Showing posts from April, 2009
American WifeBy Curtis SittenfeldThere is not a little voyeurism in the attraction this book holds. A thinly veiled imagining of the life of Laura Bush, one of the more popular First Ladies (always more popular than her husband) in America, American Wife chronicles the road to the White House of a quiet, book-ish librarian from middle America. Alice Lindgren is an only child, growing up in Wisconsin. She inherits a life-long love of books from her feisty grandmother who shapes her liberal attitude and in many ways leads her on the road to adulthood. And living in a small town where poverty wasn’t a stranger, develops in her an in-built compassion for those less privileged. Alice is definitely not a shoo-in for the wife of a spoiled rich kid with ambitions for the White House without any real abilities.Much like Laura, Alice is involved in a motor accident as a teenager where a boy she has a crush on is killed. Andrew’s death and her subsequent disastrous mistake leave life-long scars …
Dev DHindi cinema’s fascination for this Sarat Chandra novel is quite inexplicable if you have read the book (in my opinion, a painfully dragged out story of the life and destruction of a weak, sniveling man). But the umpteenth re-make of the story on celluloid leads me to believe there is something to the story that I have been missing.So Anurag Kashyap’s version of Devdas comes as a relief. At long last, I find the story interesting. Because here is at least a fresh take on quite a done-to-death tale. He has taken the core of it and set in contemporary times – the Bengali village becomes Chandigarh and the seedy by-lanes of Calcutta become Delhi’s Paharganj. Abhay Deol, the poster boy of the new wave of ‘multiplex cinema’ makes for a non-formulaic actor as do the two new faces playing Paro and Chanda. Chanda especially merits mention, for her very unusual beauty and the way she combines in a very Lolita way, innocence and worldliness. As befitting the times, this is a sexed-up, drug…

There is a room in my headThe door is whimsical and moodyThe key keeps getting lostAnd getting in is usually serendipity
I know it’s a parallel world, like Pullman’sThings happen there that do not hereBeggars speak to me as do kingsBored housewives, songwriters past their prime
They tell me their stories, show me their woundsLaugh with me, tell me preposterous liesI see through them in that roomI know them, like God knows his creatures
The colours are deeper there, vivid, blown upThe voices are clear, there is no noise to drown them outI love those stories, love that I can hear themLove that I can live in hope of one day telling them
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------I am suddenly tired of wordsTired of hoping against hopeThey will yield some importYield resonance with something deep
I scramble around for the right onesDoubtful of ever finding themTired of forever playing gamesHide-and-seek, catch-me-if-you-can
I am slowly growing ol…