Books And A Lot More….

As per an article by Huffington Post, it’s been sixty years since Ernest Hemingway won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction (Old Man and the Sea). I was reading this and other stuff on Hemingway on the internet and tweeting at the same time when one of my friends tells me he has been to Ernest Hemingway’s Key West home. Now, I have always been a Hemingway fan since the time my Uncle gifted me a set of books by Hemingway which included ‘Farewell to Arms’, ‘For whom the bell tolls’, his short stories and ‘The Sun also rises’. His novel ‘For whom the bell tolls’ moved me, especially the character of  Pilar.

Visiting his home is a dream for me. I have imagined doing so since I finished reading ‘The Hemingway Adventure’ by Michael Palin and so when Priyank told me he’d been there, I had to get him to share the pictures! And of course, since I care so much about you all, I had to share them here on this blog.

Here are the pictures !

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This page seems to have more information on Ernest Hemingway’s home in Key West. Also, please thank my friend, Priyank for sharing the pictures!

I’ve had a massive realization. I’ve realized that I have finished a LOT of books while travelling in trains. And now, add one more to the list. I finished Aerogrammes and other stories by Tania James while travelling between Valsad and Anand on the Gujarat Express. There was a particularly chatty middle aged person sitting next to me but I resisted all his attempts to make me talk to him and finished the book like a good girl.

Book Cover

And what did I think about the book?

I have always liked short stories. Most of them always manage to be profound even though they don’t use so many words. Similar is the case with this book. The stories are inherently profound, but leave it up to the reader to understand the different layers in the characters. Living abroad is a major theme in all the stories and the author quite provides a different perspective. For a change, I was glad to not find  stories of alienation and the Desi/Not Desi turmoil that is so much a part of most books written by authors with similar backgrounds(Since not every book turns out to be as good as The Namesake). But there is alienation in the stories, but it’s not the same. It’s also about loss and how distances separate people. I particularly liked the first story ‘Lion and Panther in London’ (The cover seemed to be such a big mystery to me, until I saw the title of the first story) and the story of ‘Ethnic Ken’.

All in all, it’s a book that’s not very heavy on your mind but they are profound and very well written. And you create your own meaning from each story. Tania James has piqued my interest in her with this book. I am tempted to read her first book, ‘The Atlas of Unknowns’ now. Does somebody have a copy?

PS Have you seen her picture? She’s also very good looking.

Note: Copy of the book provided by Random House.

Yesterday, I finished reading Last night in Twisted River. The foodie that I am, what I remember most about the book were the descriptions of food!

“Today the cook was working on a red wine reduction for the braised beef short ribs, and he had both a light and a dark chicken stock on the steam table. In the ‘Something from Asia’ category, he was serving Ah Gou’s beef satay with peanut sauce and assorted tempura-just some shrimp, haricots verts, and asparagus. There were the usual pasta dishes-the calamari with black olives and pine nuts, over penne, among them-and two popular pizzas, the pepperoni with marinara sauce and a wild-mushroom pizza with four cheeses. He had a roast chicken with rosemary, which was served on a bed of arugula and grilled fennel, and a grilled leg of spring lamb with garlic, and a wild-mushroom risotto, too.”

Pg 275, Last night in Twisted River (John Irving)

That just sounds yummy, no?

Book Cover

The book revolves around two persons- Dominic Baciagalupo and his son, Daniel and the two most important things in their lives- cooking and storytelling. Mainly, this is a story of Daniel Baciagalupo and how his life changes when he accidentally kills Injun Jane, his dad’s lover cum local constable’s girl friend at the age of twelve. What follows is their flight from Coos County which ultimately ends in Canada. The book spans across four decades, finally ending with the constable catching up to them.

From the description on the back page, you’d think it’s a speedy thriller with a pace like a sinusoidal wave, and we’d have a story of how they run from the constable at every point in their lives. But no, it’s not a very fast book. It’s more of a story of the two fellows and how they set up their life at each new location. They spend at least a decade at Boston, Vermont and Toronto, to forge new friendships and cultivate new experiences much of which influences Daniel and his writing. The book chronicles their joy and the sadness they face in their lives. The fear of the cop catching them is almost invisible through the entire book although it is predictable that he will, in the end.

What I did not like was the pace at which the book moves. I started reading this when I went to Goa, and it took me some while to finish it although some major events like the convocation and the moving out took much of my time. However, I liked some things about the story that are the lessons in cooking and writing that the author provides by way of telling the story and memorable characters like Ketchum, Lady Sky and little Joe. At the same time, the author critiques world events which form the backdrop of the story like the Vietnam War, and 9/11 terrorist strikes. I like an author with an opinion and John Irving clearly takes a stand through his characters like Ketchum. Sometimes, the story almost seems autobiographical.

On the whole, it’s a good read, even though it’s slow. It becomes interesting though if you have a passion for food and writing. The description of the food that Cookie (Dominic) makes is enjoyable and encourages the taste buds in your mouth to churn up huge amounts of saliva. At the same time, the book aptly records the growth of a writer and gives some food for thought to the reader.

If you read the book, I would like to know what you think! I love discussing books and would be glad to know of your opinion.

Note: This book was provided by Random House for review.

Image Source: http://sandynawrot.blogspot.in/2010/11/last-night-in-twisted-river-john-irving.html

In the middle of farewell parties, convocation, packing bags and shifting from my room (sniff, sniff), I almost forgot my Goa trip! Well, it was quite an eventful trip, especially the circumstances in which I went. I do not know how I could have forgotten about it but I guess I was still suffering from MICA withdrawal symptoms.

It started with friends cancelling on me due to their health problems and me with a second class train ticket from Ahmedabad to Goa. There were other friends who planned their trip to Goa at the same time coincidentally but I still faced a certain amount of hesitation in going alone from Ahmedabad to Goa (yes, that was stupid!). I tossed a coin in the morning, wanting the Gods to tell me what to do. And the coin ordered me not to go. I guess I was a little disappointed because, in some teeny weeny corner of my heart, I did want to go. I got ready for class and stood outside my door, imagining the clear blue skies and the waves splashing on to the shore and I decided. Heck, I was going!

The journey from Ahmedabad to Goa was fairly uneventful and I am glad for that. What was a first for me, was travelling in the local transport buses!

When I reached Madgaon railway station in the morning, I realized I would have to pay Rs. 1200 to get to Candolim (where I was supposed to meet my friends who were coming in some time later in the day) through the Pre-paid taxi. Even my train ticket from Ahmedabad to Goa wasn’t worth that and so I decided, I had to find another way. After much asking around at the station, somebody told me how to reach Candolim Beach by bus. I took a bus from the stop outside the station(which was full of people like me ) to Margao Bus Station from where another over crowded bus took me to Panjim Bus station. That led me to the bus which would finally take me to Candolim! And all that accomplished in Rs. 45. The Amdavadi in me never felt happier!

 Candolim Beach, Goa

A different kind of tourist at Candolim Beach, Goa

 Little Vagator Beach, Goa

Little Vagator

One of the best places to go to at night is Cavala. I had a great time there! There was a band playing and you could just feel the energy in the place. Mostly, they played some rock and roll. People randomly start dancing and it’s such a refreshing break from the typical Club music that most people nowadays play. I couldn’t stop myself when the song “That thing you do” by The Wonders started being played.

Cavala, with live music and people just randomly start dancing!

Cavala, Baga, Goa

Candolim Beach, Goa

Candolim Beach,Goa

Candolim Beach, Goa

Ashwem Beach, Goa

Arambol Beach, Goa

Arambol has a salt water lake which is quite a hike from the main beach and something that you can miss. On the whole Arambol seemed to be of full of stoned hippies and dirty looking people. Candolim, on the other hand, is this peaceful beach where you only see white senior citizens (so, you can give it a miss too if you want to, ahem, sight see) although it’s very clean. Even the toilets in the shacks are very clean! However, Ashwem is another beautiful and nice beach where people of all ages come, if you get what I mean.

Some Places that you absolutely have to eat at:

1. La Plage, Ashwem

2. Thallasa, Vagator

3. Souza Lobo, Calangute

Things that I missed out on:

1. Club Cabana

2. Saturday Night Market

3. Anjuna Market (On Wednesdays only)

4. South Goa

Goa is one place you never get bored with. I can probably lay on the beach everyday, doing absolutely nothing except probably read a book (started reading ‘Last night in Twisted River’ by John Irving in Goa, which I still haven’t quite finished yet :-/).

However, next time I go to Goa, I think I shall concentrate more on South Goa, spend two days just visiting churches and look at old Goan buildings. There’s so much still left to see!

I have never really fancied myself as a poet (okay, little bit, I have ) but since it’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo 2013) , I’ve decided to write a poem each day of April (I can try, at least!). I am no Maya Angelou or Sylvia Plath, but I guess it’s better to write than do nothing at all.

It kinda fits to start my poem writing efforts with one called ‘Jugni’. Here’s my poem but before it starts, I guess a little background information is important. According to Wikipedia, 

Jugni is an age-old narrative device used in Punjabi folk music and sung at Punjabi weddings in India, Pakistan, US, Canada, Australia and UK. The word literally means ‘Female Firefly’, in folk music it stands in for the poet-writer who uses Jugni as an innocent observer to make incisive, often humorous, sometimes sad but always touching observations. In spiritual poetry Jugni means the spirit of life, or essence of life.

However, I have not followed that narrative device as this poem was written by me after reading this article. Reading this would also help.

JUGNI

She wrote of Jugni

Staring at the

Waves splashing onto

The rocks at Marine Drive

While the clock struck midnight

She wrote of Jugni

Dancing on the floor

With Afrojack and Tiesto

While the men looked on

Some with interest

Some with disinterest

She wrote of Jugni

In her school uniform

And her socks folded

Down to her ankles

Her hair flying

As she rides a Bullet

She wrote of Jugni

Sun bathing at Kovalam

Shooting Pictures at Pushkar

Sitting quietly on Dal Lake

Singing in the streets of Shillong

So rich was her life-box

She wrote of Jugni

Dressed in black

Mourning and marching

With a candle in her hands,

A pain in her chest

And anger in her soul

She wrote of Jugni, yes,

But all she wrote were obituaries.

——

Hopefully, I will come up with more this month for NaPoWriMo. Would love to know how you interpret this poem! Please do leave a comment.

So, this March, I finally left Ahmedabad (although not for good, I hope) because my education is over. I got my post-graduate diploma in Management!

Officially, I know everything now!

Diplomas, all worth something in Crores.
Photo Credits: Hirak Kapasi

I stayed back for some days after the Convocation, hoping to spend some days in solitary confinement, enjoying my own company in my own room, one last time before I bid farewell. Not.

The trouble started when one by one, others started to leave. It hadn’t really sunk in that the two best (till now, that is) years of my Life were over. I guess I had taken it for granted that I would keep coming back to the place which seemed more like Home, the place which has taught me so much, both in and out of the classroom. And then I realized. Even if I kept visiting time and again, the probability of all the people with whom I spent the last two years being at the same place at the same time was almost nil. And we would never meet like this again. That’s when the tears started. *sniff*

It has been a helluva time. I don’t think there is anything that I would not miss (except some people, yes ) but then, I ought to be thankful to them because they taught me important lessons too (See, how nice I am!).

But most of all, I will miss my room. It was my own space and I did not share it with anybody so no fussy room-mate telling you to clean up (That does NOT mean that I keep a dirty room, of course, I swear! ) or telling you to keep the volume down (although that also means that there’s nobody to wake you up and you miss classes or important interviews, for which I have been eternally grateful to all my room mates in the past).

My room has heard Elvis crooning ‘Are you lonesome tonight’ softly (I like other music too but Elvis is KING, please do not even try to argue with me), spontaneous parties, assignment discussions, debates on Mathew Sir’s classes and his teachings, discussions about books and movies and music and sometimes marketing, visits by dogs, cats and pigeons, frantic cries of help (when the matching accessory could not be found), shouts from downstairs to turn up the volume (of the music), song requests, minor acts of rebellion and what not.  It also has been privy to the latest gossip, the latest ‘scandal’ to set afoot on the campus and bears the burden of knowing secrets that no or few people know about. But more importantly, it has heard joyous bouts of laughter, felt the pain of people in their weakest moments, and has heard that invisible noise that strengthening of bonds make. How do you say bid farewell to all of that?

Truly, my own.

Like I told someone before, I think I’ve left a small part of my heart there. The next inhabitant may better take care of that precious space!

As I left the campus in Babubhai’s auto rickshaw, I remembered the time when I first came with all my bags to start my first year here. I felt like laughing and said that over used, clichéd line in my heart, “Time and tide wait for none”! In my heart, there was some trepidation because after all, the future was so uncertain. The feeling of having finally grown up seemed to wash over me. At the same time, there was gratitude, to the place for giving me so many memories. For shaping me in a lot of ways and changing my thought processes.

The next time, some ignorant busybody in a train asks me whether I graduated from the Indian Institute of Management when I tell them I was in Ahmedabad, I shall proudly tell them, ‘No, Uncle, I graduated from Mudra Institute of Communications and I am damn glad I did!’

Writing a book review becomes enjoyable when reading the book has given one some pleasure and I have to say, writing this review is one of the easiest things I’ve done. Jana Bibi’s Excellent Fortunes by Betsy Woodman is the story of Jana Laird, a woman with a mission to save Hamara Nagar, a town where she has recently moved, to a house which was a part of the heritage left to her by her grandfather. It is a place which she has fond childhood memories of.

Cover of the book

Reading the novel is akin to watching a Bollywood movie. You have a very Indian setting with a town aptly called Hamara Nagar (Our Town) and the town truly belongs to each one of us. It’s that town which you visited over the summer in your childhood and carry fond memories of. It is that town where your twelve year old self spent evenings enjoying the cool breeze, strolling around with an ice-cream in your hand. You’d say hello to every shop owner as you amble your way through the Bazaar with the ice cream dripping on to your navy blue shorts or your red frock. Feroze, the philosopher tailor, Ramachandran, the owner of the antique store, Rambir, the reporter, Bandhu, the bullying police officer, Zohra, the elegant neighbor, Mary, the caring ayah, Tilku, the cute, errand boy, Moustapha, the small town boy with big city ambitions, Sandra, the typical American girl in a boarding school- all of them come alive in the form of reminders of some distant past. These characters are charmingly eccentric, yet so real that they remind you of the same people in your life. At the same time, there are some good old emotions thrown into the story with which the characters come alive and resonate so well with the reader. And there is chaos, a typically Indian experience.

The novel tries to be a little Rushdie-sque (but, not quite) in the portrayal of an imaginary town and its people in the 1960s. However, it has a charm of its own. Jana, the fifty five year old matron is an Indian citizen but of Scottish heritage. She seems more Indian than a foreigner and more twenty five than fifty five as we come to know of her penchant for adventure and a desire to be away from the mundane. At the same time, she seems full of wisdom and knows very well how to soothe troubled spirits. Her parrot, Mr. Ganguly, is an interesting character in itself, with its extraordinary intelligence and an ability to judge correctly the intention of people it comes across. Her household and the neighborhood also consist of a mix of interesting characters.

This novel is written about a specific time in India from the standpoint of a foreigner, for whom India seems to be like this toy you can get endlessly fascinated with. However, the story is charming, funny in places and very endearing. It’s fast and does not bore you, or try to go on different platitudes. However, it subtly comments on various serious topics (especially through the mouth of Feroze, the simple, religious tailor). It resonates with you when he says, ‘Development is always somebody else’s development’ or when he writes in his notebook, ‘Life comes and hits you with first one thing. And then a second. And then yet a third. Who would voluntarily be an archery target for others?’

When I finished the novel, I thought, ‘Well, this should have been a series instead of one book’. I wasn’t surprised when I read on the back page later that it was the first book of a series on Jana Bibi. I, for one, am looking forward to reading more.

Note: The reviewer was provided a copy of the book by Random House.

Something that was waiting to be heard, somewhere in a corner of my laptop hard disk. After all, this blog need not always be about just books!

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NO RESERVATIONS

Train journeys are boring, especially when travelling alone. More so, when you are travelling in an air conditioned coach. The windows are closed, with dark film pressed neatly on them to give passengers some respite from people gawking at them at every station. But privacy comes at a cost. You cannot enjoy the serene countryside or marvel the beauty of the landscape. Even the passengers are not very interesting. All that people do is eat, sleep, eat a little more and go to sleep again. And snore. A lot.

I am sitting in a compartment in the Swarnajayanti Rajdhani Express. The train is wheezing past small obscure stations, showing the middle finger to them. It seeks to remind them of their triviality in this vast, seemingly endless scheme of things. This time, I have the lower seat on the side all to myself. Having finished with the ‘delicious’ dinner (Paneer, as usual) provided by IRCTC, I am calm and comfortable, with a book in my hand.

 This would be a good time to write. But I am not in the mood. Somehow, I guess I think better when the wind rushes in and fondles my skin. And also, I think there is much more to write about in an overcrowded unreserved compartment.

There’s nothing much for inspiration here. There’s a hyperactive kid constantly roaming about, climbing to the top most berth and then down again. It’s like he’s a playlist programmed to keep playing the same music over and over again. His parents are sitting near the window. They look like they could be the most boring couple on this planet. There’s a middle aged man giving advice to a younger co-passenger about job hopping and career decisions. I wonder how successful he himself is. The younger man seems to be listening patiently to him. Or, at least pretending to listen. After all, in India, we respect our elders.

There is a smart looking guy sitting opposite though. He seems to be close to my age. And looks delicious. Maybe something dramatic will happen and we both miss our trains. Since he’s the hero, he would come all the way to Ahmedabad even though he had to go some other place. And not to forget, we would discover that we were made for each other and fall madly in love.  At this point, the intelligent person in me seems to take cognizance of that undisputable fact that I am not Kareena Kapoor in Jab We Met. And there are no dashing heroes in real life. So much for unoriginal day dreaming! I turn my attention back to my book. It’s a book that I always carry with me during journeys like these but never quite manage to finish because I get so distracted by my surroundings. I am not much of a talker but I like observing people travelling with me. I spin crazy stories about them as I wonder about their lives, how they are with their friends and family.  And the most eventful journeys have always been during my under grad days.

Travel was almost always spontaneous then. No reservations. The Gujarat Queen was usually the train that I travelled in. I would rush from hostel to catch the train in the nick of time, hop on into the ladies compartment. And then would start the rush to find a seat. Berth after berth would be occupied by women. Some of them fat and motherly, ready to offer you some space. Some others probably had had surgery to position a permanent stick up their behinds. They would occupy the whole seat, not nudge even a teeny little bit so that you could rest at least one part of your behind, if not the both. There would be other college girls travelling daily in the same train. They would chatter about cute professors, bitchy professors, the heavy studying that they would have to do in the next month because of the oncoming season of exams. Older ladies would talk of their domestic troubles and how their sister’s daughter-in-law’s cousin’s son married out of caste and what a shame it was. You don’t need to travel the whole of India really. To discover the soul of India, all you have to do is travel in a train.

Sometimes, there would be baggage kept on the seat where people should be sitting. If you want to learn the art of war, forget about Sun Tzu. A train journey can teach you more. You learn to stand up for yourself. I remember requesting a lady politely to remove her bag from the upper seat so that I could sit. When she refused, I removed it myself, put the heavy bag on her lap, much to her disbelief. You learn about resistance when you stand for the most part of the journey, pushed and thrown about constantly at every station when people get out of the train. You feel relief when you see so many people getting ready to get out. But then you realize that double the amount are going to get in. You learn from other people, especially how to avoid cat fights where there is a lot of scope for serious injury. The golden rule is that you should never mess with women who board the train with those big cane baskets on their heads, carrying their wares for selling them in the big city market.

I have always been entertained. I never needed a book or an ipod to carry me through those journeys. And the best time I ever had? That was on a two hour journey to Valsad from Surat in a compartment that was so crowded that I had to sit on the steps. My mother would have freaked out if I had told her where I had been sitting. But it doesn’t matter. I can still remember the wind rushing past me. Cute, dirty, half naked children would wave at me as the train chugged along the slums near the station. You could see the whole train as it would bend its spine at a laborious curve. I saw brinjal fields and paddy and some other crop that I couldn’t guess. Scarecrows standing watch and buffaloes working hard in the fields.

As I come back to the present time, I feel a strange sense of dissatisfaction. Why did I stop travelling like that? There are no answers.

I think the delicious looking guy is staring at me. He seems interested. But it no longer matters.

Source: www.goodreads.com

Book Title: Love, Peace and Happiness: What more can you want?

Author: Rituraj Verma

“Stories surround us.”

So starts the text on the back cover of the Book ‘Love, Peace and Happiness: What more can you want?’

And I thought it was just another one straight out of the league of books inspired by Chetan Bhagat and other writers with a MBA degree. Then I chided myself for being prejudiced. I turned the pages and reading the foreword made me curious. It was wistful, delicate and evoked a humane interest in the author.

As I started with the first story ‘A high, like heaven’, the book started growing on me. And I read it at one go, never wishing to quite part with it as I pondered over the meaning of Love, Peace and Happiness along with the myriad characters in the book.

In each story, each character goes through a private journey, reminding us that essentially what we all want is happiness, though the definition of happiness may be different for all. Sometimes, their lives intermingle, each affecting the other in a profound way. In the process, there are certain tradeoffs that we make in this quest for peace. Whether it be the middle aged man pondering over the question ‘who am I?’ to the man looking to commit to a prostitute, there’s a Hanif, an Anamika, a Rasheeda, a Rajesh in each one of us.

What is unique about this book is that the Author invites the readers to write alternate endings if they don’t like the ones in the book. That makes one feel as if one is a part of the story, as if what think matters. In fact, this book is perfect as a travel companion. It is simple, easy to understand and yet conveys a whole lot of meaning. Read it if you want something light to read but at the same, contemplate about some serious questions raised by life.

WHAT HAPPENS IN MY ROOM…

1. There is a huge mountain of ice cream at one corner of the room. (No, it’s in boxes)
2. No, there’s no chocolate, I don’t really like chocolate so much.
3. I run around naked and there are crazy drunken orgies in my room regularly.

BAZZINGA !

(As Sheldon Cooper would say, and make that expression which I find it difficult to replicate on paper. Also please stop imagining me naked, that is gross!)

Now that I have sufficiently managed to get your attention, let me change the tone of this text to make it impossibly boring. Bwahahahaha.

WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENS IN MY ROOM

I sit at this desk. It is actually my sister’s. But I have taken over hers. It’s probably an intrusion since everybody deserves to have a room of their own. I don’t really have one. When I wish to watch TV, I go to the living room. When I need to work on my laptop, I sit at this desk. When I want to read a book, I read at the most convenient location depending on the ambient temperature at the location. (Well, it’s torturously hot!). Where do I sleep, you’d ask, if I don’t have a room? I sleep in the guest room. Sure, it’s technically ‘my’ room. But it isn’t. Sure, it has a cupboard full of my clothes which I don’t wear and a cabinet full of my books which should prove that it is actually my room. But I don’t seem to spend time in it. Then how is it my room?

Let me explain. My parents are not heartless ogres that don’t wish for me to have my own room. And I do have one, technically. I am not happy with it, that’s another fact. I did have one before, when I was in school. Then we moved and I went to college and then started working. Now I am again in college and only come home during breaks. So, it’s not exactly practical to make any changes to that room which serves as a guest room. And then when I finish my studies, of course I will be married off.

I couldn’t paint the walls. ‘What would people who come to our house think?’, my mother exclaimed.

Image source: http://furnitureinfoblog.blogspot.in/2010/12/christmas-lights-hazard-safety.html

And then I put some rice lights in the room. I wasn’t really satisfied with them but they were all that was available in the house. My mother looked up at them and made a face. ‘I had them in my college room’, I said in my defence. I had gotten used to them in the room which I shared with another girl. I thought it would be prudent not to mention that my roommate didn’t exactly look comfortable with them too at first (But I think she grew fond of the lights, after a while). ‘How cheap they look, as if you are in a bar!’, she exclaimed (my mother, not my roommate). To tell you the truth, they did. But not in my room at college. I bet the first thing my mother will do when I go back is take off those lights.

Now, let me change the topic and leave you hanging there. Don’t worry I’ll come back to this business again and then this will start making sense. Maybe.

Yesterday, I started reading A Room of One’s Own, an essay by Virginia Woolf.

“But, you may say, we asked to speak about women and fiction- what has that got to do with a room of one’s own?”

So starts the lecture which mainly focuses on: (a) why neither Jane Austen nor Charlotte Bronte could have written the mammoth War and Peace; (b) the fate  of Shakespeare’s gifted (and imaginary sister); and (c) the impact of poverty as well as chastity on women’s creativity. (Lifted verbatim from the back cover)

As I read through the first chapter, I paused and wondered, is this even relevant today? Gone are the days when women weren’t allowed to own property. Gone are the days when women were not allowed to study or did not have access to libraries. Gone are the days when there were no women writers. But I forget. Most women in the country do not get to go to school or study in one of the best colleges like I do. And whether I will do something with my education or happily settle into a life of domesticity is another matter.

Yes, it is still relevant, I decided and I continued reading. I even wondered at one point what was the point that she wanted to make when she went on and on about her life and how she spends the day. But then it seemed as if somebody was silently connecting the dots.

“Why did men drink wine and women water? Why was one sex so prosperous and the other so poor? What effect has poverty on fiction? What conditions are necessary for the creation of works of art?”

So asks Virginia Woolf. I remembered a conversation over breakfast with a batch mate regarding the circumstances that give birth to great writing. My friend was of the opinion that the writer has to be sufficiently unhappy to truly write great literature. And I remember arguing that that was not always the case. Yes, most writers are usually unhappy but not all unhappy people are writers. How is that related to Virginia Woolf? Well, she says that most great authors were educated and came from well to do families. It is only because of their upper class upbringing that they were exposed to an environment that facilitated thinking. However, the same was not true of their female counterparts who did not have access to education and an environment that encouraged their participation. They were primarily dependent on men as there were no sources of income. They were expected to be subservient, as an ego booster for men who revelled in their superiority. Women never had a room of their own, where they could just be themselves and do whatever they wanted, without having to hide, without any disturbance, no child demanding her attention or the maid calling out to fix a problem, no husband demanding servitude. At the same time, there were few women who perhaps wanted to change the status quo. They were happy being dependent on their husbands or men in their society. And that is why Woolf exhorts women to make her voice heard.

Wouldn’t things be different if women had access to an education and great writing, some money of their own, freedom to travel, and most importantly a room of their own? Can you imagine what greatness that could inspire?

And now we come back to my room again. Or the lack of one. There is one room that is all mine. It is waiting for me back in college, waiting for me to paint it a nice disturbing color and hang some pretty curtains. The speakers connected with my laptop would silently emit familiar and melodious sound waves (I mean music, of course). There will be a desk and lot of books. Not to forget the lights. This time maybe I’ll put up some blue ones. No, red has always been my favourite.

Now, can you connect the dots?

Image source: http://weheartit.com/entry/14646286