Why should there be one word for love?


Frida Kahlo has always been a larger than life figure to me. Always bold, always daring, always a challenging look in those eyes staring into a camera or her own eyes as an artist. There is no subtlety about her. In pictures I’ve seen of her paintings, her clothes, her jewellery, her hairdos, life. So complex, I would think, and so heart-on-her-sleeve.  Didn’t care who saw it. But that’s all I knew. Who was Frida, why did she paint some times of her life in such gruesome quality, what was her relationship with Diego like?

‘Seeing’ more of her life up close, first in the movie Frida, and then at Casa Azul, in Mexico City, only prompts more questions than answers.

Frida and Diego both had relationships before they got together. Was it each others’ forceful personalities that draw them together, to spend the better part of their lives together? Most of it tumultuous even after they made their marriage vows?

In her physical suffering, she seems alone, turning the pain and turmoil inwards, only to surface in A Few Small Nips or Flying Bed.

It must have been a strange kind of love. To love, be hurt by straying affections, to be drawn back together, to part ways very seriously in divorce, but to finally spend her last days with Diego. Friendship, passion, love, a sharing of ideals, even envy. It looks like their love had many forms. You can see much of it in the photographs and in the ethos of Casa Azul as you walk around.

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Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora, by Gaurav Parab


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I started reading Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora expecting it to be teeming with GP’s humour. I mean, after all, a guy who keeps it funny all the time must write a comedy. I honestly did not know what to expect from the characters or the story, except that I knew they would entertain. GP has given much more.

It’s about characters, yes. Real enough to make us want to catch up when they stride, run along when they surge through chapters of their lives, laugh when they find what they’re looking for, puzzle along with them, feel their burden when they are down. And still, with emotions that are strange enough to make us feel we can never be them, nor they, us. For how else can we immerse in tales of men, women, and babas, if not with a sense of wonder? Gaurav manages to tell a tale with characters that we all identify with in some ways, while remaining in their little worlds that perhaps we can never get close to.

It’s about plot. The format of a multitude of parallel tales running along to culminate in a grand finale may seem passe. Practically every work of popular fiction in the fantasy genre that seems to have taken over the press and the telly follow this format, with great success. This book does it too, but does not bore. Rustom and the ripples he creates in the little worlds he is connected to are curious, quick to develop, and manage to come together in the last few pages with just enough drama, avoiding spectacle. It took me a while to see that as the tale progressed, each chapter was not scrolling more than 4 or 5 pages, and kept the story flowing even while tracking across from the Himalayas to Nariman Point and Kothaluru, and back.

It’s about meaning. What stays with me after I read a good book are the little home truths about myself. About the people we are all surrounded with. It takes a writer who understands human nature to put a finger on what drives us and makes us think and do as we do – as parents, as children, as seekers, as finders, as friends, as onlookers, as wicked, as perhaps inhuman folk too. And this book is littered with home truths. About love, insecurity, grace, lunacy, and everything in between.

It’s about keeping it light, and heavy. Not easy to deal with a subject as morbid as suicide, and yet keep a reader atwitter and on tenterhooks as the tale unfolds. It’s Gaurav’s sense of the absurd in the most solemn moments, and the funny in adversity, that keeps this book upbeat in spite of the blurb on the back cover claiming a serious theme.

Indian fiction in English has been leaning towards to ponderous or the flippant. It’s nice to see a well written book in the middle of this ground. I’d definitely put Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora on the recommend list.

And GP, I hope the next one is on the assembly line.

You can order this book HERE.

Waking from slumber, via Puducherry


Well, thank you, Preethi, for that nudge in the direction of the blogosphere. It happens. The world of posts and pictures, and comments and stats seem to be the thing. Very soon, the itch to document everything slacks on the priority list. And before you know it, you are one year older. Yes heck, it takes some persistence of habit to keep at writing blog posts. So without making any promises to self, and Preethi, I’m creeping back here…

…with the calm charm of the French Quarters and the brilliance of coastal colours.

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Closed doors and ochre walls only serve to beckon…

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A pink door. Turquoise wall panels. A Paris Cafe jazz radio-like tune wafting on to the sidewalk, catching unsuspecting steps, halting them, if for a while. La Maison Rose.

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Main players in the spotlight once, perhaps. But now catching eyes from an odd seat on the sidewalk.

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Art and light.

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Eminently stroll-worthy. Very soon addicted…

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French architecture meets kolam. Charming storefronts..

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… and even more beautiful interiors. The sun lights up more than just the courtyard.

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The French Quarters in Puducherry are based on the French grid-like pattern for cities, and  it is very easy to navigate. Just take a walk along the quieter back streets, or a walk along the Promenade by the Bay of Bengal. Dotted with cafes and restaurants, this IS the place to chill.