Wednesday, February 08, 2006
VISIT TO NARNIA? NO!
BY KAVITA KANE
The other day I mentioned that as a kid one of my scariest moments was when I actually got down to finish reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. My open sentiment elicited hoots of raucous giggles from my daughters. “Ninny!’ they teased, amusement glittering bright in their laughing eyes. “How can anyone be scared of Narnia?” The older one shook her head unbelievingly; a small contemptuous smirk pinned on her face. For her, the C S Lewis novel is not a book but a supplement to the magnificent movie she wants to go for over and over again, to relive bravura moments. My trepidations linger – I still haven’t gone to watch the film.
Why was I scared? Enid Blytons were gobbled up within hours of rapt fascination but this slim novel took me over a month to get over, much to the chagrin of my classmates, who were queued up, awaiting their turn. “How’s it?” the next-in-line had excitedly asked me. “Nice,” I had mumbled vaguely and placed the book softly in her hands. That was one book I refused to buy to add to my much-envied personal library.
I was the proverbial bookworm, devouring two ‘books’ per day – that was my weekend pastime and a vacation habit. At eleven, I was fonder of the Five Find-outers than Famous Five whose series I was one of the first one to finish. My little, limited world was busily populated with Galliano’s circus animals, Mallory Towers, St Clare’s, Jack and Kiki, the parrot (from the Secret series) and even Chalet school, the wonder-brat William, Treasure Island, Huck Finn with Tom Sawyer, Uncle Tom, Tom and Maggie and the heart-stirring Philip Wakem (from Mill on the Floss), the Swiss family Robinson, those escaping Children of the New Forest and my everlasting favourites – Jo and Beth March and Laurie (from Little Women) and Elizabeth Bennet with the deliciously haughty Darcy (Pride and Prejudice) who remains my hero till date! And in this midst came a slender, mustard-yellow book - The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - which soon became such a huge rage at school that if you hadn’t read that one, you were cruelly certified an idiot! I did - thrilled and curious - but unlike the other books I devoured greedily, there was no repeat read.
But why was I so scared? Almost twenty five years later, I have the answer. This was one book that was pure, unadulterated, unmitigated fantasy – a world of magnificent make-believe which was overwhelming and awesome but where my eleven-year old logic hated Edmund more than the White Witch, for turning treacherous and sly and betraying his siblings. Yes, Uncle Tom was grim, The Mill of the Floss tragic, The Five Find-outers happy and adventurous – but they were all real-life characters who lived in a fictitious, but realistic, rational, pragmatic world. I was ready to live in their world of fun and frolic, quest and escapade, pain and suffering but Aslan, however majestic, was too tremendous and breath-taking for my poor, impecunious imagination! The wardrobe was a symbol of my utter fright – that looming piece of stolid furniture through which one could slip dangerously into another, indefinite, strange world I did not want to be a part of…
although my 11-year old daughter might take me back to Narnia again.
The other day I mentioned that as a kid one of my scariest moments was when I actually got down to finish reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. My open sentiment elicited hoots of raucous giggles from my daughters. “Ninny!’ they teased, amusement glittering bright in their laughing eyes. “How can anyone be scared of Narnia?” The older one shook her head unbelievingly; a small contemptuous smirk pinned on her face. For her, the C S Lewis novel is not a book but a supplement to the magnificent movie she wants to go for over and over again, to relive bravura moments. My trepidations linger – I still haven’t gone to watch the film.
Why was I scared? Enid Blytons were gobbled up within hours of rapt fascination but this slim novel took me over a month to get over, much to the chagrin of my classmates, who were queued up, awaiting their turn. “How’s it?” the next-in-line had excitedly asked me. “Nice,” I had mumbled vaguely and placed the book softly in her hands. That was one book I refused to buy to add to my much-envied personal library.
I was the proverbial bookworm, devouring two ‘books’ per day – that was my weekend pastime and a vacation habit. At eleven, I was fonder of the Five Find-outers than Famous Five whose series I was one of the first one to finish. My little, limited world was busily populated with Galliano’s circus animals, Mallory Towers, St Clare’s, Jack and Kiki, the parrot (from the Secret series) and even Chalet school, the wonder-brat William, Treasure Island, Huck Finn with Tom Sawyer, Uncle Tom, Tom and Maggie and the heart-stirring Philip Wakem (from Mill on the Floss), the Swiss family Robinson, those escaping Children of the New Forest and my everlasting favourites – Jo and Beth March and Laurie (from Little Women) and Elizabeth Bennet with the deliciously haughty Darcy (Pride and Prejudice) who remains my hero till date! And in this midst came a slender, mustard-yellow book - The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - which soon became such a huge rage at school that if you hadn’t read that one, you were cruelly certified an idiot! I did - thrilled and curious - but unlike the other books I devoured greedily, there was no repeat read.
But why was I so scared? Almost twenty five years later, I have the answer. This was one book that was pure, unadulterated, unmitigated fantasy – a world of magnificent make-believe which was overwhelming and awesome but where my eleven-year old logic hated Edmund more than the White Witch, for turning treacherous and sly and betraying his siblings. Yes, Uncle Tom was grim, The Mill of the Floss tragic, The Five Find-outers happy and adventurous – but they were all real-life characters who lived in a fictitious, but realistic, rational, pragmatic world. I was ready to live in their world of fun and frolic, quest and escapade, pain and suffering but Aslan, however majestic, was too tremendous and breath-taking for my poor, impecunious imagination! The wardrobe was a symbol of my utter fright – that looming piece of stolid furniture through which one could slip dangerously into another, indefinite, strange world I did not want to be a part of…
although my 11-year old daughter might take me back to Narnia again.
GOOD TASTE OR PLAIN WASTE
BY KAVITA KANE
Versace –pronounced any way your tongue would like it to roll – would not have realized that he has been causing unnecessary grief for many; and me in particular. That buying a pair of shades could become a performance of sorts , sparkling with dramatic histrionics was an experience I wish never to live through again.
I flippantly meandered into a shades shoppe with an honest, straightforward, uncomplicated intention to window shop. Different ‘shades’ of pinks, violets, greens peered down at me sneeringly through the glossy glass towers and I looked up at them, a little confused but completely fascinated. Primly assuming that glares could be either dark or light in blacks, browns or at the most a daring blue, I was getting swiftly educated by the noisy young man with the sugary grin.
“There’s a whole range of colours, I promise you – pick any!” he wheedled winsomely, strewing the counter with a distracting display of the tiny temptations. I preferred checking out the price tags instead.
“Rs 3,500!” I shrieked aloud, watching the young man jump back to almost crash into the very row of shades he was intending to put to elaborate view.
“But they’re Chanel’s and that’s just the starting price!” his syrupy smile turning suspiciously sour now. I firmly removed them from sight.
“How about these?” the impertinent young man whipped up an Armani purple. I looked through them, deliberately ignoring the triangular tag dangling daintily but screaming for attention.
“Or these?” he persisted, thrusting a huge pair of Guess ebony blacks, right below my astonished eye. “Too boring!” I dismissed, hoping that I seemed assertively stuck-up.
“You would like a soothing brown?” he just about barked.
“No!!!” I flashed defiantly.
“Here’s another!” he fiercely brandished a slim RayBans, dangerously close to smashing them in his furious fist.
“Too small for my face,” I waved them off airily to turn and bravely continued my aimless search through the roomy room. I thought I heard a gnashing sound of clenched teeth behind me.
“How about this…?” I asked myself, picking a shimmering pair of Gucci. He suddenly seemed weak, feeble and defeated. “They are for Rs 7,700,” he whined imploringly and slowly put them away.
“And what about these?” I trilled at a glitzy Versace, glittering invitingly, each dazzling white stone at the slender stem, twinkling mischievously.
“Rs 10,500!” he croaked, staring down at the haute eye wear, scattered like the wounded in a battlefield.
“You accept credit cards?” I sang merrily, thumping one in his frozen, incredulous fingers, and snatching the gleaming black leather case and the encashed card, sailed out of the stunned room.
The next day I returned to refresh my shopping skills with an eager friend. The noisy young man was nowhere to be seen.
Versace –pronounced any way your tongue would like it to roll – would not have realized that he has been causing unnecessary grief for many; and me in particular. That buying a pair of shades could become a performance of sorts , sparkling with dramatic histrionics was an experience I wish never to live through again.
I flippantly meandered into a shades shoppe with an honest, straightforward, uncomplicated intention to window shop. Different ‘shades’ of pinks, violets, greens peered down at me sneeringly through the glossy glass towers and I looked up at them, a little confused but completely fascinated. Primly assuming that glares could be either dark or light in blacks, browns or at the most a daring blue, I was getting swiftly educated by the noisy young man with the sugary grin.
“There’s a whole range of colours, I promise you – pick any!” he wheedled winsomely, strewing the counter with a distracting display of the tiny temptations. I preferred checking out the price tags instead.
“Rs 3,500!” I shrieked aloud, watching the young man jump back to almost crash into the very row of shades he was intending to put to elaborate view.
“But they’re Chanel’s and that’s just the starting price!” his syrupy smile turning suspiciously sour now. I firmly removed them from sight.
“How about these?” the impertinent young man whipped up an Armani purple. I looked through them, deliberately ignoring the triangular tag dangling daintily but screaming for attention.
“Or these?” he persisted, thrusting a huge pair of Guess ebony blacks, right below my astonished eye. “Too boring!” I dismissed, hoping that I seemed assertively stuck-up.
“You would like a soothing brown?” he just about barked.
“No!!!” I flashed defiantly.
“Here’s another!” he fiercely brandished a slim RayBans, dangerously close to smashing them in his furious fist.
“Too small for my face,” I waved them off airily to turn and bravely continued my aimless search through the roomy room. I thought I heard a gnashing sound of clenched teeth behind me.
“How about this…?” I asked myself, picking a shimmering pair of Gucci. He suddenly seemed weak, feeble and defeated. “They are for Rs 7,700,” he whined imploringly and slowly put them away.
“And what about these?” I trilled at a glitzy Versace, glittering invitingly, each dazzling white stone at the slender stem, twinkling mischievously.
“Rs 10,500!” he croaked, staring down at the haute eye wear, scattered like the wounded in a battlefield.
“You accept credit cards?” I sang merrily, thumping one in his frozen, incredulous fingers, and snatching the gleaming black leather case and the encashed card, sailed out of the stunned room.
The next day I returned to refresh my shopping skills with an eager friend. The noisy young man was nowhere to be seen.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
I'M OKAY, NOT YOU
BY ARUN CHITNIS
My valued friend, I am complete
Don't add to me, or take away
You, who sit in judgment's seat
On behalf of the moral elite
And think you know a better way.
There've been a thousand instances
I've faced the Critic's Crew
I've heard each kind of remonstrance
And faced each disapproving glance
Now show me something new…
Don't ask me what I think of you
I'd only spoil your day
It's sad, of course - your hot wind blew
When I was trying to stay cool
But hot wind finally blows away.
Hell is full of folks like you
Each one has cursed and died
Go on and curse - there're blessings too
Maybe you should learn a few
Invest a bit on Heaven's side……
Let's thank God for each point of view
This world would be a bore
If we resolved our differences
And united in our nothingness
To agree for evermore…
My valued friend, I am complete
Don't add to me, or take away
You, who sit in judgment's seat
On behalf of the moral elite
And think you know a better way.
There've been a thousand instances
I've faced the Critic's Crew
I've heard each kind of remonstrance
And faced each disapproving glance
Now show me something new…
Don't ask me what I think of you
I'd only spoil your day
It's sad, of course - your hot wind blew
When I was trying to stay cool
But hot wind finally blows away.
Hell is full of folks like you
Each one has cursed and died
Go on and curse - there're blessings too
Maybe you should learn a few
Invest a bit on Heaven's side……
Let's thank God for each point of view
This world would be a bore
If we resolved our differences
And united in our nothingness
To agree for evermore…
FASHION IS IN FASHION
BY KAVITA KANE
Fashion shows are getting to be fashion statements. Very ‘fashionable’ to throw a fashion show whether it’s New Year’s, a sit-down dinner for fifty, a gala launch of a restaurant, a hair salon or even your six-year-old’s birthday party! “Rea simply insisted that she wanted one!” Rea’s mom simpers beautifully,“just like the ones on FTV! And for three whole days, I have been going crazy buying all those teeniest outfits for the dear girls! Please do send your kids for the practice session, daily from five to six till the 12th of Feb - the Big Day!”
Having seen fashion shows suitably at close quarters, I was all too aware of how incredibly punishing the ‘practice sessions’ could be and I wilted at the thought of those little kids suffering that one-hour agony for another ten days to come. That I was wrong would be an understatement. They did return home tired - but very happy - eagerly waiting for school to get over the next day to dash across to Rea’s house for a repeat of the strutting round! Wanting badly to ban this event, or better, veto the girls from attending the ‘fashion-show’ birthday party altogether, I, instead, had to curl my fingers into angry fists which I would have loved to flail furiously on the silly head of Rea’s mom!
A fitness club was celebrating its fifth year of healthy existence. Paying a perfunctory visit as the most irregular member of the venerated ‘gym’, I agonised through three long, self-congratulatory speeches, a winding prize-giving ceremony (for Best Physique and Flat Abs!) and last, and by far, the worst – a shuddering-awful fashion show!! “Wouldn’t like to find our daughters wearing such clothes, would you?” fiercely whispered the proprietress of the health club-in-celebration, a genteel German lady who could not help grimacing each time she saw the young girls flash the soaring hemlines and plunging necklines. I wore a similar, slightly more exaggerated, expression the remainder of the evening.
How hot the haute happening is, is decided by the wannabes and the will-bes. Procuring an invitation for such a soirée is an art now finely masterminded by many, if not most. From beseeching to blunt to blasé, as the gracious host, you have an ample choice to refuse all – but for the inveterate show-crashers, kissing-so touchingly in-the-air the same faces they brushed cheeks with, four times last week!
A collective hysteria, meanwhile, echoes loudly through the schmoozing pecking order where the Lakme Fashion week becomes a national phenomenon, more celebrated and talked about than the Republic Day parade!
Fashion shows are getting to be fashion statements. Very ‘fashionable’ to throw a fashion show whether it’s New Year’s, a sit-down dinner for fifty, a gala launch of a restaurant, a hair salon or even your six-year-old’s birthday party! “Rea simply insisted that she wanted one!” Rea’s mom simpers beautifully,“just like the ones on FTV! And for three whole days, I have been going crazy buying all those teeniest outfits for the dear girls! Please do send your kids for the practice session, daily from five to six till the 12th of Feb - the Big Day!”
Having seen fashion shows suitably at close quarters, I was all too aware of how incredibly punishing the ‘practice sessions’ could be and I wilted at the thought of those little kids suffering that one-hour agony for another ten days to come. That I was wrong would be an understatement. They did return home tired - but very happy - eagerly waiting for school to get over the next day to dash across to Rea’s house for a repeat of the strutting round! Wanting badly to ban this event, or better, veto the girls from attending the ‘fashion-show’ birthday party altogether, I, instead, had to curl my fingers into angry fists which I would have loved to flail furiously on the silly head of Rea’s mom!
A fitness club was celebrating its fifth year of healthy existence. Paying a perfunctory visit as the most irregular member of the venerated ‘gym’, I agonised through three long, self-congratulatory speeches, a winding prize-giving ceremony (for Best Physique and Flat Abs!) and last, and by far, the worst – a shuddering-awful fashion show!! “Wouldn’t like to find our daughters wearing such clothes, would you?” fiercely whispered the proprietress of the health club-in-celebration, a genteel German lady who could not help grimacing each time she saw the young girls flash the soaring hemlines and plunging necklines. I wore a similar, slightly more exaggerated, expression the remainder of the evening.
How hot the haute happening is, is decided by the wannabes and the will-bes. Procuring an invitation for such a soirée is an art now finely masterminded by many, if not most. From beseeching to blunt to blasé, as the gracious host, you have an ample choice to refuse all – but for the inveterate show-crashers, kissing-so touchingly in-the-air the same faces they brushed cheeks with, four times last week!
A collective hysteria, meanwhile, echoes loudly through the schmoozing pecking order where the Lakme Fashion week becomes a national phenomenon, more celebrated and talked about than the Republic Day parade!
