vaguery in the field

It has rained in Ahmedabad for nearly a whole day, withonly a one hour gap in the middle. It has been most lovely. Splooshed about all morning and slept all afternoon. Drove across the waterlogged city in the evening and returned to Doctor Who at night. Now that I am no longer alone at home I can watch these at night (otherwise too spooky).

Meanwhile I am debating the wisdom of having my hair rebonded. I invite comments from any of you who have had this done- or considered it.

Additionally I wish to complain about the rigours of having to manage a large household (3 people) on my own. This means buying food and water, instructing the cook about what to cook when, and dealing with grocers, laundry women, gardeners and a whole host of other people who float in and float out. The thing about living inside an institutes campus is that nearly everything comes pre-organised. There are minions to help with everything, and helpful aunties to call when in doubt. And despite how easy everything should be its driving me mad.

One more week of planning menus and I shall be climbing the walls. I need to leave before I totally forget what it is like to go to work everyday. To have to make deadlines instead of thinking about how the vegetables are rubbery during the rains and that its not a good time to eat palak.

irritation

i do not like being asked about when i plan to get narried. it annoys me further i am asked about my age. and it is intolerable when i am told that at 24 i have become 'pakki' in my ways- too old and hardened to be fashioned into the sort of person that a husband might want. i do not think that i was compliant at any age- but i absolutely refuse to be told off for the years stacking up. i defy you to find me one person who has grown younger as time passes,

and so being in ahmedabad drives me mad slowly.

so i am 24 and not possessed of child or husband. and this does not mean that my life is empty. now shoo. go away.

The Harmony Silk Factory

I can see this being made into one of those really lovely glossy world war two movies. With the Malaysian version of Keira Knightley playing Snow. It would be the sort that might be Oscar nominated for cinematography, costume, music and supporting actor. It would be the sort of movie with one really involved sex scene and long pauses in conversation, during which characters exchange meaningful glances while sitting around a breakfast table while servants shuffle in the background. You know the kind I mean.

I liked the first third of the book. When it seemed to be like the boy was in search of his mother. I liked the second part of the book when the father was established as not so much of a monster after all. But I got got a bit tired of the third narrator's voice, when it became clear that it was still a story about a boy hunting for his father (another one- yawn). I am tired of books about boys hunting for fathers. I am tired of boys who are hunting for their fathers. Mothers are important too. More boys should be hunting for their mothers.

Also, while I got the whole, pastel-watercolour approach to detail that Aw seemed to be doing I would have liked a little more explanation for why people do things. For example- this is a really wealthy family. It wasn't ok for them to allow their daughter out with just anyone. Now that she's married they send her off on a trip, in a boat with no servants, with no chaperone or maid, to an island retreat with no constructed shelter on it? Where they have to go hunting for food and cook it on their own- two Englishmen, one Japanese spy and two of the richest locals in this little Malaysian outpost. Sounds very fishy.

Aside from the obvious logical loopholes, of which there was more than one, I felt like the book was an anaemic version of a better draft, that must be lying around somewhere. If only in Tash Aw's head. It also seemed to draw a lot from the work of Amitav Ghosh, and tryig to be magical in the same way. It comes sniffingly close.

Bah

I can't remember the last time someone used the word chick in my presence as if it was legitimate word, to be used in public spaces without meaning to be ironic about it.

Why is femininity so often measured in the length of one's hair? This drives me crazy. And yet I wouldn't dare to brave my multifarious aunts and just chop the damn stuff off.

The resident cat is looking increasingly sharp about the ears. Does that happen to cats? Can their ears get pointier with age?