It was while searching for Lessing on the internet that I was directed to a list of 1001 books that you were to have read before you died or so it claimed. Though the list seems to have a proportionate share of well known and obscure (for me) books, I found it interesting mostly for its omissions than inclusions. For example, there are hardly any works by “those dreadfully depressing Russian author types” (as my sweetheart likes to call them). Now the Russian author types as such, I agree, do not make or break any greats but the very prominent exclusion left me a little annoyed.
So I went ahead and dug out a few more lists and a little out of every thing practically covers all of my favorites. Now, there is no dearth of people telling you what to read and trying to make you feel like ignoramuses if you haven’t and personally, I am not the oh I have to read this as it is on the list kinds but for the interested, here are a few lists in no particular order:
ManBooker Prize for Fiction
Pulitzer Prize for fiction
BBC - The Big Read - Top 100 Books
The Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction
Hugo Award for Best Novel
Costa Book Awards
Nebula Award for Best Novel
Nobel Laureates in Literature
The New York Times Best Sellers
Still obsessive about such kinds? Check this out.
Though many do find reading according to a particular list useful as that way, you can ensure that you have not missed out on the popular works, there is nothing like the joy of discovering a book on your own.
I on the other hand tend to pick authors first and read them in chronological author. It doses take me a lot of time to move on from one to the next but I prefer it that way as it gives me a way to know the authors along with their books and by the time I am done with one, I feel like I have known the person all my life.
One way or the other, nothing beats a good book and the warm feeling that you get after you are done with one. So, happy reading then!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The story of my Period
The very first time, I thought I was dying.
What else can you expect from a twelve year old? I still remember the amused smile on my mother’s face when she exclaimed “Now what have you done?” followed by all the hush - hush phone calls to relatives to announce that the prodigal daughter has now become a “woman”. Then came all the relatives with smiles like split bottle gourds on their faces and all the petting and beaming with me wondering when I was going to be asked about what was it that I had done. Strangely, everybody but me seemed to know and I was desperately hoping that someone would ask so that I would know the answer too! Of course it did not help that of seven girls; it had to happen to me first.
After two days of dazed smiling for the photographs, all decked out in a saree and all that hitherto forbidden gold, followed by cruel restrictions of forbidden passage to the kitchen, bedroom, puja room (confining my life to a rattan mat), not to mention the forced ingestion of Castor oil (it gives you ache free days from the next time was the explanation) and sesame laddus, I decided I shall ensure that it shall never happen to me ever again, come what may!
So imagine my horror when I saw the blood the next month.
You see, it had occurred to nobody that this bewildered child might not know what had just happened to her. So continued the horror, month after month, until a year later, deliverance was given, unto me, ironically, in the form of Carrie. Though it did explain a lot of things, that what happened to me happened to others too and it was not my fault, it did not explain the pain every month and the misery that accompanies it.
It wasn’t until much later, while I was well onto my way into adult hood that I came to terms with what it was and why it was. Later it even became comical, the hurried recollections of all things done under the duress of alcohol whenever it was late and the relief it brought when it did finally begin but it was a long journey for my period to become a thing of shame, the knowledge of which was to be kept hidden to something that happens every month, bringing with it the assurance that everything was going on as intended and as things were to be.
What else can you expect from a twelve year old? I still remember the amused smile on my mother’s face when she exclaimed “Now what have you done?” followed by all the hush - hush phone calls to relatives to announce that the prodigal daughter has now become a “woman”. Then came all the relatives with smiles like split bottle gourds on their faces and all the petting and beaming with me wondering when I was going to be asked about what was it that I had done. Strangely, everybody but me seemed to know and I was desperately hoping that someone would ask so that I would know the answer too! Of course it did not help that of seven girls; it had to happen to me first.
After two days of dazed smiling for the photographs, all decked out in a saree and all that hitherto forbidden gold, followed by cruel restrictions of forbidden passage to the kitchen, bedroom, puja room (confining my life to a rattan mat), not to mention the forced ingestion of Castor oil (it gives you ache free days from the next time was the explanation) and sesame laddus, I decided I shall ensure that it shall never happen to me ever again, come what may!
So imagine my horror when I saw the blood the next month.
You see, it had occurred to nobody that this bewildered child might not know what had just happened to her. So continued the horror, month after month, until a year later, deliverance was given, unto me, ironically, in the form of Carrie. Though it did explain a lot of things, that what happened to me happened to others too and it was not my fault, it did not explain the pain every month and the misery that accompanies it.
It wasn’t until much later, while I was well onto my way into adult hood that I came to terms with what it was and why it was. Later it even became comical, the hurried recollections of all things done under the duress of alcohol whenever it was late and the relief it brought when it did finally begin but it was a long journey for my period to become a thing of shame, the knowledge of which was to be kept hidden to something that happens every month, bringing with it the assurance that everything was going on as intended and as things were to be.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Backpacking beckons
The normally subdued wanderlust flares like a sun-burst through me periodically and I end up scrambling to the nearest bookstore to wrap my itchy fingers around the spine of a Lonely Planet guide, or under poorer circumstances, towards the fiction section.
The world is ours to see and observe and that alone should give infinite happiness. Head to the continents, absorb the places, sink in them and revel in their existence. Expensive hotels, places serving Indian food, comforts of pre-booked transport and fixed itineraries are not for me.Give me a sturdy backpack, a passport with enough pages and a robust lock and I am well on my way.
I do not claim that I am on of those globetrotters. I want to be one. Imagine the joy of heading off to a place with a one way ticket and no fixed plans. No pressure to come back to your cubicle on the Monday, no worry about bank balances and credit card bills.
I am going to do it one day and in the next five years too! After all, putting off the departure does not help but planning it would.
PS:The picture belongs to a guy called Troy M Litten
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