expect your work to fulfil you. People make you happy, not things, not work,” she said. Before Vijay opened his mouth to argue, she added, with a cheeky little twinkle, “Though occasional holidays like this one, where I don’t have to take care of anyone are pretty nice too.”
When Vijay fell silent, trying to look at the world from his mother’s point of view, she said, “Anyway, that’s what made me happy. And at one point, it used to make your father happy. Though now, he has substituted everyone with the TV. He decides to attend or miss a family function based on whether it clashes with his programmes,” said Lakshmi, grimacing. “Perhaps for you people, you need some form of impersonal work to feel good, something that isn’t messy and complicated, but can be finished with a bright shiny bow. Anusha definitely seems happier now. You should talk to her,” she said.
Vijay decided that he needed to reach out to his favourite cousin. They had spent many summer vacations together, at his grandmother’s home in Thiruvaiyaru, until they were both banished into the forest of IIT coachin class. She had resisted by joining a BCom course after finishing class 12, he had run away to Singapore. And in spite of a laptop and 24-hour high speed internet, he had always thought of himself as being ‘too busy’ to call her. She had also stopped after eight or ten of her emails had gone unanswered.
“What is her email id?” he asked.
“I am going to call Chinni in the evening, you can talk to Anusha then,” said Lakshmi.
The next month passed more quickly than Vijay expected. When his mother called him to say that she had finished her packing (four days before she was to leave, because, Planning!), VIjay looked around the house with some dismay. The wastepaper basket that sat in the middle of the living room with styrofoam boxes overflowing from it was only the start of his problems. He called Vivek and asked him for the number of the cleaning lady who helped control the chaos in their house. When Vijay called Maria and asked for an appointment, she told him she was busy till the next Sunday. She relented and offered to come in at 9:30 pm that day when he told her that his mother might disown him.
”But twice rate leh, extra work for me, I also tired, you know?” she said, ever the pragmatist. Vijay didn’t even bother to argue. Maria spent three hours on scrubbing the place and emptied out more than one bucket of nearly black water. So, of course, when his mother entered the house, her first comment was, “Enna, clean panradhu ille pola irke?”(Doesn’t look like you clean the place).
Lakshmi bustled into the guest bedroom, plonked her small suitcase down, opened the cupboards and cleared out a couple of shelves to accommodate her stuff. After a bath, and the installation of a small picture of Ganesha in the kitchen, she settled down in the living room and demanded to know how the TV remotes worked.
“It is just after noon here, which means I will still have some time to catch up on the morning episodes. Which number is Jaya TV?”
When Vijay told her that he had forgotten to renew the cable subscription, she just let out an inaudible ‘Oh’.
“I will call them up, you should have it by afternoon,” said Vijay apologetically.
“It’s OK da, don’t bother,” said Lakshmi after a pause. “After all it’s TV, what’s there in that? Even after I return, the story will be the same.”
When Vijay raised his eyebrows in surprise, she continued, “And good thing too, it will give your father something to say to me on the phone. He has become more of an addict than me. Got really upset with the electricity board fellows when we had a two-hour long current cut.“
Vijay tried to settle his mother down as much as possible before leaving for work, though she assured him that she didn’t want any help. That evening, he tried to come home early, and as an added precaution, finished talking to Deepa on his journey home. He had never had his mother living with him in Singapore. Rather, he reminded himself, never been responsible for her in Singapore. Or anywhere else, for that matter. He wondered whether the big empty house would feel lonely to her, whether the new place and customs would be as overwhelming to her as France had been for him. His heart became tender at the thought of caring for her, and decided that he would come up with all sorts of schemes to entertain her. He would take her to some non-touristy places; he would show her just how much fun Singapore could be. And if she grew lonely, he would invite Vivek and his room mates for Sunday brunch at Komala’s with maybe a temple visit thrown in.
He walked quickly up the stairs to the apartment, and opening the door to the house, reminded himself to show his mother whether the extra set of keys were. He was surprised to hear the TV on. He had forgotten to call up the cable people, what was his mother watching?
“Vaa da,” she called from the second bedroom. “Ozhunga vandiya?” she asked, replacing the how-was-work courtesy query with the more traditional, ‘Returned in one piece?’ flippant question.
“Huhn,” he grunted as he dumped his bag on a dining chair and made his way to the smaller room. He did a double take when he saw her stretched out on the bed, denim clad legs casually crossed at the ankle.
“Eppo lendhu idhellam?” he asked. (Since when have you started this?)
“Ippodendhu daan,” she retorted quickly. (Since just now).
Without giving him much space to continue his questioning, she said, “Seri va, saapadlaam. Poi kai kaal alambu modalla.” (Let’s eat, but wash up first.)
“Haha, even in your jeans avatar, you don’t forget these things,” teased Vijay.
“Unna maadiri loosu daan aalaiyum aadaiyaiyum confuse pannikum,” she barbed right back at him, (Only a fool can’t tell the difference between a person and her clothes).
Vijay got a second surprise when he saw a single glass dish sitting on the table when he sat down to dinner.
“Lasagna,” said is mother shortly and started scooping the food onto her plate.
“Ma!” cried Vijay. “I was hoping for something more traditional. I can have this any old day at work.”
“And I have been waiting to try this out for months. You know your father ... every day the same old rasam and sambar and kaai and kootu. Doesn’t enjoy any change. It’s come out well,” she assured him, pushing the glassware towards Vijay. “Try it out. But if you want something else, there is the afternoon’s leftover rice and some thokku in the fridge.”
Vijay felt like he ought to be in a cartoon, with his eyes popping out of his skull. A number of questions whizzed around in his head, but he grabbed hold of the first and lobbed it at her.
“Where did you get all the stuff to make this?”
His mother looked at him in surprise. “Downstairs shop,” she said. “Your father and I used to go there the last time.”
“And the house keys?”
His mother’s eyes twinkled for a second and she tried valiantly to keep a smile from peeking out. “I left the door open,” she said, making a show of focusing on her food.
“WHAT?”
“What?” she asked innocently. “I wanted to make something interesting and the only thing in your fridge was a decade old potato. I couldn’t find they keys and you are the one always telling me how safe Singapore is. I wasn’t gone for very long. I know you said there are CCTVs everywhere, so even if someone came to steal your dirty (filthy!) clothes and nonexistent utensils, we could have caught them and recovered your treasures.”
Vijay decided not to pluck any more questions from his mind and concentrated, instead, on carefully picking out the mushrooms from the lasagna. He thought he heard his mother mutter, “Haiyo, just like his father.” though she pretended that she hadn’t said anything. She moved to the couch with her second helping. “I found this music show, just like Super Singer,” she said, increasing the volume on the television and Vijay heard the theme music of American Idol. She propped her feet on the glass top coffee table and proceeded to munch her way through the cheese and pasta. “Though the judges seem to be a lot more mean. Is it that middle fellow’s job to say bad things?” she asked. When she didn’t receive a reply from VIjay, she continued, “It is somewhat similar, but also different. A new experience.”
Vijay thought that that could just as well describe his mother.
It hit him when he stepped out of the airport and looked for a taxi. The warm, humid air drenched his face in sweat, and he hurriedly removed the heavy jacket he was wearing. The corduroy trousers and lemon yellow shirt that had seemed so stylish in Fonty looked a little ridiculous among the crisp black trousers that waited for cabs. He wished he had at least worn jeans. His embarrassment at being conspicuous did more to bring home the reality of his return than the long flight back to Singapore.
He had left France on the day after the dinner in Francois’ house. That one evening of comfort among Deepa’s friends had done wonders for his confidence. Perhaps he would be comfortable in France, after all. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so drastically changed after her second stint there, after all. Perhaps they still had a chance of becoming as friendly and intimate as they had been at one time. And how long ago was that? asked a small voice in his head. Not so very long ago, he told himself firmly.
He settled into the cool confines on the taxi and relaxed a little as he murmured his destination to the cab driver, who drove him silently to his destination. When he paid with familiar currency, the bittersweet feeling of being Home, Alone, hit him again. He stepped into the house and discarded his keys on the dining table. He and Deepa had signed the lease for the apartment sitting at that table a few weeks before their wedding. The mug that he had drunk from ten days ago sat obediently in one corner, as unwashed as it had been on that bleary early morning before his flight. His discarded clothes hung forlornly in various nooks and crannies, undisturbed, and smelling slightly musty, a testament to the week before his vacation. His suitcase joined them in the hurried chaos of the house before he stepped into the shower to get ready for the day.
Vijay cursed as he heard his phone ring just as he had soaped his face and hair. He had forgotten to message Deepa to tell her that he had reached home. But that wasn’t quite like her, to anxiously ask after him. You can’t get lost in a plane, Vijay, she had said once. He dried himself before stepping out, to hear his phone ring again.
“Enna da, yen phone edukkale?” asked his mother, paradoxically, after he answered.
“I was in the shower, ma,” he said. “You have to stop calling me multiple times like this.”
“You haven’t called for the last two Saturdays,” said his mother, sounding indignant and slightly hurt. “I was worried.”
“I meant, you don’t have to call me 2-3 times. I always return your calls.”
“Aama, yerkanave ration kadai le tarra arisi maadiri correct-a vaarathula orey oru phone call. Idule periya philosophy vera” she said answering his crabbiness with a healthy measure of her own. (Just because you measure and control every minute you talk to me, I don’t have to do the same)
“Seri, enna vishayam sollu,” said Vijay, hoping to head her off from an argument early in the morning.
“Are you OK?” she asked, “Why didn’t you call? Were you travelling? Sick?”
“I was in France, ma,” said Vijay.
“Oh.”
The silence was awkward and slightly long.
“Deepa va paaka poniya?” she asked finally (”Had you gone to meet Deepa?”)
“Vera edukku poven? Suthi paakava?” (”Isn’t it unlikely that I’d have gone as a tourist?”)
His parents had been surprised and a little stunned when he had told them about Deepa’s move. (”Didn’t she just finish studying? “It’s a new job, pa” “Didn’t she have one already? Why did she quit?”). Vijay had decided that the story would be impossible to explain to his parents, who had both spent their entire lives in a single company and retired in a flurry of camaraderie decorating long-standing relationships.
“I was thinking of visiting you in Singapore,” said his mother, with a sudden note of hesitance. “Has ... um ... Deepa come back with you?”
“No, she hasn’t come back.”
Vijay could almost hear her sigh of relief. She quickly prattled on. “I thought I could help you out since you are alone. And your father doesn’t want to travel. So I can come by myself. It will be a new experience. I haven’t ever gone anywhere alone. And just imagine, it will be on a plane, to a foreign country. I can’t wait ...”
Vijay’s heart did a little wiggle of anticipation. It would be nice to have another person living in the house. He worried about the questions that would act as secondary companions, though.
“When would you like to come, ma?” he asked, breaking into the flow of her happy chatter.
“Next month? That should give me enough time to set everything right here. Get a visa, do some shopping, make a few podis ...”
“Great. Stay as long as you can. It will be nice to have you around.”
Vijay sensed rather than heard his mother’s voice softening. “I ... yeah, it will be nice,” she said. “Really nice,” she added, as if she had just remembered something.
apparently the first bird field guide was written by a woman who was rallying against the fashion of turning birds into hats. she tried lobbying against the practice, she tried writing angry newspaper articles about it, she tried holding informative classes about why people should like live birds instead, but no dice! no-one cared that someone hated what they liked, no matter how many letters to the editor she wrote
so instead she wrote a funny little book that people could carry around with them, encouraging them to look at the birds that lived around the area and describing them not in dry textbook terms but instead as flashy young men and somber old grumps and sweet little housewives working hard to feed their children, something entertaining and fun to read that turned birds into interesting little feathery people worthy of sympathy instead of just a resource
it worked and her effort in changing the public’s opinions on birds was credited as part of the reason why the practice was eventually outlawed
this is the most ruthlessly perfect execution of more flies with honey than vinegar i’ve seen, i’m so impressed
Florence Merriam Bailey was one of the pioneers of the early Audubon Society and of wildlife conservation in America (that law she helped pass? only four years after finishing college. wow.), and spent her career doing extensive fieldwork to classify and observe previously unstudied western birds. She published this field guide- her first of many- at age 26. what a badass.
Most writers dread outlining their stories. I don’t really know why. For every good book I’ve written, there’s been a nice, meaty outline. An outline consolidates every detail of your story and keeps it in a place where you can easily see the transition between scenes, chapters, and acts. My personal method has only 5 steps.
1. Create a synopsis for your story. Or just write down what you kinda want to happen. It can be pretty rough.
2. Create a table in your document. I’m using Microsoft Word 2007.
3. In a fresh document, divide your story into three acts: beginning, middle, end. (If you’re using the 6-Stage Plot Structure, assign the parts their names.) Here, I broke it into four sections but there shouldn’t be very much back story in your actual book at all.
4. Decide what happens in your story to start it (Mirabelle leaving her house), and put that in the first square of your table (the top square circled in green.) What happens after that? That second thing (Mirabelle hesitates) goes in the second square, (the bottom square circled in green). Pretty simple.
5. Continue filling in the squares with whatever material you have. You have gaps? No problem. You’ve got entire chapters missing? No problem. When you create a synopsis, or write your goals for a story, you tend to figure out your plot as you go. It’s normal to have gaps after that, too—filling in character sheets or just a good, ponderous shower can unlock the mystic gaps of your plot. Whenever you think of something, WRITE IT DOWN.
And there you have it! Your book is outlined, and you have a temporary synopsis, too. I’m not kidding about writing down every idea you have, by the way. Whether you think it’s stupid or not, it could save your book’s life when chapter nine is just a glaring, blank space with nothing to say.
I hope this was comprehensive, but if you have any questions let me know!
She was cowering near the wall, hoping that if she kept really quiet, really still, she would remain safe. There was nothing really separating her from the attacker, no door she could close. Just the flimsy covering provided by her book shelf. Her heart was thudding, she felt a metallic taste in her mouth. A few seconds later, her legs started to shake. But she was scared to move, to sit. Any movement could be dangerous, anything could bring his attention towards her. And then who knew what would happen?
Her next thought was for her family. Were they safe? In a flash, she remembered where they were. The relief made her legs shake more. They had to be told, to remain there, not to walk towards danger. But how was she to tell them?
This was becoming a common occurrence now, she knew of many people who had become hostages to these thieves. But, like many bystanders, she had never considered that she would become a victim one day. When she had first encountered one of them, she had been a small child, and seen them from a distance. They were starting to become more common then, more likely to hang out in public places. She had told her mother that they disgusted her, their ugly faces and hairy bodies. Her mother had shushed her and said, they are just like us, trying to make their way in the world. People take things away from them, and so they take things from others. You could even say they are our cousins in some sense. She had rarely been so shocked or embarrassed. How could she be related to these animals?
She could hear him (or was it her?) moving in the other room. The rustlings and vague sounds. She remembered the old conversation she had had with a friend when they were discussing a similar situation - Just give them what they want and they will go away.
But what did he want? She wasn’t going to find out. Out of the corner of her eye, she had caught a glimpse of him before she had gone into hiding. Big burly fellow, seemed aggressive. Her only means of escape was blocked. She simply had to wait it out in her corner, listening ... listening carefully for sounds. Sounds that indicated that he had perhaps moved on to greener pastures. Listening for the sound of silence.
Maybe he was only foraging for food. Sometimes that’s all the thieves were after. Maybe he’d steal some of her stuff.
It’s only money, it’s only money, she told herself repeatedly, even though her hands itched to reach out to her phone, fifteen feet away, shiny and attractive. You can replace everything once he’s gone. Your safety is more important. If you get into trouble ... the doctor’s visit ... it didn’t bear thinking about.
She stayed there for a long time. She remembered that her cook was due to come. Would she knock on the door? Would that scare this fellow? What would he do if he was scared? Run away or stand and fight? If he fought, what could she defend herself with? The only thing nearby was her baby’s tricycle. It was an awkwardly shaped thing, and she wasn’t sure she could swing it well enough to overpower the assailant. There was nothing else in her corner. Just a few old CDs and some paperbacks. And unless he suddenly turned out to be a Vedic Chanting fan, those CDs would be useless. She should really buy more hardbound books. Even if they pained her wrists, they were better weapons.
More rustling sounds. He was still around, now he had gone into the kitchen. She breathed even more quietly.
She remembered small signs from the morning. Signs to which she should have paid attention. The birds had been agitated. Someone unknown had moved into the area. She had simply laughed at the odd sound the egrets had made, and pointed it out to her child. She felt like kicking herself. But she remembered that a number of people had survived these attacks. One had been particularly blase. Another had made it into a joke, and used that anecdote to regale her friends many times over. Is that how this incident would end? A funny piece to fill a gap in conversation?
She also remembered people who had been traumatised by much more harmless attacks. One friend had nearly cancelled her holiday after her resort had been besieged. She had stayed because she felt bad for the resort staff, who had been kindness itself.
Suddenly, she realised that the sounds had stopped for a while. Her legs weren’t shaking anymore. Her heart seemed to have returned to normal. The body adapts quickly, too quickly, even to consistent danger. Now the rustling seemed to be coming from a little way away. She risked a look and saw that there was definite opportunity. There was space for her to escape, to go a safer place.
She walked quietly, but quickly, and reached the anteroom. She shut the door and immediately saw a way out of the situation. There were big rods in this room. She took one of them and started banging on the door with all her might. The noise was enough.
The monkey ran away to the balcony and thereafter to the trees beyond. The egrets grew agitated again.
She breathed a sigh of her relief, and shut all the doors with a vengeance.
A strange thing happened to me about three years ago. I went from being a normal 20-something girl to an open post box for everyone to drop their letters, comments, suggestions, criticisms ... even their life stories.
I became pregnant.
See, till this happened, I was considered a fairly competent person. I had done alright in school and college. In spite of some unusual career choices, no one really thought I needed their advice. Or perhaps they did give me some, but I don’t remember it, because I was so darned sure about myself.
But as soon as I started growing another person, all social barriers broke down. Everyone, from our cook, to the municipality sweeper to my grandparents’ long-lost relatives had something to say. Rest assured, after the customary ‘Congratulations, how are you feeling?’ they didn’t give me much reason to smile.
This was a novel (and quite unwelcome) experience for me. And it got steadily worse. From ‘Get good rest, conserve your strength’ it went all the way to, ‘Your attitude sucks! How the hell are you going to raise a child?’
That last comment, by the way, was the response I got for wondering aloud whether/how much my husband would be involved with raising the child.
Ahem.
There was also a LOT of conflicting advice.
“Once the baby is born, make sure you get as much skin-to-skin contact as possible. That security will lead to a well adjusted adult.”
“Don’t hold the baby close to yourself all the time! Make him a clingy adult.”
“Thoolis are the best for a baby to sleep. The curvature ensures that the child has strong back muscles.”
“SIDS! Make the baby sleep on his back on a flat mattress AT ALL TIMES!”
You notice one thing about these bits of advice? The decision seems like a trivial one (carrying baby or not, where baby sleeps ... etc) but the impact is disproportionately huge. Lasting psychological damage or even death. Enough to scare anyone, eh?
The thing is, for most first-time mothers, there isn’t a lot of background experience to act as a filter for this information overload. While most adults can laugh off ridiculous advice with a snort, this one time, it isn’t so easy. My brain became a rabbit hole - Will my baby really turn out to be emotionally vulnerable because I cried when I was pregnant? If I don’t breastfeed long enough (and what exactly _is_ long enough?) will my child’s speech by delayed? If I cuddle him, he will become clingy, and if I don’t he will become soulless? WTF are these choices?!
Newborns and infants are our one-way entry pass into a world that can seem strange and scary at first. And it doesn’t matter how much you have prepared for it, how many nieces and nephews you have seen or how many ridiculous hours you have spent reading listicles about parenting.
There is genuine doubt about whether you can do everything that your little one needs. Two things make this worse - holding your newborn in your arms for the first time (so.fragile. YIKES!), and a history of having an opinion about other people’s parenting. Especially your own parents’. If you aren’t a complete hypocrite, those casual bits of criticism and smuggery you threw at struggling parents will haunt you.
The thing that no one tells you about parenting (but should be obvious, really. Except it wasn’t obvious to me), is that there are absolutely no rules. No, there are none. There is no universal ‘right’ method and no way of being a ‘good’ parent. You bumble and fumble and screw up a lot and then (thanks to a robust and forgiving baby) become better.
Now, this isn’t how most of us learn. At least, this isn’t the sort of learning that is appreciated. If you do something by trial-and-error, you aren’t considered a very smart cookie. And if you have spent your life being something of an overachiever, then you better brace yourself for the ride that is coming. ‘Coz you are a newbie in a world filled with (self proclaimed) experts.
First things first. There are no signposts, nothing to tell you whether you are doing OK. Not even that holy grail - baby milestones. Sure, if your child needs some extra support, you should get professional help, but milestones aren’t a signpost for parenting! You aren’t a super parent if your child begins to speak at eight months nor a failure if you are feeding him his food even on his seventh birthday. It is simply the timetable your kiddo came with.
In this context, I suddenly understood the craze behind putting children in multiple classes and ferrying them frantically from one to another. At least, with all that activity, your mind doesn’t dwell on whether you are doing ‘enough’ for your child. This nagging feeling hits even the most laid back parent, at some point or another, because of the second weird thing about parenting -
A lot of it is fortune telling and divination.
Most conscientious parents want their child to have a ‘good life’. Each person defines this in their own way, but the fundamental fact is this - they are trying to be architects for their child’s future. Some may want their kid to be happy and at peace with herself (way to go with setting a ridiculously high standard!). Perhaps those parents have some traumatic ghosts in their childhood. Some others may want financial security for their kids. Many want their children to be ‘good people’. Others may have enjoyed their childhood so much that they work frantically to recreate the past for their future-ready kids.
All of these things require you to fine tune everyday decisions - if you are worried about financial security, it means pushing your child to finish their homework even if it takes away from your daily peace. If you are absolutely committed to being a gentle parent, it means biting your tongue and taking a looooooong deep breath to handle the thousandth tantrum of the day. Especially when you feel that giving the kid a whack may solve the problem more painlessly (for you).
But the thing is, no one really knows the future. No matter what decisions you take, your child’s future is not (completely) in your hands. If you ensure that your kid has all the money she needs, she may have challenges in some other part of life (and blame you for not preparing her adequately). If you raise your kid perfectly gently, your child may become a compassionate and empathetic soul (or an entitled jerk), while also asking you why you didn’t teach him how mean the world could be.
So here is the nub of it - no parent can engineer their child’s life so that it is free from pain. If this is the standard to which the parent is held (by the child and by other adults), then it is like aspiring to look like Barbie Doll. Even if you succeed, you will be a sort of freak.
Parenting (especially the first time around) is such a complex experience, that random advice simply makes everything more confusing. When I finally found my feet and my intuition as a mother, I wondered about how to deal with it. My first (angry) reaction to the nonsense I was hearing was to make my kid wear a t-shirt that said “My Mum Doesn’t Want Your Advice”.
Setting aside the fact that it is rude, it isn’t even really effective. Surely, I can’t dress my kid exclusively in that t-shirt?
The other advice (!) people give you about dealing with unwanted advice is to smile, nod and ignore it. But since advice is so often given with a lot of smug superiority that I feel myself turning into The Incredible Hulk, popping all the buttons on my cotton kurta. So much for smiling and nodding.
Perhaps my kid has made me a slightly better person, but at some point a small nugget of wisdom popped into my head. That it is actually pretty irresistible to tell others about your parenting journey and how (you feel) the wisdom will work for everyone. Parenting is an incredibly tough job and you jump into it with very little training, and often insufficient support. You blunder and experiment and figure out what works for you. This is probably the purest learning experience for any adult. That makes each parent an expert on their child. At some point (maybe when you first send your kid off to playschool and she comes home, smiling and happy), when your kid is happy/healthy/well adjusted, it feels awesome and as if your parenting choices worked out well. After floundering for a while, it is finally your turn to feel competent again. Whether it is your grand aunt telling you to ignore internet forums and go au naturel or internet forums warning you against traditional weaning, it is the same thought pattern:
My kid(s) turned out OK, so use my template!
In a sense, they are putting themselves in your shoes for a moment - imagining themselves as a guardian/caretaker/parent for your precious little child. It is, in a way, the purest and kindest form of social interaction we can hope for - a dissolving of boundaries, a kinship with the world, where artificial classifications no longer exist. It doesn’t matter where you live or how much you earn or what kind of a giant brain you are tucking away between your ears - you are all parents. Part of the same universal club. The advice is misplaced, of course, because they are experts on their kid, and you are the expert on your child, so you probably know best. But instead of looking at their advice as insufferable egotism, it helps to think of it as empathy - with the process of parenting overall.
The trick now is to remember this the next time I feel the buttons beginning to pop on my kurta. Maybe I should print this out and get it tattooed on my forearm. So I can see it the next time I meet someone else who treats me as an open post box.
Dumbledore fingered the wand inside his invisibility cloak. He looked around and screwed up his nose is distaste. He wasn't a big fan of Nocturn Alley. Slughorn had entrusted him with two assignments and the first needed his presence in the dingy by-lanes of the magical world.
Two hags were walking rapidly past him. He overheard a snatch of their conversation.
"No, really, it's true. Come, I will show you. It is in Borgin and Burkes. "
"Borgin has probably just painted a turkey,” said the second, snorting. “Who has ever heard of something like this?"
Dumbledore felt he had heard all that he needed. It appeared that Slughorn had gotten good information.
He walked towards Borgin and Burkes and stepped quietly into its dingy interiors. He parked himself in a corner, so he could see the main hall without being in the way.
There was a motley group clustered around a central table. Most had their heads covered, some nearly their whole face, and overall, it seemed like they were more comfortable not being in any kind of spotlight.
Burke stood behind the table, with a slight hump and was auctioning a dragon egg.
"Two hundred and fifty knuts for a dragon egg. Two hundred and fifty knuts only. A steal at twice the price. Two hundred and fifty knuts anyone?" he wheezed.
Dumbledore saw a finger twitch. He suspected that the heavily veiled woman was a vampire. He wondered who had sent her as an agent to an auction. There was no way any of the creatures present there could afford a square meal. Much less any of the questionable objects being put up for sale.
Burke smiled unctuously when he saw who had bid for it. “Of course, of course, two fifty knuts bid by the ... er ... gentle lady there. Anyone for three hundred?"
The auction proceeded with desultory interest from the crowd. Dumbledore waited patiently. He had faith in Slughorn’s capacity to ferret out information. Earlier that day, they had had short conversation.
"You must try and acquire it, Albus. Can you think of the prestige? The honour? The ability to show this off to the other schools of magic? Has anyone else seen a school mascot like this?"
He had added in an undertone, "Not to mention that they are deadly useful creatures. With one as a pet, the school will never face a shortage of funds. It’s hassle, it is, to keep asking the board of governors for money."
A shadow flickered across Dumbledore's face as he recalled the conversation. But he would have accepted the commission even without the reasons that the Headmaster had provided. There was an old debt that he had been looking to repay.
He was brought back to the present when a ripple went across the crowd. He saw a unicorn horn on the table. There were splotches of silvery blood on the table. Dumbledore looked away. This was not the battle he was there to fight.
"I don't need I introduce this wonderful piece," said Burke, wiping his nose with the back of his grimy palm, and looking around with satisfaction at the interest that had been generated.
"Its properties are legendary,” he continued. “One teaspoon of crushed unicorn horn can increase the strength of all your potions. By a hundred fold. Most commonly used in the Regenerist Potion. Be careful not to add too much though, hee hee, or you may end up as an infant rather than a young man in his prime."
The crowd tittered.
"Its usefulness is only limited by the creativity of the potion maker. The sky is the limit. How about a 1000 galleons as a starting price?"
At this point, Dumbledore sensed rather than saw the other man who had entered the room. Dumbledore tilted his head a little and took a look. He wasn't too surprised to see Ollivander. Garrick Ollivander had just taken over his father’s shop, and Dumbledore had been hearing of the young man’s new ideas. Today’s sale would be right up his alley.
Ollivander leaned back against the wall next to the door. He didn't seem in the least interested in the unicorn horn. He only winced once when the silvery unicorn blood was wiped roughly off the table after the horn was sold (to a grubby looking witch wearing tattered robes).
A few more items were brought to the table and sold. Dumbledore and Ollivander remained motionless.
The crowd grew restive. Very few people had come there to buy. Most had arrived to see whether the rumours were true. But they were beginning to lose patience. The dark and dusty room with centuries of grime on the walls began to smell even more rank because of the combined heat of the crowd and their annoyance.
“And now,” said Burke, stepping away from the table. “Prepare yourselves, ladies and gents, for an item the likes of which have never been seen before. The stuff of legend, the thing that you have all been waiting to see. The finale, the fitting end to our auction.”
The hags clapped but stopped as soon as they realised that no one else was joining them.
Borgin appeared from inside, carrying a sack. It appeared to have something squishy inside, and it shifted occasionally. The crowd followed Borgin intently.
When Borgin dumped the contents of the sack on the table, though, an angry murmur ran across the crowd. Dumbledore’s eyes grew sharper and he clutched his wand more firmly.
“I may not have travelled much, but I know how a phoenix looks, for sure. And they don’t look like this,” muttered the hag closest to Dumbledore.
The creature on the table looked sad and tired. It was barely bigger than a small pup. It had nearly no feathers. Just one blazingly bright red and gold plume. It appeared to sigh a little and flopped over to face away from the crowd. Dumbledore’s eyes softened,and his pulse quickened. He thought he could recognise the markings.
"Is this what he has been talking about? Bloody fraud" said the other hag.
"I told you it was likely to be a turkey. Looks like he was too cheap even for that. Simply stuck one painted feather on to a chicken,” whispered the other.
Dumbledore gently tightened his grasp on his wand. Borgin ignored the crowd and boomed "500 sickles for a domesticated Phoenix."
Dumbledore saw Ollivander's arm shoot up. His hand stayed up and no one else showed any interest. The crowd began to disperse. Dumbledore relaxed his grip on his wand. "Cause as little trouble as you can, Albus," Slughorn had said. There would be time for a peaceful negotiation with young Ollivander. That phoenix needed to be rescued.
Just as the auction was about to end, a wizard in sparkling blue robes dashed into the room. He was tall, sleek and had the sharp chiselled features and the pale skin and eyes that spoke of Northern climes. Dumbledore was glad that he was wearing his new invisibility cloak. It still had enough power to evade the sharp eyes of Gregorovitch.
"Two hundred GALLEONS for the bird," he thundered and Borgin rubbed his hands in glee.
The crowd seemed suddenly interested. A foreigner willing to pay so much ... Was the bird genuine after all? But before anything could happen, Dumbledore noticed Ollivander's wand arm twitch and his lips moved a fraction. Gregorovitch’s eyes suddenly lost focus. He seemed to become slack and muttered,
"Sorry … my mistake ... don’t really want it … Sell it to the other gent."
Borgin's eyes grew round with anger. He had a pathological dislike for losing money.
"You cannot withdraw bids," he boomed. Ollivander's hand twitched again. Now it was Borgin's turn to become slack and unfocused. "Unless," he muttered, "special circumstances ... Of course ... 500 sickles ... Perfectly reasonable …”
Dumbledore permitted himself to smile at this quick work. He also saw a misty cloud spread across the room. It had a sickly sweet smell. Dumbledore stepped out before it reached him, but he saw the vampires, hags, raggedy witches and wizards fall under its spell. The room was suddenly full of people who were smiling widely and talking loudly.
"Well, that definitely improved that place," thought Dumbledore as he followed Ollivander out of Nocturn Alley. Ollivander was cradling the decrepit bird in his arms and crooning to it. The bird was hooting back in a tired sort of way.
Ollivander hurried toward his shop, went into his workshop at the back and quickly shut the door. Dumbledore just about managed to step in. He was curious about this new wand maker and wanted a little more time to observe him.
Ollivander placed the bird in a golden cage and continued to sing his tuneless song. Dumbledore saw the bird flop down and breathe steadily. It seemed to be regaining strength with each breath. It was no longer taking in raggedy gasps, but appeared to be falling asleep, relaxed in its new environment.
Dumbledore looked at the tiny defenseless bird. For a creature with such potent magical properties, it seemed very vulnerable just then. He wanted to put a finger into the cage and stroke the balding bird. He remembered the last time he had seen it. High up in the mountains, when he had run away after Ariana’s death. He remembered seeing the wild phoenix return to its perch each day, remembered the dappled sunlight that had fallen on the forest floor. He remembered also the time when it had looked just like this, hours away from its burning day. It had fallen on the forest floor, near the small tent that Dumbledore had made with his own hands, eschewing all magic after that duel ... Dumbledore had cared for it, even though it didn't really need his help. When it had regained strength and regenerated, it had gone away for a few days. Dumbledore had missed his only companion.
Late one night, it had returned, and sung its song for hours. The music had echoed in the hills, reverberated through the tall conifers and Dumbledore had experienced a peace that had eluded him for months. Every night it had sung its song till it started guiding Dumbledore back to the base of the mountain. He had understood its message. His healing was over, it was time to return. Ever since, he had waited and hoped, to see Fawkes again, for he could recognise the bird at every stage of its life cycle.
Dumbledore's eyes misted when he thought about Fawkes suffering such a long journey with smugglers when it's body was so weak ... But then, the smugglers could have hardly caught it if it hadn't been weak. Dumbledore peered at its talons and beak and saw all the signs of a rough journey and careless handling. But it was sleeping now. And with each outward breath, it was letting out a musical hoot. Dumbledore could feel even the single note vibrating in his heart. He wished he could listen to it for longer. He wondered whether the bird was not better off with Ollivander than with Slughorn, who clearly appeared to be looking at it as a source of revenue. Dumbledore shuddered at the thought that Slughorn may want to milk this bird's tears and sell it.
He was about to leave, to disapparate once he reached the sunlit street outside, when he realised that Ollivander had stopped singing. The Phoenix was stirring in its sleep, when Ollivander swooped down on the bird in its cage and yanked its single golden red plume out.
He had a crazy glint in his eye, and ignored the plaintive cry that erupted from the Phoenix. Ollivander was placing the tail feather in a box and talking to it, "First wand maker in the family for centuries to have Phoenix tail feather in a wand ... First ... Call me mudbloood, will you ... The ideal wand ... I will make the ideal ..."
But he couldn't complete the sentence. A powerful explosion had rocked his shop, and thousands of wand boxes clattered down all around him. He caught a glimpse of Dumbledore before the professor disapparated with the golden cage.
Ollivander continued to clutch the box with the Phoenix tail feather.
Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts, and placed the Phoenix in a warm corner of his office and stroked it back to sleep. It took a lot longer to relax than it had at Ollivander's shop. Dumbledore persevered till it started hooting in its sleep again. He placed a powerful lock on his door and asked one of the house elves to stand guard. He stepped out of Hogwarts to begin his second errand for the day. To give a letter of admission to an orphan boy called Tom Riddle.
At least, thought Dumbledore, that would be a more pleasant chore.
--
Three months later, Ollivander visited Hogwarts to meet Dumbledore.
Dumbledore stood at his doorway, appearing relaxed and casual, but blocking the way to his office and to Fawkes.
"Can I help you?" he asked courteously.
"I have come to inform you, since you are the only person who knows about the Phoenix. It's tail feather was used to make a wand. And that wand has been sold to a student in your school."
Dumbledore's eyes glinted.
Ollivander continued, "It is a powerful wand. And the student is exceptional. But perhaps, you want to keep an eye on him? Tom Riddle?"
Dumbledore maintained an expression of mild curiosity.
"It was the second time in three months that my shop was nearly destroyed in an explosion," said Ollivander slyly.
"How curious," said Dumbledore. "Been having a lot of accidents lately?"
"The boy laughed," said Ollivander, "When his wand made my shop explode. And placed a memory charm so powerful that I have only just recovered from it. I spent days wondering what had happened to my shop. Like I said ... It is a powerful wand. And the student is exceptional."
A vague memory stirred in Dumbledore's mind; a nearly forgotten lesson, an echo of old wand lore.
"Such powerful wands," continued Ollivander, "can poison the best of minds."
"Especially when the core has been obtained through treachery?" asked Dumbledore mildly.
"And can rarely be combated," said Ollivander. "Except in one, unusual circumstance ..."
Dumbledore heard a high pitched cry from Fawkes. He looked back to see one beautiful tail feather floating to the base of his cage.
Ollivander's eyes glittered. "It appears that this bird is exceptional too," he said
When Dumbledore opened the cage, Fawkes picked up the feather in his beak and flew over to Ollivander. He dropped the feather on the young wand maker's head.
Ollivander's greedy hands clutched at it.
"I suppose you have completed your errand here?" asked Dumbledore.
Ollivander nodded and he hurried away from the teacher's room.
"I wonder now," said Dumbledore, "Why did you do that?" The Phoenix hooted in a contented way and rubbed its beak against Dumbledore's cheek. "Perhaps all will be well, after all."
(A shorter version of this appeared in The Hindu on the 21st of June 2016)
A few months ago, I reached out to a school friend I remember as being intelligent in an off-beat kind of a way . He was the amoeba shaped peg in the square hole that was our school. When I called him, though, the first questions he asked me was, “Assam? Your husband works in a tea garden?”
I wish I had said, “Yes, in a tea garden. We have an elephant as our personal vehicle. Our child was born on a tree with local tribeswomen attending on me.”
But he is not the exception. Tell anyone that you live in the north east and a bunch of stereotypes fall out of their mouths.
“Does everyone have chinky eyes there? Do they look Chinese?”
“Does their food smell weird? Do you only get momos there?”
“Oh my god! How scary. Isn’t the place struggling with insurgency?”
Some better informed people talk about AFSPA and Irom Sharmila’s extremely long struggle.
Finally the question about living in a “predominantly tribal area. Do you get lots of artefacts there? Like feathery head gear?”
Oh Hello Face, Meet Palm.
Our reality is very far removed from these images. Our joys and pains are similar to those living in many cities of India. What does that mean? It means that we worry about traffic jams, power outages and blocked sewerage more often than we worry about terrorism. Other things that occupy our mind are our children’s schooling, family vacations, and finding (and retaining) domestic help. The political news in the local newspapers is not about bomb blasts but about corruption and elections. A large chunk of the daily news is also dedicated to Bollywood. People here care about Anushka Sharma’s lip job and Aishwarya Rai’s purple lipstick just as much (or as little) as anyone in Bombay. How dreadfully mundane and un-exotic.
The place doesn’t even look that different. The vegetation of Assam is full of coconut and banana trees. You could easily forget that you aren’t in Kerala or the Konkan.
If you need any more convincing that people here are perfectly normal, listen to local radio. The RJs speak a stylised and anglicised version of Assamese that vaguely reminds me of the radio channels in Chennai. And the older generation here complains about their poor pronunciation.
What else do you need to know, to see how un-exotic and integrated the north east already is? Let me see … do you enjoy old Bollywood songs? Then say thanks to Tripura. SD Burman and RD Burman were from the royal family of the state. Incidentally, one of the official languages of Tripura is Bengali (and the most commonly spoken). That isn’t hard to understand, given that it is surrounded nearly entirely Bangladesh.
Tripura also has another (more recent) claim to fame. Dipa Karmakar. She became the first Indian female gymnast to qualify for the Olympics. You guys know what she did in order to qualify, right?
Baichung Bhutia (Sikkim) and Mary Kom (Manipur) are other well known athletes. Perhaps they’d be better known if there was some cricketing connection, but it seems like football and boxing and gymnastics are much more popular in the region. And more power to that, I say!
What else … If you like indie music, Papon is from Assam. If you are a connoisseur of old Hindi film villains, then Danny Denzongpa is from Sikkim.
However, stereotypes often have a grain of truth and here is where the truth lies. Many parts of the north east do have predominantly tribal populations. But don’t run away with this idea that ‘tribal’ means they live on trees and have no clothes. Or worse yet, wear the kind of clothes they show in the Umiam Lake Airtel ad. In all the times I have been to Shillong I haven’t ever seen a random set of people dancing to a folk tune on the banks of the lake. I have seen people queueing up to take pictures of the lake from a view point, though. And sign boards advertising water sports and boating. The Airtel people got the traditional costume right (thank god) but do you often see people performing poi kal kudirai dances near the Central Station? Yeah. Same logic holds good here. Most youngsters I have seen wear jeans and a tshirt/top. No multicoloured feathers sticking out of their hair. Also, no, you don’t get 4G in Umiam. Damn it, I don’t even get good proper 3G signal inside the IIT campus. And I can’t reach my husband’s phone if he is at work.
Tribal means a distinct traditional dress, language, food, and, geographical spreads. Not that different from pretty much the rest of India. Because, don’t kid yourselves, every caste, every organisation, every profession, every language-group is a sort of tribe. So we are all tribal in that sense.
But the tribals are ‘backward’, right? Right. Meghalaya has three primary tribes - Khasi, Garo and Jaintia. As for how ‘unprimitive’ these tribes are, look at former Garo politician PA Sangma. His children are named Agatha, Conrad and James after his favourite authors. He isn’t an exception, either. There are high rates of literacy in Meghalaya (over 75% by the 2011 census); that figure is also one of the lowest for the region. Women appear to be treated better here than they are in the rest of the country. As a small indicator of this, look behind the cash counters in small shops here. It is nearly always a lady handling the money.
Asia’s cleanest village, Mawlynnlong, is also in Meghalaya. But if you do visit the place, don’t be surprised to notice that the locals get a bit disgruntled if you gawk at them. Be respectful, let them go about their daily chores in peace. Don’t take pictures of them going to bathe or filling water. People here are polite but they are not craving your approval. And they won’t enjoy being treated like exotic zoo animals.
One of my acquaintances complained about how hard it is to understand people from the northeast. They appear to be speaking ‘Chinese’ he said and complimented his blazing ignorance with what he thought was an imitation of the ‘north east language’. Which basically meant that he made nonsensical nasal sounds. Like every other part of India, the northeast has many many many languages (two hundred and twenty at last count). But they aren’t all ‘Chinese’ in origin. Assamese is a part of a language continuum whose closest relatives are Bengali and Mythili. Some dialects of Bengali sound remarkably similar to Assamese. No surprise there because those regions (now in Bangladesh) border Assam. And Mythili derives its name from Mithila, the birthplace of Sita. How’s that for being exotic? Two other states (Nagaland and Arunachal Pradesh) use an Assamese creole. Nagaland needs the creole because it has so many tribes, each with a distinct language that they use Nagamese to communicate with each other.
There are three other language families in the region (Austroasiatic, Sino-Tibetan and Tai-Kadai). The Austroasiatic language family is represented predominantly in Meghalaya, and Sino-Tibetan family forms the majority of the other languages. But don’t be alarmed. You can make do with Hindi and English in most parts of the region.
Momos are a popular export from the region, but again, no, that isn’t the only food available here. Cuisine differs widely, with bamboo shoots being a special ingredient. The predominant grain is rice. Beef and pork are both popular. In some parts, it can be hard to get vegetarian food.
As for people looking ‘chinky’, the region has seen many rounds of migration both from the Indo-Gangetic plains and the Himalayas and Myanmar. In fact, one of the reasons why Assam became a part of British India was to resist Burmese rule in the region. Till then it was ruled by the Ahoms. Then again, isn’t there a broad spectrum of features and complexions in every state? We are just a little more used to those colour combinations. However, if you look around (especially in Bangalore, Mumbai and Chennai), you will find many people from the north east. Whenever I tell someone here that I am from the ‘south’, they often ask for details. “Chennai or Bangalore? … Where in Chennai? … Oh Adyar? My sister lives in Shastri Nagar. Nice place no? I like going to the beach.”
And here we are reducing their state to a bunch of tea bushes.
Being in Guwahati is a privilege in some sense. It is the entry point to other states in the region. If you are travelling from any other part of the country, your journey will likely take you through Guwahati. But the truly delightful thing about living in Assam, is their laid back culture. It has a musical sounding word in Assamese - laahi laahi. You cannot understand the true meaning of this till you live here. Here is an example, though;
“Dada, pizza kab deliver hoga?” (When will the pizza be delivered?)
“Aane pe aa jaayega ma’am” (It will arrive when it does). He says this in perfect good humour and with a lot of understanding kindliness. He knows you are hungry, but what can he do? It will arrive when it does.
Deliveries of furniture are routinely scheduled for the ‘second half’ of the day, which means any time from noon to 7 pm. And god forbid if you aren’t at home for that extended chunk. You have lost your chance. Wait for another three weeks when he decides to come your way again. Shops open around 10 am, close for lunch at 1 and open again at 4 pm (to include time for a siesta). You can forget about buying bread on the way back from your morning walk. If you are bringing a sense of urgency to this place, be prepared to be frustrated. If you yell at someone for not being quick enough, they will simply stop serving you after that.
It isn’t all bad, though. It means that the farmers here don’t over tax the land with three crops, though the soil is extremely fertile. They rarely over fish in their rivers. The traditional story goes that an Assamese man will get two fish when he goes fishing - one for his family to eat, the other to sell; in order to buy salt. That’s it. Then it’s time to rest.
Perhaps because of this innate sense of leisure, I find that people here have a refined sense of visual aesthetic. Our campus employs a large number of gardeners and they plant seasonal flowers to make the long road to the academic area bloom with life
Traditional Assamese villages are exceptionally clean and beautiful looking (though Guwahati city is a mess). If you travel to Guwahati by train, you can almost sense when you have come inside Assam’s borders. People also take the effort to look presentable. Think about Govinda in the ‘80s and walk away from that aesthetic as far as you can. That’s the Assamese style.
I have come to appreciate the culture even more after having a child. At every restaurant, the waiters smile at the baby, try to play with him and engage him. That isn’t possible if you are always rushing to complete orders, no? Security people on campus, nannies, maids, gardeners … all of them smile at children. If your baby is wailing, you can be sure that someone will click their fingers, make a funny face or in some way try to calm the baby down.
The hospitality I have received also inspires me to be a better host. In the smallest shack, you will be offered laal tsa (red tea) and biscuits. In a middle class home, be prepared to be overwhelmed by food. Many people have dogs, take care of gardens and are friendly neighbours.
Perhaps the place encourages a sense of placidity that goes well with the job of nurturing things. It isn’t suited for hectic activity. But the patience that it takes to raise a baby or grow a garden or make beautiful art? That you can find here in abundance.
Of course, the north east is different and exciting and there is a lot to see and learn. But the problem with calling the region ‘exotic’ or ‘mysterious’ is that it automatically makes it seem like another country! In a telling scene in Chak de! India, a character welcomes athletes from the north east and says that he wants the visitors to be comfortable. He is confused when they are unhappy. The athletes say, “Apne hi desh me mehmaan bankar koi khush kaise ho sakta hai?” (How can you be happy as a guest in your own country?). And that’s exactly what we do by using the word ‘exotic’. Make the people and place something that is ‘other’, separate. Not just different.
The north east is just as exotic as Marwar, as Kerala, as Rameshwaram, as Balasore, as Purvanchal, Uttaranchal, as Jharkhand or Chattisgarh. We can celebrate the differences of our country without using the language of exclusion. So come visit the north east. Be respectful, enjoy its varied charms, take dozens (or thousands) of photographs, upload all of them, see the plains of Bangladesh, walk with the clouds, sample local cuisine, show some eagerness to know about their history, and return with a little more understanding.
(Deepa and Vijay will continue soon. I am trying to write my way out of laziness and writers’ block)
Most of the time, when I tell someone where I went to graduate school, I hear surprised squeaks, and the inevitable question - “Why did you quit, then?”
It is a flattering question, but one that I have always found hard to answer. I found it hard to explain to my family when I first told them my decision, found it hard to find a convincing reason for my boss and have definitely found it immensely hard to give a coherent answer to friends.
I worked very hard to reach there. Doing research in biology was a dream from the time I was in class 9. It meant a lot of unusual choices for someone in middle class Madras. It meant that I chose Biology over Computer Science in class 11. If you know anything about the cultural milieu in the late 90s in Madras, you will know why this was unusual. People chose their subjects based on pragmatic considerations, and computer science was a lot more practical than Biology. It meant a (slightly) lighter workload in school, and a background in programming would come in useful in college. At the very least, if you took Biology, you were expected to follow it up by enrolling in medical entrance exam coaching classes. And when I didn’t turn up for those sweat shops, my parents were written off as being insufficient guides for a developing mind. “Of course she will say those things. As parents you must convince her not to be so foolish.”
It meant that I left the comfort of home for a new country as a 17 year old. Because the place had ‘better facilities for research. More money. You will have a better learning experience.’ That was all the reasoning behind spending seven years in a foreign land. It meant that I rejected a job offer that paid twice as much for one that allowed me to stay in research. It meant that I juggled work and studies for a year while I prepared for two GRE exams in the middle of some personal storms. It meant that I spent half of one year simply writing essays and researching colleges. A year that was meant to be a ‘break’ where I focussed on my passion for classical music and dance.
And yet, after this giant lead up, I felt like I wanted to quit one year into the programme.
It wasn’t for any of the usual reasons. I wasn’t overwhelmed by work. In fact, I particularly enjoyed preparing for the doctoral qualifying exam in the second year. It wasn’t (only) because I was missing home. I had missed it for seven years already. My coping mechanisms were in place. It wasn’t because I didn’t have a good social group. Some of my best friends (and a large part of the entourage at my wedding) were made during that time. It wasn’t even because I didn’t have enough interests outside of work. A bunch of us restarted SPICMACAY there and helped organise three concerts. I loved designing posters and pamphlets for them. It was a creative and satisfying endeavour. I had a wonderful room mate with whom I celebrated festivals and enjoyed making traditional food (they were nearly feasts by grad student standards). I wasn’t even burnt out because I still find Biology extremely interesting, I have enormous faith and respect for the scientific process. I feel that reproducing some of its rigour in our daily lives can make us better human beings.
If it wasn’t any of these, why did I quit? I have spent many years since then thinking of a way to put my gut feeling into words. And I finally have it.
I quit because it didn’t seem worthwhile.
A six-seven year stint in graduate school automatically means some things. It means that you are likely to be away from family for that time. It means that you will uproot your life and try to put those roots down somewhere else (and repeat that process after you graduate). It means a substantially less comfortable life than all your contemporaries for a ridiculously long time. Often even after completing your PhD. It means dealing with the intense load of brainstorming about your research and executing your plans at the same time and possibly thinking about the next step as your are executing the previous one. if that seems like a silly problem, notice how every organisation splits these two functions and assigns them to different people.
But all these things were known to me before I began. It seemed like that was the price of admission into the rarefied atmosphere of academics. It seemed like the price was worth paying. What, then, changed?
It wasn’t worthwhile anymore because the people and the problems I was working with were petty. And if this was the situation in one of the best universities in the world (with a reputation for being socially and culturally sensitive), I knew that I couldn’t fool myself that it would get better somewhere else.
My lab was supposed to be among the nicest in the department. They threw elaborate parties with some of their collaborators. It was an annual event that the whole department looked forward to. My prof was always smiling. She was the head of the admissions committee that accepted me into the programme, she was one of the people who interviewed me. She bicycled into work, invited everyone from the lab to her home for social evenings, and hosted lab lunches when ever there was an occasion.
And yet, the lab measured the ‘worth’ of each new student based on how much they drank and how long they were willing to stay in lab during their rotations. People noticed how often (and how long) the student went for lunch and coffee. How early they turned up and how often they stayed late. Whether they showed an (exaggerated) excitement for the work. It was like a courtship ritual. The fit of the student had very little to do with intellectual capacity.
During lab parties (and even otherwise), it was common for people to walk across to gossip. Not about science, but about the people in science. Often, about the person who worked at a table right next to them. There were nearly invisible inclusion-exclusion dynamics in play, there were cliques that were closed, loyal and parochial. If you questioned one of them during a presentation, their supporters would NOTICE. Not the question but the questioner. There was a vague sense of fear and disquiet that your question may be deemed ‘silly’ because I had heard my labmates rip into people who had stood up. “How could she possibly ask that question? Wasn’t she paying attention in her Freshman classes?”
Journal club discussions were less about understanding research from other labs and more about who could point out the most mistakes in the paper. No one talked casually and happily about their work, it was almost always complaining about the lack of money, time or other sundry problems. There were no discussions about exciting developments outside the field and its possible ramifications on ours. For example, when an article appeared about how random allocation of space in a warehouse actually makes it more efficient for robots to find things, it did not ring a bell even in the most senior person. This is precisely how the nucleus is also organised. There are countless papers on how the organisation of genes on our chromosomes makes no sense whatsoever, and here was a potential answer. If you have robot-like enzymes reaching for these genes, such a haphazard organisation turns out to be much more efficient than anything that makes ‘sense’ to us. There was no journal club (or even coffee-table) discussion on this.
So much for the people. Now the work.
Science is incremental. That is a given. Which means that each day can feel just like the previous, you can feel like you are working extremely hard and making very little progress and that, even after your PhD is done, it has made no difference to anyone but you. But this is pretty much true for any other aspect of human endeavour as well. Especially ones that are worthwhile. Like teaching. Or parenting. Eureka moments are rare, and that can’t be what keeps you in the game. Nor the awards or publications or any external incentives. But I think it is important to believe in the bigger picture. I may be a cog in a wheel, but is the vehicle going somewhere? Or is just a beautiful and ornamental amusement park construction that ... well ... amuses?
The question that our lab was dealing with involved cellular architecture. But the way we were going about it was like trying to understand what makes a butterfly fly by smashing it with a hammer. If I smash it with a hammer, it can’t fly, therefore the hammer must be doing something that prevents flying. Is it the iron in the hammer? Or the force with which I hit it? Is this result reproducible? Does the butterfly stop flying each time I smash it? Wow! It does. What a phenomenal result. I must publish this.
The fact is that I haven’t seen any tools that can investigate this delicate thing called life. It is so precariously balanced that if we interfere with it in anyway, it stops being itself. It was a nearly unsaid axiom. Everyone knew it. I heard my professor herself mention it during a presentation that there is compelling evidence that even observing a cell in certain types of light changes it. Doesn’t that make the whole thing pointless then? And no one I knew was trying to make the tools more subtle, trying to coax an answer out of enigmatic living beings. They were asking students to find new ways of smashing the butterfly. By this point, I had developed such a deep respect for the magic and mystery of life that I couldn’t justify the butterfly-smashing to myself.
Now, even assuming that this process is interesting to some people. If we smashed butterflies for long enough, in varied enough ways, and maybe let some of them recover, we may discover something about how they fly. Let’s assume that this is true and that’s how research works. But when we wrote grants applications asking for money, it wasn’t about explaining what was crucial and interesting and absorbing about the problem. There was no emphasis on actually communicating why the question needed to be addressed. It was about finding a way to contort and distort the work so that it appealed to the grant-agency. If it was a foundation that was interested in funding research into cancer, then our work would be presented as path breaking insight into the cellular machinery that goes into cell division. With a (nearly unethical) side note about how knowing this may give rise to drug targets. It was a giant inside joke that none of our work had anything to do with anything remotely clinical. People laughed at how absurd their own grant applications were and how far removed from the reality of their work. If this was a well known thing, why on earth were we writing those things? It wasn’t outright lying, you realise, we never pretended to be doing clinical trials. But the application was infused with a sense of optimism about how the work would help human patients, that had absolutely no basis in reality. In fact, my project was probably the closest thing you could find towards clinical application. And I was frequently advised by senior members of the lab to choose another field of study because it wasn’t going to lead anywhere.
The sad part is, that none of this is even worth a rap on the knuckles. My prof is one of the most respected people in the field, and she places a lot of emphasis on scientific rigour. There hasn’t been a single piece of fluffy or even fuzzy data that has got published under her watch. And yet, I found that that wasn’t enough.
There had to be a higher standard. Higher standard for people, for thought, for interactions, for behaviour. Until then, it made no sense to leave my loved ones behind, to be a two-day long flight away from them, to learn about their life like Doordarshan’s ‘deferred live’ telecasts.
