Slum-dogs

As I write this, the Slum-dog Millionaire team are in the city to inaugurate a fast-food outlet. Last week they were in another city, for the opening of another show-room. I feel happy for these 'slum-dogs'- as they are popularly known, esp. the real slum-kids Azhar and Rubina .They are having a great time.But I cant help thinking -just imagine - what if such a movie was never made ? Or just imagine what was their situation one or two years ago ? Or just imagine the thousands who still live in the slums in wretched conditions ? One feels indepted to a film-maker such as Danny Boyle for giving them a new respectablity .
I hope that more 'slum-dogs' will emerge from obscurity and deprivation - especially in a land where oppurtunities and accolodes are the monopoly of a privilaged few.

creativity

Continueing with Tagore's selected letters, the sensitive young poet describe to his niece about an artist's frustration and craving for recognition.
Cuttack,Feb.1892

I maintain that until we can achieve something we should live incognito.So long as we are fit only for condescension from others, how can we make a show of our true selves in front of them ? When we have established some position in the world, and had a share in shaping its course , then we can meet it with a frank face. Till then let us keep in the background, remain
silent, and do our own work.
Our countrymen hold the opposite view: Whatever work is backstage or private they deem insignificant. The more transient and vainglorious the task in hand, the better they like it. Ours is truly a God-forsaken land. To hold on to the strength of will to do is so difficult here. One gets no real assistance. There is no one for miles and miles around whose conversation might inject one with vitality. No one is thinking, feeling or working. Of genuine striving no one has experience; not a single mature human being is to be found. Everyone moves about like ghosts. They eat and drink, do their office work, sleep and smoke, and chatter nonsensically.When they touch upon emotion they grow sentimental, when they reason they are childish. One yearns for the company of a full-blooded, sturdy, and capable personality, instead of these insubstantial
creatures that flit about, unattached to the world.
And so the hours pass. Now it is late afternoon. It is not yet cold, and as I look out the sun pours
down.

from book: Selected Letters of Tagore

edited & translated by: Krishna Dutta/Andrew Robinson

Diana King

Title: Diana King - L-L-L-L-Lies lyrics
Artist: Diana King Lyrics

Oh why, oh why, oh why,
You tell me l-l-l-lies
Never t-t-t-t-think
That I woulda re-a-li-a-li-a-lize
Things you say-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay
Will make you fay-ay-ay-ade away
So b-b-b-bye-bye-bye-bye(goodbye)

12 o'clock last night in a club
U an a girl do de rub-a-dub-dub
Short black dress and long curly hair
Don't deny it cause I saw you dere
Step 1 mi did dede when you giv her di line
Step 2 mi did dede when you looked so sincere
Step 3 mi did dede when you hold her close and
Tell her everything dat she waah fe fear
Why you play those games,
Those g-g-g-games with me
Oh,oh,oh,oh,no,no,no,no,no.......
Oh why,oh why,oh why,
You tell me l-l-l-lies
Never t-t-t-t-t-think
That I woulda re-a-li-a-li-a-lize
Things you say-ay-ay-ay-ay
Will make you fay-ay-ayay-ade away
So b-b-b-b-bye-bye-bye-bye
B-b-b-b-bye-bye-bye(goodbye)

12 o'clock in a de afternoon
U come around wit di same old tune
Gwan on an on like say everything fine
When all di time me know sey a lie,you did a lie
Step 1 me did dede when u give her de kiss
Step 2 mi two eyes as me witness
Step 3 giv mi mi keys and exit please
Your day done so u better move on
Why you play those games
Those g-g-g-games with me
Oh,oh,oh,oh,no.No.No.No,no,no....
Oh why,oh why,oh why....

C.L.R James

Reknowned scholar and cricket-historian Ramachandra Guha writes in The HINDU Daily and tells us why "Beyond A Boundary" is often reputed as the best book written on sports if not cricket.

Born in the Trinidadian village of Tunapuna in 1901 , C.L.R James was educated on the pitches of the Queen's Park Oval in Port of Spain and, more formally, in the Queen's Royal College. After school, he worked as a teacher and critic. In 1930 he travelled to England at the invitation of his friend Learie Constantine, then playing as a professional in the Lancashire Leagues. He was carrying with him the manuscript of his first book, The Case for West Indian Self-Government. The book was published in 1932 by Leonard and Virginia Woolf at the Hogarth Press. The next year appeared Constantine's autobiography, Cricket and I, a work that, if not exactly ghosted, was guided and put into proper shape by James.
At this time, James also worked as a cricket correspondent for the Manchester Guardian. In the winters he studied history and Marxism. These endeavours resulted, in 1938, in the publication of his book The Black Jacobins, a brilliant analysis of a successful slave revolt that took place in Haiti towards the end of the 18th Century. In the same year James went to the United States, where he organised Black workers and catalysed Marxist groups through his speaking and writing. In 1953, at the height of the McCarthyist "Red Scare", he was deported for his views, but appealed against the order. While the case was being heard he was in an internment camp on Ellis Island, working on a book on Hermann Melville.

James lost his case, and returned to England. He began watching and writing about cricket once more, and helped that other great West Indian cricketing pioneer, George Headley, to put together his memoirs. In 1958, James was called back to Trinidad. Here, as the editor of the The Nation newspaper, he played a critical role in the campaign to have Frank Worrell chosen as the first Black captain of the West Indies. The job done, he came back to England, where he was based until his death in 1989.
James had been working on Beyond a Boundary all his life, but it was good that its eventual publication was delayed. For it finally came out in the summer of 1963, and was thus read and discussed in England at the same time as Frank Worrell's team was stylishly outplaying the home side in the Tests of that year. With justifiable pride, the author wrote to the West Indian manager that "as I see the book it is 12th man on your sides".
Beyond a Boundary is a work of history, a magisterial analysis of the role played by sport in the making of the modern world. It is also anthropology, an exploration of the impact of colour and class on the cricket field. It is comparative sociology, locating the West Indian experience in the light of Victorian England and the ancient Greeks. It is autobiography, an account of one man's lifelong engagement with the game of cricket. And it is literature, a piece of writing crafted with care and love, a work that captures with subtly all the moods of the human experience: happiness, humour, triumph, tragedy, and despair.
Like no other work I know, Beyond a Boundary beautifully brings together these different genres of literature and scholarship. I have read, and re-read, the book for its evocative portraits of West Indian cricketers, the immortals such as Headley and Constantine and the now forgotten local heroes such as George John and Wilton St. Hill. I have read it for its account of colonial cricket clubs obsessed with shades of white and black, for its analysis (still unequalled by any British writer) of what W. G. Grace meant to his Age, for its account of the Worrell campaign, and-not least-for its fine technical understanding of the game, its perfectly executed cameos of strokeful innings and hostile bowling spells.
Despite its periodic reprinting in the West, Beyond a Boundary remains a book difficult to get hold of. Not many copies, for good reason, get into the second-hand shops (who, having got one, would ever want to dispose of it?) The reader in search of a copy to own might try his luck on the Net.

courtesy: The Hindu
http://www.thehindu.com/lr/2008/01/06/stories/2008010650030200.htm

Modern Talking

You're My Heart, You're My Soul

Em Am
You're my heart, you're my soul,
D Em
I keep it shining everywhere I go.
\ Am
You're my heart, you're my soul,
D
I'll be holding you forever, stay with you together. ~ ~
Em Am
You're my heart, you're my soul,
D Em
yeah, a feeling that our love will grow.
\ Am
You're my heart, you're my soul,
D Em
that's the only thing I really know.

Em D
1. Deep in my heart, there's a fire, burning hard,
Em D
deep in my heart, there's desire for a start.
Am Em
I'm dying in emotion, it's my world in fantasy,
C Am D
I'm living in my, living in my dreams. + CHORUS

Em D
2. Let's close the door and believe my burning heart.
Em D
Feeling alright, come on, open up your heart.
Am Em
I'll keep the candles burning, let your body melt in mine,
C Am D
I'm living in my, living in my dreams. + CHORUS
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4IbPGxYWS_k

Birthday

I celebrated my birthday in a low-key manner with my few friends and well-wishers. The day was fine and everything went well on the occasion. I had no problem purchasing the birthday-cake, thanks to the newly launched brand called Reimann's. Usually I used to go to a pastry shop and wonder which one to pick. The confusion occurs when you have to consider personnel preferences with the tastes of others. This time I straight went to the Super-market and picked up a box of Reimann's chocolate cheese-cake. The cake turned out to be a big hit with the guests.

There was a time when I used to expect too much from this day. And if I couldn't make a big bash of it, I'd feel depressed. But now I have become more wiser. The less the expectations, more the better. I am usually influenced by the book I am reading. Currently it's Fyodor Dostoevsky's "The Idiot". There are a fair share of parties and get-togethers in this book and the deatailed description of it makes interesting reading. There is a laid-back and leisurely atmosphere in these parties which I fancy.The hosts and guests does not expect too much from it except for the sake of a get-together,enjoyment and merriment.

I know it's not easy to replicate 19-th century attitude in the 21-st century. After all time is a big factor now-adays. 'Time is money' is a popular adage. In any case, I am happy and more happy than any of the previous birthdays. I dont know whether it's due to change of attitude or change of fortunes. Infact it's one that often leads to the other. There was a time when I used to fume and fret over any adversity or set-backs. Perhaps due to Osho's influence and the effect of dynamic-meditation, resulted in change of outlook towards life. I now realised that happiness is a state of mind. You can constantly ponder over the misfortunes and lead a life an unhappy wretch; or you can think about the things you have and be happy,condented and thankfull about it.
So I would like to thankfull- to God/Providence/Almighty; to my parents - though they are n't in best terms with each other; to my sisters -who always sent me best of their cuisine despite their busy professional life; to my nieces and nephews- who always inspire me with new ideas; to my dog Tuffy - who plays the pomeranian/comedian of our family; to Osho ; to Dostoevsky ;to blogger; and last but not the least to all my friends and well-wishers without whom life would n't be so colourfull.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WauFkb4jmCI

H.G Wells

Excerpts » H.G. Wells » The Invisible Man » Chapter 9
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Pull yourself together," said the voice, "for you have to do the job I've chosen for you."
Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round.
"I've chosen you," said the voice. "You are the only man except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me -- and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently.
"But if you betray me," he said, "if you fail to do as I direct you -- " He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel's shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don't want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don't you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you -- just tell me what I got do to. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I'm most willing to do."
Chapter 14
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------XIV. AT PORT STOWE
"There's a story," said the mariner, fixing Mr. Marvel with an eye that was firm and deliberate; "there's a story about an Invisible Man, for instance."
Mr. Marvel pulled his mouth askew and scratched his cheek and felt his ears glowing. "What will they be writing next?" he asked faintly. "Ostria, or America?"
"Neither," said the mariner. "Here!"
"Lord!" said Mr. Marvel, starting.
"When I say here," said the mariner, to Mr. Marvel's intense relief, "I don't of course mean here in this place, I mean hereabouts."
"An Invisible Man!" said Mr. Marvel. "And what's he been up to?"
"Everything," said the mariner, controlling Marvel with his eye, and then amplifying: "Every Blessed Thing."
"I ain't seen a paper these four days," said Marvel.
"Iping's the place he started at," said the mariner.
"In-deed!" said Mr. Marvel.
"He started there. And where he came from, nobody don't seem to know. Here it is: Pe Culiar Story from Iping. And it says in this paper that the evidence is extraordinary strong -- extra-ordinary."
"Lord!" said Marvel.
"But then, it's a extra-ordinary story. There is a clergyman and a medical gent witnesses, -- saw 'im all right and proper -- or leastways didn't see 'im. He was staying, it says, at the Coach an' Horses, and no one don't seem to have been aware of his misfortune, it says, aware of his misfortune, until in an Altercation in the inn, it says, his bandages on his head was torn off. It was then ob-served that his head was invisible. Attempts were At Once made to secure him, but casting off his garments, it says, he succeeded in escaping, but not until after a desperate struggle, In Which he had inflicted serious injuries, it says, on our worthy and able constable, Mr. J. A. Jaffers. Pretty straight story, eigh? Names and everything."
"Lord!" said Mr. Marvel, looking nervously about him, trying to count the money in his pockets by his unaided sense of touch, and full of a strange and novel idea. "It sounds most astonishing."
"Don't it? Extra-ordinary, I call it. Never heard tell of Invisible Men before, I haven't, but nowadays one hears such a lot of extraordinary things -- that -- "
"That all he did?" asked Marvel, trying to seem at his ease.
"It's enough, ain't it?" said the Mariner.
"Didn't go Back by any chance?" asked Marvel. "Just escaped and that's all, eh?"
"All!" said the Mariner. "Why! -- ain't it enough?"
"Quite enough," said Marvel.
"I should think it was enough," said the Mariner. "I should think it was enough."
"He didn't have any pals -- it don't say he had any pals, does it?" asked Mr. Marvel, anxious.
"Ain't one of a sort enough for you?" asked the Mariner. "No, thank Heaven, as one might say, he didn't."
He nodded his head slowly. "It makes me regular uncomfortable, the bare thought of that chap running about the country! He is at present At Large, and from certain evidence it is supposed that he has -- taken -- took, I suppose they mean -- the road to Port Stowe. You see we're right in it! None of your American wonders, this time. And just think of the things he might do! Where'd you be, if he took a drop over and above, and had a fancy to go for you? Suppose he wants to rob -- who can prevent him? He can trespass, he can burgle, he could walk through a cordon of policemen as easy as me or you could give the slip to a blind man! Easier! For these here blind chaps hear uncommon sharp, I'm told. And where-ever there was liquor he fancied -- "
"He's got a tremenjous advantage, certainly," said Mr. Marvel. "And -- well."
"You're right," said the Mariner. "He has."
All this time Mr. Marvel had been glancing about him intently, listening for faint footfalls, trying to detect imperceptible movements. He seemed on the point of some great resolution. He coughed behind his hand.
He looked about him again, listened, bent towards the Mariner, and lowered his voice: "The fact of it is -- I happen -- to know just a thing or two about this Invisible Man. From private sources."
"Oh!" said the Mariner, interested. "You?"
"Yes," said Mr. Marvel. "Me."
"Indeed!" said the Mariner. "And may I ask -- "
"You'll be astonished," said Mr. Marvel behind his hand. "It's tremenjous."
"Indeed!" said the Mariner.
"The fact is," began Mr. Marvel eagerly in a confidential undertone. Suddenly his expression changed marvellously. "Ow!" he said. He rose stiffly in his seat. His face was eloquent of physical suffering. "Wow!" he said.
"What's up?" said the Mariner, concerned.
"Toothache," said Mr. Marvel, and put his hand to his ear. He caught hold of his books. "I must be getting on, I think," he said. He edged in a curious way along the seat away from his interlocutor. "But you was just agoing to tell me about this here Invisible Man!" protested the Mariner. Mr. Marvel seemed to consult with himself. "Hoax," said a voice. "It's a hoax," said Mr. Marvel.
"But it's in the paper," said the Mariner.
"Hoax all the same," said Marvel. "I know the chap that started the lie. There ain't no Invisible Man whatsoever -- Blimey."
"But how 'bout this paper? D'you mean to say -- ?"
"Not a word of it," said Marvel, stoutly.
The Mariner stared, paper in hand. Mr. Marvel jerkily faced about. "Wait a bit," said the Mariner, rising and speaking slowly, "D'you mean to say -- ?"
"I do," said Mr. Marvel.
"Then why did you let me go on and tell you all this blarsted stuff, then? What d'yer mean by letting a man make a fool of himself like that for? Eigh?"
Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks. The Mariner was suddenly very red indeed; he clenched his hands. "I been talking here this ten minutes," he said; "and you, you little pot-bellied, leathery-faced son of an old boot, couldn't have the elementary manners -- "
"Don't you come bandying words with me," said Mr. Marvel.
"Bandying words! I'm a jolly good mind -- "
"Come up," said a voice, and Mr. Marvel was suddenly whirled about and started marching off in a curious spasmodic manner. "You'd better move on," said the Mariner. "Who's moving on?" said Mr. Marvel. He was receding obliquely with a curious hurrying gait, with occasional violent jerks forward. Some way along the road he began a muttered monologue, protests and recriminations.
"Silly devil!" said the Mariner, legs wide apart, elbows akimbo, watching the receding figure. "I'll show you, you silly ass, -- hoaxing me!" It's here -- on the paper!"