I admit it. It was the title that caught my eye and led me to read the story in its entirety. A Lazy Romance by Bernard Edward J. Capes is my second entry for 100 Shots of Short. You can find the link to the story here.

The story is about a writer who has moved to King’s Cobb to try to write a novel but is currently suffering from a writer’s block. He blames this on two things – the sound of the sea and his treatment at the hands of his landlady – Miss Whiffle. While suffering from boredom and frustration at not being able to do what he had set out for, he hears a conversation between two lovers who are in the midst of breaking up. His curiosity is titillated and he begins to follow their affair with interest as it is only occurrence of some excitement and novelty in an otherwise sleepy location. The pair try to pretend to not care when they are forced to meet socially,but, as the writer notes, the girl carries it off with flying colours while the boy is left mortified at these encounters. The lovers however do get together at the end of the tale after the girl rescues the boy from a collapsed building.

While the story is not too captivating, the language used by the writer definitely is. It pulls one in from the first line of the story and keeps you riveted through out on the plot, albeit a weak one. His use of metaphors and similes left me a little dazed and I have to confess, I had to look up a few terms (which referred to the seaside) in an online dictionary to get the picture. Usually,when I am forced to do this, I lose interest in the narration, but this was a different matter and had me trying to rush back to the story as soon as I got the gist of what the writer was referring to.

Overall, the story is rated 4/5 in spite of a weak plot. And this is all due to the phraseology throughout the story and the writer’s gift for keeping the reader interested till the last word.

There are so many favourite quotes in this story for me and it was difficult to pick out the three best (instead of the one favourite quote that I decided to stick to for every story, this just deserved a mention of at least three quotes).

1. I wished to feel the comparative importance of the individual, which one cannot do in crowded colonies. I coveted surroundings that should be primitive–an atmosphere in which my thoughts could speak to me coherent.

2. The noise of the waters got into my brain and stayed there. It turned everything else out–sleep, thought, faith, hope, and charity. From that first awakening my skull was a mere globe of stagnant fluid, for any disease germs that listed to propagate in.

3. I think I was inclined to be hard on her. I have felt the same antagonism many times towards beauty that was unattainable by me. For she was richly pretty, without doubt.

“Of Mice and Men” is a story written by John Steinbeck. I guess it is more of a short novel rather than a short story, but it should qualify for this. The characters – Lennie and George are wheat buckers and hire themselves out on farms to help out. Their dream is to one day have land of their own, a cottage where they can grow vegetables, collect and sell eggs and as Lennie puts it – “to feed rabbits”.

Highly controversial for its perceived promotion of euthanasia and anti-business vein and “vulgarity”shown by the conversations between the characters, it features in the American Library Association’s list of ‘The Most Challenged Books of 21st Century’.

The story itself is tragic, with the big dumb Lennie committing murder (without understanding what he was doing) and being shot by his friend who kills the big man out of love and mercy. Characters such as Slim – a silent strong farm hand, Curly – the owner’s son, Candy – an old man who wants to throw in his lot with George and Lennie and join them on the piece of land they plan to buy are well-developed in the story. Curly’s wife is referred to just in that term and is symbolic of the place of importance given to a woman in the 1930’s in a ranch as well as the danger she presented to Lennie. Symbolism is rife through out the story especially the treatment meted out to an old dog who was Candy’s companion. A black man who helps on the ranch is threatened by Curly’s wife and the threats as well as certain comments such as “you cannot enter a black man’s room” show the lack of freedom, justice or recognition given to any coloured ranch hand.

The story shows the dreams of these men and the impossibility of them escaping from the reality around.

It is heart-breaking to read and needless to say, I had to switch to a Calvin and Hobbes to lighten my mood. While I did not find an online version of the story, I would rate it around 3/5.

Favourite Quote:

“S’pose you didn’t have nobody. S’pose you couldn’t go into the bunk house and play rummy ’cause you was black. How’d you like that? S’pose you had to sit out here an’ read books. Sure you could play horseshoes till it got dark, but then you got to read books. Books ain’t no good. A guy needs somebody – to be near him. A guy goes nuts if he ain’t got nobody. Don’t make no difference who the guy is, long’s he’s with you. I tell ya, I tell ya a guy gets too lonely an’ he gets sick”

For One Single Impression on “Junction”: Dedicated to those we ignore and refuse to feed;

She walked on

Unnoticed;

Ignored

By the crowds;

A starving woman

With nothing

But ribs and bones;

People rushed past

Trying to not breathe in

The smell of decay

Surrounding her;

Eyes withdrawn

From sores

That were denied treatment

For lack of a few rupees;

A train whistling past;

A scream;

Tears from onlookers;

No one cried

While she lived.

I am taking up the 100 Shots of Short challenge – the challenge is to read a 100 short stories. Details are available here.

Will post reviews of the stories as soon as I can.

Last week was not an easy one at home – My mother-in-law was diagnosed with typhoid, my father-in-law had a fall from a ladder and had to submit his face to the scalpel of a plastic surgeon and I just fell victim to the unglamourous fever. The result, the Man was, for the first time in his life, in charge of the kitchen.

As if this was not sufficient to throw me into a panic, he called in re-inforcements which arrived promptly -  his brother who had totally spent about ah hour or so in a kitchen some ten years ago.

Morning saw us all gamely limp across to the sofa in the living room to watch the two brothers cook breakfast. My mother-in-law’s face reflected the anguish she felt at watching her two sons actually cook, mine reflected anguish too. My kitchen would never be the same, I was imagining the grime and grease I would find once I could get off the bed, the two men being united in their belief that good food can be cooked only by deep frying every single ingredient.

Thankfully, they decided to settle on the relatively healthier Idli for breakfast that day.

“What do we do first?”

“You buy some idli batter from the store”, I screamed from the sofa, my sore throat preventing me from normal talking.

“Can’t we just add some rice and stuff and make it here?”, a hassled husband calls from the kitchen. I can hear the vessels falling around and am sure I heard a few curses as well.

“No. Buy it.”

They buy the batter and get back home.

“Next?”

“Pour some oil on the idli plates”

“All right! Now we will show you how it should be done!”

“Nooooooooooooo. Just a pinch on each plate to spread it. You are not frying the stuff, you have to steam it!”

“Now, pour some water into the idli cooker and place the plates gently in it”

“Why do you need water? Are you sure you are giving us the right instructions? You just want us to look bad!”

“You have to steam it. Steam needs water”

“I don’t believe it. I am checking with mum”

Comes back, grunts and pours water into the cooker and places the idli plates on the second try. The first try has resulted in batter all over his shirt and the floor, but I don’t have the heart to say anything seeing his proud grin on getting it right.

“Let it steam for about fifteen minutes and then switch it off”

After fifteen minutes (he times it with a stop watch);

“Are these idlis? It still looks like batter to me”

Sigh!

“Did you remember to turn on the gas?”

!!!

After breakfast, “You know I never know what the fuss is all about when it comes to cooking. We have never cooked and still the idlis are perfect, fluffy and soft”

“The idlis are good because of the batter”

“Ha! You are just jealous, scared that we have caught you out. Cooking is easy!”

We had idlis for three days running. Cooking, he found, was not as easy as it looked.

And I spent the better part of saturday just cleaning my kitchen.

P.S I have just realised this is my 400th post in blogdom.

Yes, yes, I know.

I am here to announce yet another poetry meet which I will not be able to attend.

It is a sad thought, but I think I will just be able to get through the heart break.

The Madras-Chennai Local is for budding poets or those who just enjoy poetry to meet up near Besant Nagar on December 22 (it’s tomorrow) and listen to some wonderful poetry reading.

For more details, visit Sharanya’s blog via this link: http://sharanyamanivannan.wordpress.com/2009/12/19/the-madras-chennai-local-december-2009-edition/

And spread the word, selfish people, do not keep it all to yourselves.

I have had a rather “active” (for want of another word) past; I have met certain shady characters (note shady, not exciting) as characters are classified by the Indian middle class – defined as lousy drunks who also are completely unfaithful to their spouses and generally cause chaos, confusion and a few fist fights where-ever they are. I never got to meet any interesting shady characters – I would have loved to sit at a table with a gangster and his moll, debate politics with any leading politician or just discuss religion with the pseudo-saints who love to live the good life while advocating a life of penury as salvation to the ignorant masses.

I left these behind (not at all reluctantly, I might add) when I got married. The Man just does not stand for what he calls “nonsensical behaviour” and I am afraid that I sometimes indulge in such by meeting said shady characters, if only to put in my two words of advice (totally uncared or unasked for) trying to reason them out of infidelity (again a sour point with the Man who thinks I meddle in affairs not my own, but hey, I am a woman, it is all to do with hormones as I keep explaining).

One said character refused to change, I remember turning him down now and then when he would get bored of searching for another victim and would try to cop out the easy way, viz., turning to any other women in the vicinity, citing his marriage to him. And he asked me one question that still has me stumped:

“It is I who am being unfaithful and I should be the one who feels guilty about it. Why should you give a damn about whether I am in a relationship or not? It’s not like I am suggesting anything other than a little bit of fun?”

The question had me stumped because I could not explain to him a certain code that we women live by (or try to at any rate) – Thou shalt not covet the man of another woman. It is a simple rule that just cannot be broken. Many men live with the corollary of this rule and I salute them for that. But how do you explain it to these prowlers who are ready to leap onto their next prey with practised ease and charm. Perhaps the worst part of this is when said prowler is charming and intelligent – a heady mix to any smart woman, for the Lord knows, such men are rare gems.

I tried post this to stay away from the “gentleman” (and for various other reasons not to be entered into right now) and recently learnt that he was planning  a visit to India and wanted to catch up. How do you tell the person politely that you would rather not? The relationship we have had so far has been mutually destructive (he tries, I spurn, we spew a few words at each other, taunt each other on our blogs, then get back to some discussions and get back to respecting each other and so on) and some of my best writing has been done during these “quarrels” (which is not saying much judging by a slipping standard as I already have ranted about in a previous post). A poet told me that a broken heart is a must for good poetry, perhaps it is the same of a rivalry between two people who just love to match wits.

We duel, dance around each other, fence and then retreat, satisfied with a battle fought well by both sides and part, if not friends, atleast, mildly tolerant of each other. I replied that I would be sadly out of town (which is true) and now wonder why I am tempted once more to meet the man in question. I know what would transpire, I believe I can write the script down to the last word, perhaps it is the adrenaline rush that I miss, of conversing with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, thrusting at each other, trying to penetrate through our defenses, not wanting to wound each other but to just give a nick or so. We are the lion and the gazelle, one fleet of foot, the other soft and stalking.

I do miss those fencing exercises we had but not to such an extent that I am lost to the fact that I have become a much better person post them. I have stopped judging people who are false to their partners and instead just smile at them and let them know that I have certain boundaries that I want my acquaintances to respect. And at times, if someone wants to test them, I would prefer it to be tested by a damn good wit. You see, there is just such a high standard he has set and I would like to stick to it.

I was an avid reader (note the “was”?) a long time ago, perhaps about ten to fifteen years back.

People who have met me since then may be shocked at the past tense and may want to argue on it, but if you knew me when I was still in my school, literally burning the bathroom light at 1 AM to try and finish a book, you would agree with the tense usage.

The reduction in both quality and quantity of books I read directly correlated with my social life (or the appearance of one during college). And as I pretended to be too busy to read, I found myself stuck with books I considered an “easy read”, which translated into “books that do not require me to think at all”. And as I got used to these books, I began to get lazy and found myself buying them by the dozen and devouring them.

The expected outcome of course is that while I have read a lot these last ten years, I am definitely not well-read. The result of such poor taste in reading is now reflected in my writing; times were when I was proud of what I had penned down, now, I cringe most of the time when I re-read any articles or poetry I may have written.

As a friend put it to me last month, ” What the hell happened to you? You used to write so well!”

She has been the only honest critic so far of my work, perhaps that is because she actually used to read stuff I wrote back at school when we were angsty teens trying to vent our frustrations through the written word. On reflection, I think she was still polite in her review, I would have brought out the bricks and bats and given her a sound trashing if our positions were reversed.

The biggest problem still remains, time. I blame my busy schedule for anything and everything, so much so that if I stop breathing one fine day, I would most probably say it was because I was too busy working to remember to take a breath in. Her reviews of the short-stories she has been reading made me wish for more time. And then I realised that my biggest problem is not lack of time, it is laziness. I have gotten too lazy to read anymore, which is why I settle for articles and books that I would prefer to consign to the back of my bookshelves and never look at a second time.

I have decided to try and get out of this rut I have got into and what better time to start than right away. I am picking up a John Steinbeck that I had bought a year  ago today and will start reading. I will be rejoicing in going back home after ten long years for home is where my heart was all these years. I just went wandering and now am looking forward to putting my legs up in front of a hearth and reading my heart out.

“Do you believe in God?”

“Depends. What’s in it for me?”

No, seriously.

If I am to believe in an all-powerful Being who is responsible for every thing that happens, at least create Him with a sense of humour.

And if I do not benefit because of any belief, I would rather believe in the five headed serpent that lives behind my house.

I am not an atheist, I am just waiting for a good reason to believe in God.

She smiled at me, breathless as she pirouted by. She stopped, looked at me and winked.

A hug, a laugh and a quick peck.

I turned to her even as she embraced me from behind and we giggled.

A quick laugh and a whisper as she tugged at my hand. I followed with an apology to my partner for the night.

It was a great night to turn lesbian.

We left the lecher behind, hoots of laughter escaping us as we left knowing we had given him a story to talk about for the rest of his life.

“I found a woman at the party, she found one too!”