The Past Year

Its been a year, almost, since my last post.
A lot of things have happened in between, and a lot of things haven't.

An attempt at a list, in no particular disorder.

Cats. One grey. Two black. Three crazy.
Dogs. Regained. Howling euphoria.
Job. One. Interesting. Pays ok.
Relationships. One. Twisted. Very.
People. New. Few. Interesting.
Friends. Left the town. Two. Missed.
Friends. Become closer. Most of them. Glad.
Friends. Drifted apart. A few. Ambiguous.
Friend. Cured. Thankful. Very.
Monsoon. One. Awesome. As always.
Lonavla. In the Rain. Almost Eden.
Treks. Marching across mountains.
Cycling. Crotchitis and Zoominglory.
Cycles. Taking apart, putting together. Sprocketacular.
Keys to the Kingdom. Lord Sunday awaited.
Watchmen. Unwatched, but read.
Driving. Necessary, fun, convenient. Not green. At all.
Marriages. Many. Quite a lot in fact. Not mine, thankfully.
BCL. Closed down. Sadness.
New experiences. Quite a lot. Good.
Travels. Few. But good.
Himalayas. None. Sad.
Terry Pratchett.
Triband.
Cellphone. Nokia. Prefer the SonyEricsson for usability.
Player. Creative. Zen.
Mediamonkey. DigiKam.
Linux. Frustrating, nice, interesting, headwallbanging.
Laptop batteries. Busted.
DVD Writer. Busted. Later replaced.
Procrastination. Always.
Tripod. Finally.
Panos. Too many.
Hugin. 1.0 Neat.
TED Talks. Whoasome.
Confessions. One. Big. Let's see.
Revelations. One. Big. Taking toll.
Books read. Several. Nice.
Wine. Some. Neat.
Eclipses. Solar. Lunar. Soular.
Confusion. Quite a bit. Lots of departments.
Cooking. Experiments reduce. But nice enough.
Kalaghoda, Asiatic, David Sasoon.
Bones, Grey's Anatomy, Merlin.
Death Note.
Samrat, Barbecue Nation, Relish.
Sealink. Driving on the Sealink.
Driving on the Expressway.
Food Bazaar, Sahakari Bhandar.
Brakes. Pedals. Derailleurs.
Panoramas. Bracketing. HDR.
Avatar, Sherlock Holmes, Dark Knight.
Demonoid.

So much for now. I can't think any further.
Cheers.

A year is past

Hark, tis I.
A year is past,
since I wrote some writing last.

Come again
I am to this,
for some more pontificatory bliss.

Let me see
this time how long
continue I my dance and song.

And so perhaps
more talk of things
and a luncheon with the pig with wings...

The Raven

My favourite piece of parody is about a poem that is pretty well known and loved. The original is a classic, and has inspired very many parodies, some not-so-good, and some truly terrific. The one I present here is my favourite.

(Dedicated to Poe-person, possibly one of Poe's biggest fans)

The Raven

By Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“'Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”--here I opened wide the door--
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”--
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered: “Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'”

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting--
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!





(The pause was to soak it in and reflect on it and assimilate it. Because after the pause, it will be considerably decimated.)

And now,
its cutting parody (one of many handily collected by The Raven's Nest)

The End of the Raven
By Edgar Allen Poe's Cat

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
“Raven's very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,
“There is nothing I like more.”

Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor--
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two-cents' worth--“Nevermore.”
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly leapt up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore--
Only this and not much more.

“Oooo!” my pickled poet cried out, “Pussycat, it's time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put an end to that damned ditty”--then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped--and smashed it on the floor.



And such is the wonder of the Internet, that as I sought the original pages from whence I obtained the Cat's narrative, I came upon another jewel. This may be one of the Raven's oldest parodies, The Vulture. Courtesy, OldPoetry.com

"In the poem, the "vulture" is a sponger or deadbeat who sets up residence in his friend's house and proceeds to terrify him in far more ingenious ways than Poe's raven did his reluctant host."

The Vulture

Once upon a midnight chilling, as I held my feet unwilling
O'er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four;
Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then out-skipping,
Suddenly there came a ripping whipping, at my chamber's door.
"'Tis the second-floor," I muttered, "flipping at my chamber's door--
Wants a light--and nothing more!"

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill November,
And each cuticle and member was with influenza sore;
Falt'ringly I stirred the gruel, steaming, creaming o'er the fuel,
And anon removed the jewel that each frosted nostril bore,
Wiped away the trembling jewel that each reddened nostril bore,
Nameless here for evermore!

And I recollect a certain draught that fanned the window curtain
Chilled me, filled me with a horror of two steps across the floor,
And, besides, I'd got my feet in, and a most refreshing heat in,
To myself I sat repeating--"If I answer to the door--
Rise to let the ruffian in who seems to want to burst the door,
I'll be [damned]" that and something more.

Presently the row grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Really, Mr. Johnson, blow it!--your forgiveness I implore
Such an observation letting slip, but when a man's just getting
Into bed, you come upsetting nerves and posts of chambers' door,
Making such a row, forgetting"--Spoke a voice beyond the door:
'It isn't Johnson"--nothing more!

Quick a perspiration clammy bathed me, and I uttered "Dammy!"
(Observation wrested from me, like the one I made before)
Back upon the cushions sinking, hopelessly my eyes, like winking,
On some stout for private drinking, ranged in rows upon the floor,
Fixed--and on an oyster barrel (full) beside them on the floor,
Looked and groaned, and nothing more.

Open then was flung the portal, and in stepped a hated mortal,
By the moderns called a VULTURE (known as Sponge in days of yore),
Well I knew his reputation! cause of all my agitation-
Scarce a nod or salutation changed, he pounced upon the floor;
Coolly lifted up the oysters and some stout from off the floor,
Helped himself, and took some more!

Then this hungry beast untiring fixed his gaze with fond admiring
On a piece of cold boiled beef I meant to last a week or more,
Quick he set to work devouring--plates, in quick succession, scouring--
Stout with every mouthful showering--made me ask, to see it pour,
'If he quite enjoyed his supper, as I watched the liquid pour;
Said the Vulture, "Never more."

Much disgusted at the spacious vacuum by this brute voracious
Excavated in the beef--(he'd eaten quite enough for four)--
Still I felt relief surprising when at length I saw him rising,
That he meant to go surmising, said I, glancing at the door--
"Going? well, I won't detain you--mind the stairs and shut the door--"
--"Leave you, Tompkins! never more."

Startled by an answer dropping hints that he intended stopping
All his life--I knew him equal to it if he liked, or more--
Half in dismal earnest, half in joke, with an attempt at laughing,
I remarked that he was chaffing, and demanded of the bore,
Asked what this disgusting, nasty, greedy, vile intrusive bore,
Meant in cloaking "Never more."

But the Vulture not replying, took my bunch of keys and trying
Sev'ral, found at length the one to fit my private cupboard door;
Took the gin out, filled the kettle; and with a sang froid to nettle
Any saint, began to settle calmly down the grate before,
Really as he meant departing at the date I named before,
Of never, never more!

Then I sat engaged in guessing what this circumstance distressing
Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before
Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him that if sinking
In the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he'd find my door
Always open to receive him, and it struck me now that door
He would pass, perhaps never more!

Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture enshrouded
With the smoke of vile tobacco--this was worse than all before;
"Smith!" I cried (in not offensive tones, it might have been expensive,
For he knew the art defensive, and could coster-mongers floor);
"Recollect it's after midnight, are you going?--mind the floor."
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more."

"Smith!" I cried (the gin was going down his throat in rivers flowing),
"If you want a bed, you know there's quite a nice
hotel next door,
Very cheap--I'm ill--and, joking set apart, your horrid smoking
Irritates my cough to choking. Having mentioned it before,
Really, you should not compel me--Will you mizzle--as before?"
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more."

Smith!" I cried, "that joke repeating merits little better treating
For you than a condemnation as a nuisance and a bore;
Drop it, pray, it isn't funny; I've to mix some rum and honey--
If you want a little money, take some and be off next door;
Run a bill up for me if you like, but do be off next door."
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more."

"Smith!" I shrieked--the accent humbler dropping, as another tumbler
I beheld him mix, "be off! you drive me mad--it's striking four.
Leave the house and something in it; if you go on at the gin, it
Won't hold out another minute. Leave the house and shut the door--
Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body through the door!
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"

And the Vulture never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
Gulping down my stout by gallons, and my oysters by the score;
And the beast, with no more breeding than a heathen savage feeding,
The new carpet's tints unheeding, throws his shells upon the floor.
And his smoke from out my curtains, and his stains from out my floor,
Shall be sifted never more.



Until the next post, Farewell.

Poetry: Parodies

Poetry is one of my bigger interests. It started off in school. I appreciated the ones in the texts. Not just English, mind. I like Hindi and Marathi ones too. But I did connect most with the English poetry. Mainly from the last century or so. (I write too, but that is a topic enough again for another post.)

And when I was reading Agatha Christie, as well as other books, there would be couplets which I'd look up and find the whole poem. (That is how I found Auguries of Innocence, by Blake. Because Christie's Silent Night was named from among its verses.) And then I'd look up other works by people whose work I liked.

Here I will not proceed without acknowledging a debt of gratitude towards The Wondering Minstrels. There may be a million websites scattered across cyberspace containing poets and poetry, but I'm lucky I bumped into this one early on, and it has kept me. Its a brilliant labor of love, nicely organized and simple, yet efficient, and with comments informative as well as insightful. Over time, I have found many old favourites here, but more importantly, I have met many new favourites here. Thank you.

A few of my most liked poets are Wordsworth, Tennysson, Coleridge, Yeats, Keats, and Frost. These always jump to mind. But there are many more. And there are those whose poems I remember even though I may not recollect their names.

I can wax lyrical about poetry for a long time. However, for now, I will desist. With this much of an introduction, this being my first post on Poetry, I will allow it to speak for itself.

After this little bit.
Parodies are fun, especially when well made. The balloon is nice, but it is also fun to watch it whizz frantically around the room as the air rushes out of its open tail. And as much as I love the original classic (I am not saying they are full of air. They ARE brilliant.), I still love a skillful stab at it (The more brilliant the original, the greater the humor in parody. Its not disrespect, its humor by change of context. Or something.).

Here are some of my favourites, original and parodies.

Heraclitus

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead;
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed;
I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking, and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

- William Johnson Cory


And directly from the pages of the Wondering Minstrels,

Parodies:

Two, this time, both titled 'They Told Me, Heraclitus'. The first is a
couplet that neatly deflates the poem's slightly dramatic atmosphere:

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead.
But I just wondered who you were, and what it was you said.
-- Guy Hanlon

The second is perhaps not as good overall, but it contains one of the nicest
opening couplets I've seen in a parody...

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead.
I never knew your proper name was Heraclitus, Fred.
You made out you were working-class, you talked with adenoids,
And so it was a shock to learn you were a name at Lloyd's

And now I'm full of doubts about the others at the squat.
Are they a load of Yuppies, or Thatcherites, or what?
Is Special Branch among us, camoflauged with crabs and fleas?
Is Kev a poncing Xenophon? Darren Thucydides?
-- Brian Fore

Another one I like for its very sharp retort to the original...

To a Fat Lady Seen From the Train

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?

- Frances Cornford

To quote Minstrels again:

Like 'Trees', like 'The Ballad of the Tempest', today's poem has just that combination of popular and annoying qualities that make it almost guaranteed to attract parodies. Chesterton was moved to reply on the woman's behalf:

Why do you rush through the fields in trains,
Guessing so much and so much.
Why do you flash through the flowery meads,
Fat-head poet that nobody reads;
And why do you know such a frightful lot
About people in gloves and such?

- Chesterton, 'The Fat White Woman Speaks'
(c. 1933); an answer to Frances Cornford.

and Housman skewered the poem rather neatly:

O why do you walk through the fields in boots,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody shoots,
Why do you walk through the fields in boots,
When the grass is soft as the breast of coots
And shivering-sweet to the touch?

- Housman

And for one of my all-time favourite original-parody pairs, see the next post !

Procrastination

I procrastinate.
I am NOT proud of it.
I find it a very irritating quality in myself.

If there were a line drawn separating whimsy and discipline, I, like most people, would fall in the region along the line and some distance into each side. Most people would fall, break a leg, and stay right there most of their lives, moving just a little from where they landed. Or that's what I think. I, on the other hand, will be found dancing in complex involutes and epicycloids and lissajous curves across said band of region. I believe in discipline. I believe in free spirited whimsy too. Both are essential.

However, procrastination, while stemming from a lack of discipline, is not whimsy either. And it is insidious, sneaking in and waving bright red and yellow flags around things you want to see, as opposed to things you need to see. And once you turn your face, it freezes you in position.

Ironically, I tend to be rather productive when I'm peaking in procrastination. It's like if I am avoiding doing A, I avoid it not by simply not doing A, but by not having time to do A, because I'm too busy doing other necessary things like B and then C and then D... Productive, though not in the ideal direction.

In fact, at all important times, I have discovered new hobbies, found new interests, done really interesting things, or at worst, read/saw a good series of books/TV. These include, over the past few years, discovering Orkut and bumping into school friends not seen in years, finding and downloading comic books online, torrent downloads, discovering graphic novels, Napster(yes, Napster! way back when!) Lucifer, Sandman, Facebook, Grey's Anatomy, Instructables, Foundation, Classical Music, ProjectW, Cooking, Xanth, the Wandering Minstrels, Bones, Prison Break, Fables, XKCD, and more...
(As I previewed this post, I realized what I had just written. At all important times, I have been procrastinating.)

However, as cool and enriching all of these were, I still need to get things done. So I hope to dance rather more around the discipline side of the line, while holding on to my whimsy and directing my chaotic energies in a more orderly fashion. I hope to stop procrastinating, whether it is out of laziness, or fear, or simply inertia. Whatever. Which brings me to the point which I have been aiming to make all this long. Its a quote from Grey's Anatomy which kicked me square on my butt, because I realized how true it was. Here goes.

"A couple of hundred years ago, Benjamin Franklin shared with the world the secret of his success. Never leave that till tomorrow, he said, which you can do today. This is the man who discovered electricity. You think more people would listen to what he had to say. I don't know why we put things off, but if I had to guess, I'd have to say it has a lot to do with fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, sometimes the fear is just of making a decision, because what if you're wrong? What if you're making a mistake you can't undo? The early bird catches the worm. A stitch in time saves nine. He who hesitates is lost. We can't pretend we hadn't been told. We've all heard the proverbs, heard the philosophers, heard our grandparents warning us about wasted time, heard the damn poets urging us to seize the day. Still sometimes we have to see for ourselves. We have to make our own mistakes. We have to learn our own lessons. We have to sweep today's possibility under tomorrow's rug until we can't anymore. Until we finally understand for ourselves what Benjamin Franklin really meant. That knowing is better than wondering, that waking is better than sleeping, and even the biggest failure, even the worst, beat the hell out of never trying."

Writing

Writing. I like writing. So, what's my problem ? Apart from being a champion procrastinator, that is. I dunno. Reader, please comment. You know me (to some degree or other).

Here's what I want my writing to be. I want it to be a pleasure to read. I want it to reflect the wit I have. Those who know me closely will not deny that I am witty. And if they do, then my writing issues plunge considerably in rank.

I appreciate brevity. I like the short cutting slash, rather than the extended pounding into powder. I think I ramble too much. Do you think I ramble too much ? Do I need a scissor-happy editor, or at least, turn into one myself occasionally ? (Poe-person, pray ponder and pronounce !)

I use all those other keys on the keyboard that few other use - the semicolon, the colon, the hyphen. And what's more - I may be mistaken (or may be not) - I am pretty sure I know how to use them. And yet, I tend to abuse the brackets (abuse, in the sense of over-use, not in the sense of depraved sexual acts(A bracket ? I wonder what rule 34 has brought forth (let us so NOT go there) ) ) While this last example was a bit extreme (and reminded me of days when I coded C++), you get the idea. So does my overuse of brackets add to my rambling ? Is it worth the humor ?

At which point, I am reminded of something one of my best friends once said (and which, upon searching for, I can't find, so I'll just approximate), "If you knew how much I had to work at my humor, you wouldn't find it so funny."

(Mr. Musing, when you come across this, and if you still remember, post up the original in the comments.)

Before I started writing this blog, I hadn't written anything for quite a few years. Any prose, that is. I've kept playing around with verse, and my verse is a bit better. (And for those who know of my baking skills, you will realize that I usually stuck for batter and for verse !)
I did write a little, but very little. I'll put up an example I unearthed today later. I avoided writing because - this sounds whacked off, I know - I couldn't stop. Allow me to explain. I used to keep a diary. But I would end up putting in each and every little thing that happened that day, and it would go on and on. Imagine going to bed at 11pm and not sleeping till 1am because you simply couldn't stop, couldn't disregard, couldn't ignore one tiny thing that skipped the attentions of your pencil. It was frustrating, and I couldn't stop. It became so bad after a while that I had a "complete diary" entry in my To-Do list, because I had just jotted down events and decided I couldn't write about them just then, as it was too late, and so would complete it across the weekend or something. Ofcourse, I never did. I still have the diaries, with blank pages and barely legible jotting-loaded margins. Several times I decided to forget the 'Daily Diary' and just write up on events and happenings in my life free style. Never got around to do that either (did I mention procrastination?)

Occasionally, cleaning out my closet, I come upon the diaries. Some entries open a window to the past, to incidents I can't forget, or cant't remember, but gain an insight on anyway, looking through the eyes of a much younger me. Some, on the other hand, are just insipid happennings that I wrote down for the heck of. Eitherways, I'm still glad for whatever I did put down.

Which is why I want to write this blog. Because when I look back from some point in time, I want to be able to know how I felt about things, and which were the things I felt about. So that I can see where I came from, and where I went, and what I found down those paths, and how it changed me and how I changed it.

Recently Read: India: A History, by John Keay

India: A History - John Keay

I picked up this book from BCL (more on BCL, and Churchgate in general, later) a couple of months back. I was actually looking for a different tome on Indian history, but a)I'd forgotten the author's name, and this title was similar, and b)well, it was at hand and available, staring at me from the recently-returned stack.

Its a big book. Obviously.

But its one heck of a book. Worth every page.
It traverses the entire history of the subcontinent, in time and space, from pre-Indus Valley to post-Independence, and from the marshes of Utkal to the deserts beyond Gandhar.
Its looking at the big picture. And given a canvas stretching 5.5 millenia and 4.5 million square km, its a REALLY. BIG. PICTURE.

I took my time going through it. Speed reading doesn't allow one to savour a book, though there are books that are page-turners or (as I call them)un-put-down-ables. But for what is at heart a history book, I found it was quite unputdownable too. It wasnt a fast paced thriller full of action the way something like the Da Vinci Code or something by Ludlum tends to be, but.. hey, you know what, it was ! The scale of things is obviously different, and there are WAY too many characters, but just as I was writing these past lines, I realized that it has its own action, flowing across pages, marking time not in seconds but in decades, but thrilling, nonetheless.

Coming back to the big picture, I realized one thing. What we are being taught in schools (well, on my board, atleast, and probably on the others) is just the size of a few postage stamps, and those, too, in black and white. Maybe three for the freedom struggle, and one for Shivaji's life, and one more for assorted this-and-that. I've nothing against these notables themselves, but honestly, if you look at the big picture, you realize its far more colourful and intricate.

And we need to see this big picture. We can show it to the world later. We, the people of India, need to see it, now. We need to understand how we have come to stand where we do today. The handful of episodes repeatedly stuffed down students' throats year after year do nothing to raise their interest, let alone their pride, in their country. It is, to be blunt about it, boring.

But I digress. I had not intended this to turn into social commentary. Maybe I'll turn to it in another post. As a book, its very good. Its well researched, and detailed just right. Academic intricacies are generally left out, and yet its not a simplistic narrative of happenings. Well presented timelines enable one to follow events, and excellent commentary sheds light on various aspects of these events. Despite being British, the author does not make excuses for Europe's role in the subcontinent, while being a non-Indian, he presents a refreshingly unbiased view of characters who we have only seen painted a glowing white(attachable halo included in pack) or coal black(horns and spike tail optional).

Enough blab. I'll throw out a few good bits...

Gandhar, from whence came Gandhari, wife of King Dhritrashtra, mother of the Kauravas, is modern day Kandahar, Afghanistan. (Didn't we already know that ? Yes, but I need to clear that before writing further)

The Ramayana was actually written after the Mahabharata. Ok, before assorted political parties and religious groups march to my door, allow me to elaborate. The events of what we call the Ramayana are mentioned briefly in the beginning of the Mahabharata, certainly. But (here I hop over into the unknown and back) it is one tiny section, hardly as elaborate as the epic that the Ramayana is. The author produces a number of arguments and proofs, but of those, one point makes it blatantly obvious to any common man. In the Mahabharata, the geographic descriptions are limited to the area around the Ganga-Yamuna. Indraprastha (capital of the Pandavas) was supposedly built outside the Kaurava kingdom centred at Hastinapur. Yet they are just a humdred km from each other, in the vicinity of Delhi. The farthest important location is probably Dwarka in Gujarat or Kandahar in Afghanistan. In the Ramayana, however, most of the subcontinent is importantly mentioned. From Ayodhya, again in the Ganga-Yamuna Doab (Panj-ab = land of five rivers :: Do-ab = land of two rivers), to Panchvati and Janasthana in Maharashtra, Kishkindha in Karnataka, and ofcourse, Lanka, modern-day Sri-Lanka. Evidently, the subcontinent of the Ramayana was much better known than that of the Mahabharata, which implies that the Vedic civilisation centred in the sacred Ganga-Yamuna Doab had had more time in-between to spread its tendrils around the place.

In Junagad, near Mount Girnar, on a granite block are inscribed the edicts of Ashoka. Below these, some five hundred years later, Rudradaman of the Western Satraps has had inscribed of his works for the people including repairs on an aqueduct supplying water. And this was all a good fifteen hundred years before the Nizam of Junagad hopped out of the place with his wives and dogs as the forces of Independent India rolled in.

The Parthians - neighbour to the Scythians of whom descended the aforementioned Rudradaman, - rulers of an empire stretching till the Mediterranean also came to rule the western borders, and were absorbed into India as the Pahalavas, for whom is named the Pahalvi script, and who, a thousand years later may have emerged as the Pallava kingdom of south India.

Babar, founder of the Mughal dynasty in India, was a descendant of Timurlane from his father, and of Genghis Khan from his mother. He had no interest in the lands of Hind, but actually wanted Samarkand. He gained and lost Samarkand, and gained it again ten years later, only to lose it within a year. He conquered Kandahar and Kabul in between simply to maintain a base. Only after losing Samarkand again did he turn to Punjab, demanding its throne as the heir of Timur, as Panjab had been conquered by Timur and kept as vassal before the general in charge proclaimed sovereignty. It was only then that Babar realized that the city states of the Gangetic plain were weak and feuding internally. In his memoirs, Babar calls the loss of Samarkand his greatest gift from God.

The name Rajput immediately brings visions of Rajasthan, while the Marathas are always associated with Maharashtra. Rajputana, the homeland of the Rajputs, is certainly Rajasthan, while Shivaji seeded the Maratha empire in Maharashtra. However, at various times, both of these held sway over large parts of India. Not as an empire, but as a loose confederacy of allied states. The Rajput Pratiharas extended their rule all the way till Bengal, while the Marathas only stopped their northward march after being heavily defeated in the Third Battle of Panipat.

The river Sindhu in Sanskrit translates to Hindhu in Old Persian (since they apparently skip their S's) which becomes the Indus in Greek. This is from the times when the Indus-Valley had trade links with the Greeks over land and sea. The Greeks referred to them as the people of the Indus, or Indoi (pronounced, I suppose, like the French, In-dwa). Which is how Europe came to refer to us as India.

So, technically, what is India is actually modern-day Pakistan ! Ironic...

When India and Pakistan were partitioned and given independance, Jinnah thought of the name India for his country, but rejected it as it was the name the Europeans had given, and assumed Nehru too would do the same, naming the place Hindustan or Bharat (which is one of our official names, and Hindustan, while not official, is also used). And to not share the national holiday, Pakistan gained independance on August 14th while India went with it 24 hrs later. However, at the last minute, Nehru decided to let the country be called India, as the world already knew us as India. Jinnah got mad!

There's a lot more, but I'd suggest you just read the book ! Its pretty awesome, even if I seem to go on and on about it. But then again, I wouldn't be talking about it here if I didnt't feel it worth raving about!

Cheers!

Making Bread, Breaking Bread

Now that I have the first post out of the way and have actually begun, all those things that I felt like writing up about seem to have evaporated. I have things to write about. But the problem is, 'What do I write about these things ?' Nothing's so recent that I can write about it off the top of my head yet with all my heart.
So, I ask myself the painful question, 'What did you do latest ?'
The only good answer would be, 'Made Bread.'

I have been baking cakes since quite a few years now, but recently my baking (and cooking) repertoire has expanded considerably. More on that later! Finally, recently, during my baking rennaissance, I decided it was time I tried the most basic, everyday, down to earth piece of baking. Bread!

Usually I cook up something after spotting it somewhere - cookbook, blog, etc - while browsing for something else altogether. And checking out cooking blogs has always turned up a lot of interesting stuff.
So, upon deciding that bread had to be made for the Sunday take-to-trek, and an italian herb sort-of bread at that, to go with hummus, I did what has become a rather predictable first step nowadays. I googled it.
Found lots of recipes, from dedicated recipe sites as well as blogs. Finally I found one that looked interesting. Foccacia Bread. An Italian bread thats soft and spicy with herbs and other what-have-yous tossed in. Perfect for my Sunday take-to-trek. Coupled with hummus. Hummus was awesome, but more on that later, too.

I picked up the original recipe from Passionate About Baking...: LOAFING AROUND...FOCACCIA with garlic, onion & fresh basil who, apparently, has adapted it from Recipezaar.

I made that first bread, and it turned out decently well. Sunday was a success.
Kept making more on and off, putting in my own twists along the way as I gained more experience and had ideas to try.

Its been a while now since that first Italian herb bread with hummus or jam, take your choice, up on Porcupine point.
Not only have bread prices increased quite a bit along the way, there's the realization that if you can make it at home, why have manufactured stuff which is certainly not as good as home made, both in terms of taste and health. So I started making a couple of loaves every weekend. With variations. With cheese, onion and garlic, or plain, or herby. Sis liked it, Mom loved it. Once Dad (who is fussy about tastes) agreed it was fine, we decided to avoid store-bought. I've been making all our bread at home since the past couple of weeks. Almost every couple of days.

The benefits ?
It definitely tastes better.
It lasts longer, inside and outside the fridge. But that's only when it doesn't get eaten up within a day or two !!
Infinite variations - add singly or in combination - garlic, onions, cheese, basil, spices, carrots, pepper, even sugar and nuts for a sweet bread. Think up your own ideas.
Better quality - you know exactly what's going into it and how.
Healthier - the wholewheat flour(atta) is so much better than the fine flour(maida). And you can control the amount of fat you put in.
Not to mention, its cheaper.

The usual recipe I work with, as evolved from the original :

2 loaves

Yeast - 1 tbs.
Sugar - 1 1/2 tbs.
Flour - 4 cups.
Salt - 2 1/2 tsp.
Oil - 3 tbs.
Water - 1 3/4 cup.

• Mix yeast, sugar and lukewarm water in a large bowl. Let it stand for 15 minutes or so, until it starts foaming.

• Add oil and salt to the water and then mix with the flour to make dough.

Make the dough whichever way you are comfortable. Here's mine :
Add 1 cup flour to the water mixture. Stir it in. Don't worry about lumps. Add another cup or so and stir it in until it is too stiff to stir with a spoon. Take more flour in a deep dish or similar vessel and tip the bowl into it. Knead away till done.
The dough should be moist and sticky but not overly so. You may or may not end up using up all the flour, so add flour little by little towards the end. You can always add more oil or water if its too dry.

• Smear oil in a bowl and roll around the lump of dough in it until its thoroughly coated with oil on all sides.
• Cover with a damp cloth and let rise in a warm place for an hour or until it doubles its size.
• Grease 2 baking tins. Separate the dough into two loaves and knead lightly. Pat into shape and place in the tins. Cover with damp cloth.
• Allow to rise until double or 1/2 hr.
• Bake at 375 F/200 C for 25-35 minutes, until just done.
• Cool for about 10 mins in tin, then remove from tin and cool another 1/2 hr or so. Slice when cooled.

And that's it.

You can add all the other extra variations into the dough when first kneading it.

One variation I like is adding onion and garlic into the dough. Then add grated cheese. The cheese is not kneaded into the dough. Once the kneading is done, separate each loaf's worth of dough into two parts, flatten them out with your hands, and layer the cheese on them. Roll one up without leaving air inside. Place the roll on the other flattened-and-cheesed part, and roll it up again. Seal top and bottom ends. Put it in the pan. Allow to rise for the total 1 1/2 hour rise period or until double or so. Bake.

Another option is to make the dough in the evening and let it rise for 1/2 to 1 hrs till its not quite double, but still pretty expanded. Then pat it into the tin gently, and allow to rise for the rest of the night. Bake top of the morn, serve hot from the oven for breakfast!

And that's what I did now. Its so recent, its still in process! Made the dough, let rise while I wrote up the first post, put it in pans, and wrote up this post. Its a chunky onion and paste of green garlic version. To be baked in the morning. If I wake up in time, considering its already 4.30 am.

The bread's already risen. In a few hours, I must too !

What did I do latest ? Made Bread.

Jabbering.. Wock ?

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

-Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll

And that is a better opening than:

Hello World !

And those are my first stumbling words in.. blogland ? blogspace ? blogworld ? blogeria ? what is it called anyway ? (that was the stumble, in case you missed it!)

The other option was 'Fiat Lux', but that would have been rather too melodramatic(even by my standards), and also rather difficult to live up to. Anyway, I'm supposed to be sailing the night. Fiat Lux would be very ironic.
(What's Fiat Lux, you ask me ? Nothing about cars. Or soaps. Or a combination thereof. Go Google it.)

Why blog ?
If you asked me this in person, and if I found you the least bit irritating, I'd just retort "Why not ?" However, I'll rein myself in a bit, and tell you, "Coz I want to. So there."
OK, really... Why blog ?
Because I like to talk about things I like.
Because I like explaining things (whether they need explaining or not is a different argument)
Because I want to share stuff I find interesting.
Because I feel like passing comments and making observations on life and the universe. (OK, and everything, too. I just didn't want it to sound like.. well, if you know, then it still does and if you don't then it doesn't matter)
Because I tend to have many interests. Too many. And because there are so many of these things, these seeds of interest, some grow for a while, some bear fruit, and some die off unattended. So in this place - mixing metaphors with a giant blender - I bookmark seeds. OK, a point of interest. You get it.
Because need a place to put things in. Like the list of things I'm likely to blog about, which will (probably) follow.
And because I want to remind myself of things. Like a diary of sorts, but not about 'Today I did..' Not mostly, anyway. Like taking a thin slice off the present, preserving it to look at years from now, and reminding myself of who I was, or gaining new insights on old memories. Distance does tend to improve perspective.

What's this blog going to be about ?
Well... anything I feel like. It IS my blog, after all. I decide what to put in. Anything that catches my fancy (Recall aforementioned multitudinous interests).
Now that we have established that you may find anything under the sun(and above, around, inside, etc) here, being talked about, analyzed, commented upon, or otherwise generating text, a few vague pointers.
In no particular order, (feelin lazy, I just ransacked my Orkut page!)
Reading, Photography, Traveling, Trekking, Graphics, Sculpturing, Cooking, Languages, Writing, Poetry, Swimming, Stargazing, Astro-Photography, Painting, Mythology, Mathematics, Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Music, Events, People, and lots more...
if I get on with this properly, you will see.

I will try that posts will get better with time. I had to make this beginning, if only for nothing apart from just that. Making a beginning. Procrastination is an old if unloved acquaintance.
Comments, criticisms, witticisms, all welcome.

Since I still haven't decided how public this is going to be and to whom all am I going to send a link, I cant address anyone in particular.(And that will be after a few posts anyway. Can't invite people to an empty gallery.)
Either way, hope you enjoy this place whatever brings you here.

Cheers!

Edit: Looks like the opening lines are even more apt. I searched for a picture of Jabberwocky, to see how to go about uploading pics here, and I'd completely forgotten that the creature, while being quite a weird-shit, is also mostly dragon, 'cept for his face. As anyone who knows me will tell you (I hope so, at least) that Dragons are a major interest of mine !!!