A Bend in the Lane

It’s common knowledge that I am a huge fan of Bette Davis. So after an all too long time, I watched another Bette Davis movie – The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex (1938) in garish Technicolor . Bette of course delivered a stunning performance. There might be some places where she went a tad bit overboard but that was the way they acted back in those days (late 30s). She went as far as to shave her head to create the bald look of the aging queen. Her face was painted white for the entire movie. In all this hideousness, there was something heartbreaking about her portrayal of the Queen. There is this famous scene where she goes on a mirror shattering rampage in the palace. In about 4 seconds in this scene, she examines herself in the looking glass - at her most insecure, most vulnerable, most yearning and most without-a-mask moment. My heart went crack when I saw her just for these 4 seconds. For a minute when you see Bette acting out this breathtaking turmoil on screen, u do...

Today will be one of those Long Nights. I feel it in my bones. At times at these, my comforts are the thoughts of - Bells that jostle, ships that sound horns, sea spray by the cliffs, creaking of wooden bridges across brooks, the groan of the aging grandfather clock, the whisper of willows, the spatter of summer showers, lightning without thunder in the faraway night skies, green leprechauns and the warmth of my mother’s bosom. With these comforts, one can rise above cracked hearts and broken promises

Why does an overwhelming sadness envelop us, for some of the most trivial reasons? Just two hours ago, I had reasons to be very jubilant. Now, here I am, forlorn in my darkness. What ails our souls? Are they meant to be this fickle? I am singing the song, Que Sera Sera, Whatever Will Be Will Be, over and over again, it doesnt help. I have danced (more like mad hopping) to plenty of music - it doesnt help today. I read my journal from 1999 - it doesnt help. What will become of this sadness? I cant prick it like a balloon, neither can I bottle it and toss it into the Pacific. I cannot snuff it away like a candle, neither can I suck it out like venom. I cannot bury it like a secret, neither can I pass it forward like a recycled gift. I shall let it be. Let it be just for tonight. It is going to be one of my Long Nights.

The Nazis financed their war effort through looted gold – either from occupied nations or individual victims of concentration camps. Remember the infamous Melmer account in the Reichsbank? SS Officer Bruno Melmer, transferred gold from victims of concentration camps to an SS account in Reichsbank. The notorious Melmer shipment list consisted of 29 columns of gruesome types of loot - "Gold and Silver Coins," "Purses," "Knives, Forks, Jewels," "Gold and Diamond Rings," "Watches," "Dental Gold," "Broken Gold," etc. Remember those tales of prisoners being forced to rip dental gold and jewelry from piles of bodies of their fellow prisoners? All this gold was smelted into gold bars and then transferred from SS accounts in the Reichsbank to Swiss National Bank (SNB). The SNB must have at one point known the illegitimate nature of the gold– maybe not the gruesome origins. The figures are utterly astounding ($3.5 bill...

Someone asked the Q why name the blog “A Bend in the Lane”. When I was sitting there signing up for the blog, I felt exactly like Anne of Green Gables did at the end of the novel – I didn’t know what the future held, I didn’t know if it would be stormy or quiet seas, thunder or clear skies…all I saw was a bend in the lane. So I stole the title of the last chapter of Anne of Green Gables.

I am a dog person. I adore them. I dislike cats. But I am a cat magnet. It’s a 24 year love triangle. Cats stalk me, cats purr against my legs, cats do a “mary had a little lamb” with me. I used to be annoyed. Now I am resigned to it. I perceived these skulking creatures to be evil. Not so much anymore. I mean, you always like those who like you, but you do not always like those you like, right? There is pitch black, well-mannered cat waiting for me at the end of the corridor every morning when I leave for work. Being polite, I “meow” at it. And it always “meows” back. Always. This cat got me curious. I mean, just what makes cats attracted to certain people? I posed this question to a bunch of wise people over the course of months. Here is a sample of answers I received – Friend 1: “You should be honoured. They approach people they trust” Random Estonian old woman selling amber: “Perhaps the devil in the person….” Friend 2: “I’ve read somewhere that c...

Where have the years gone? Have they tumbled into the cracks in the cuckoo clock, or leaked away through that fissure where the skies and earth meet clandestinely? Or have they died with the last echo in the vales? Did they fly south with the geese for the winter and never returned? Or have they taken off in a huff as I hadn’t paid much attention? Time, could you not have been patient and lingered for me ? I still have Africa to wander through, to fly an aircraft, and bungee jump. I have to be on that trapeze and row that boat along the Amazon. I have to dive in the Great Barrier Reaf. I have to go to Timbuktoo and be back. I have to walk up the Pyramids of Egypt and float on the Dead Sea . I have to build a home, plant my patch of roses, see my elms grow, finish the classics, run a marathon, become wise, bathe in the Ganges, journey in a hot air balloon, elope to Pitcairn Islands, walk among the giants of Easter Island, understand Theory of Relativity, speak on the BBC Worl...

I am an expert kisser - of rain. Today, I was out kayaking at MacRitchie reservoir. Apart from getting half of MacR dumped on me due to some very chivalrous friends, the Angels wept like crazy. So, after many eons, I went on a surreptitious kissing spree. Not all rains trigger this madness of mine. It rains in Singapore every other day, but it rarely is kiss worthy. My favourite is, of course, the first rain of the monsoon in The Olde Country. Now that is no major surprise - too many people have written poems about the smell of it. They should start talking about its taste, imho.

Why do we leave the acacia tree lined street s in which we ran with naked feet? The house that watched over us with quiet patience? Why do we walk away from that swing in the garden that carried us? The coconut tree that listened to whispered secrets on many a lazy afternoon? Why do we forget the wall we sat on to tease the boys that cycled past? Why do we forget the comforts of the cot in the backyard on moonlit nights? Why don’t we remember the dancing marigolds and the sulky rose bush in our mothers’ flowerbeds? Why don’t we see the red hibiscuses beside the West side gate? Why don’t we recall the sweet papayas from the tree in the East garden? Why have we forgotten the taste of parrot pecked pink guavas in the evening? Why do we walk away from the cool shadows of the ivy that screened the Westside balcony? Why have we forgotten the swinging black gate that took us to Paris and back within a swing? Why cant’ we remember the thrill of hide and seek around the house in the gatherin...

I have updated my footprints. create your own visited countries map or vertaling Duits Nederlands

Got this from Sudha's blog! Catching on to her random personality tests fever :-) Thanks Sudha You Are a Good Friend Because You're Fun You are energetic, amusing, and always up for a good time. Optimistic and genuinely happy, you help people see the sunny side of life. And you're always up for a party... no matter how big or small. You're usually the first one to celebrate a friend's success. Anyone who's interesting or fun is welcome in you circle of friends. You're not the type of person to exclude or make fun of someone who's a little different. Your friends need you most when: They're down or depressed You really can't be friends with: Anyone who's stuck up or chronically unhappy Your friendship quote: "It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them." What Makes You a Good Friend?

Can you sell your soul for a shilling? Can you give your heart away for free? Not a shilling, not a shilling, But for a patch of land, and a glimpse of sky. For a pocket of stardust and a fistful of ocean. For a stitch of horizon and a bottle of morning dew

I was at Borders couple of nights ago. I caught sight of W H Auden’s Dyer’s Hand. His self-edited lectures, talks and criticisms – mostly delivered in Oxford when he was the Oxford Professor of Poetry. Reading one of the essays, standing in Borders, with the smell of new books, and the faint whispers of conversations, I was no longer there. I was walking on the icy bridge over the Cherwell, by the St Cross Cemetery and finding my way to the wooden bench below the solitary crabapple tree that groaned with the weight of death’s tragedies among the graves. I heard its groan many an evening in my sojourn in that City of Dreaming Spires . While dons cycled past home for dinners, and students scuttled to reading rooms, I sometimes, read gravestones. They hold many tales. They also hold peace that cannot be found in life.

Do you sometimes go back to re-read your very own “great works” - essays you penned, papers you wrote for classes, etc? And when you do that, are you frequently let down by them when you discover that they are not as wonderful as you remember them to be? Usually I am. But there is one exception. Well yesterday was one of those Long Nights. I had nothing much to do. So I decided to post excerpts of this paper that I am very proud of. I wrote this paper for an English class (American Myth and Oral Tradition) in my sophomore year at Rice. This class was taught by Dr XX, who is notorious for being measely about giving ‘A’s (gives an 'A' once every two years to one or two students). After not being successful for two semesters, I took his class (you basically have to kill to get into his class). To say the very least, you could say, I slogged for this class. I used to take long walks around the campus loop at 1 am to agonise over the next word in the sentence. And I wrote like the D...

I am back from the faraway cold lands. Tonight, Sleep is sulking and does not wish to come to me. On long nights such as these, I think of that A E Housman short: When the bells justle in the tower The hollow night amid, Then on my tongue the taste is sour, Of all I ever did.

Lazy Sunday morning. I can hear someone playing a flute right now. Something very Indian. Is it Chaurasia on CD? Muffled through the walls. 'Tis transporting me back to home. I am home right now. Grandmama must be getting ready for an hour of puja. Grandpapa would be finishing up the last page of the 'Varta" . My cousin must have left for school wearing mismatched socks and the belt buckle un-done even before her day begins. Aunt must be hurrying with her maid to dish out breakfast for grumbling stomachs. My uncle would have gone out to the market/temple/ ? Definitely not the time to call them.

Yesterday I saw a snow-white bird. Pristine white wings, riding the wind. Like the sails reaping the winds on the Godavari . I was running in the bleak rain to work. Stepping over the filth everywhere – rotten produce, piled rubbish, decomposed meat, soggy marigolds (this is Buffalo Street at 7.15am). I looked up. Then I saw it – white and pure, soaring against the grey rain. For an all too short eternity, I soared with it. Then, I didn’t notice the filth around me.

Birthdays are excuses to loot others through subtle relationship blackmail. People have become trained to be blackmailed that, these days, one hardly needs to lift a finger for one’s birthday. Exasperated pal: “What do you want for your birthday?” Me: “24 gifts. Each for one year of my age.” With such subtlety, it’s hard to not to collect a bit ‘f loot, if you know what I mean. Here goes: Sister's card will reach me in another 7 days. It was mailed in a hurry the night before my Bday. The mere fact that I haven’t murdered her yet, speaks volumes about the deep love I have for my sister. Mama, braved a killing backache and a splintering migraine, to dish out a dinner for some special friends on the eve of my b'day. Pa bought this . ( Clearly, RR, could no longer stand my frenzied searches for the same book of AE Housman poems in my every library expedition. I jumped for joy upon unwrapping it and discovering this gem. The poems will be on my bed for a long ti...

For many reasons, I have been captivated by Clarence Darrow for over a year or more now. I narrowly missed reading about him when I first came to know of the Leopold and Loeb case after watching Hitchcock’s Rope. But, fortunately, I came across him on two separate occasions : 1. When reading Inherit the Wind, the play that denounces McCarthyism under the context of a trial on the controversial Theory of Evolution. 2. When looking up racism and miscarriage of justice in law, 1 , of course, is a liberal dramatization of the Scopes Monkey Trial. 2 lead me to the Sweet Trials. 1 and 2 both lead me to Clarence Darrow. I discovered that these two trials, involved the same lawyer who saved Leopold and Loeb from the gallows. I dug a little deeper into the sensational Chicago trial (technically a ‘hearing’ as Leopold and Loeb pleaded ‘Guilty’ at Darrow’s insistence). In the process, I was completely and entirely bowled over by Clarence Darrow. This man is one of the rare manifestati...

This seems to be the latest 'youtube' :-) But its awesome. Sudha got me to post it on my blog.. Its the shortest, most accurate personality thingie that i have done so far. It kills me how well these people know me. Read my VisualDNA ™ Get your own VisualDNA™