there are very few things that make me want to close my eyes and give in to overpowering beauty
it may be something from a book or a poem:
Kahlil Gibran writing about death
William Golding in the closing lines of Lord of the flies
Samuel Shem in that final breathless nonstop flourish in House of God
it may be music:
Barber's adagio for strings
Tracy Chapman - the most beautiful and perfect voice ever
the twisting and turning soundscapes brought to life by Counting Crows
rarely it may be a movie:
that final scene from Edward Scissorhands
Donny Darko, especially when Gary Jules sings in the background
OR
what I saw today, arguably the best movie I have seen in a long time:
Pan's Labyrinth
I won't spoil it for anyone
but it is so perfect and beautiful and fantastic and imaginative...
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
rrrespect maan...
Lines from books that are just so perfect that I wish I could have written them (I hope this list will get longer with time):
''So I got older, till being grown was no new thing but just ordinary''
- Peevay, in Matthew Kneale's 'English Passengers'
''So I got older, till being grown was no new thing but just ordinary''
- Peevay, in Matthew Kneale's 'English Passengers'
Monday, December 11, 2006
Saying it as it is
'I have, for years believed that a man should be thoroughly educated or not at all. The middle way ... produces anonymous competent mediocrity, enslaved to technology and efficiency'
- Neville Cardus (the greatest cricket writer in history)
I think I should elaborate on this. There seems to be the danger of reading this out of context which may seem insufferably snobbish.
When I came across this, I felt it summed up a problem that I am very concerned about and which is likely to have a far reaching knock-on effect on society. These lines, written more than half a century ago seemed uncannily prophetic - about the current state of medical education.
- Neville Cardus (the greatest cricket writer in history)
I think I should elaborate on this. There seems to be the danger of reading this out of context which may seem insufferably snobbish.
When I came across this, I felt it summed up a problem that I am very concerned about and which is likely to have a far reaching knock-on effect on society. These lines, written more than half a century ago seemed uncannily prophetic - about the current state of medical education.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
falls, scabs and scary balls
I think I can summarise my childhood physical activity in to the above phrase.
I was never good at any sport, ever in my life - not even going down a children's slide. For inexplicable reasons, I would somehow manage to hurt myself and walk around like a sacrificial lamb who has been briefed regarding his grim future (yes, ok, my mother should not have paid so much attention). Take the slide for instance. I remember going to Lion's park in Calicut and getting stuck on the slide (usually I just freeze up at the top and gingerly go back down the steps, but that day there was one of those scary looking boys - freckles, missing front tooth, evil snigger, you know the type - breathing down my neck, so I had to at least pretend that I was planning to go down the slide in the near future). I remember lying down on the slide (when I sat up, the ground looked too far away and the slide looked too steep) and hoping for the best.
The slide was one of those fashionably curved ones and with me lying down, which the poor guy who designed the slide had not anticipated, I got stuck in the curve. So there I was, lying down on the slide, stuck about 2 feet from the ground while the boys behind me were getting more and more impatient by the minute. As I had closed my eyes at the point of departure, it didn't dawn on me till a few moments later that I had not touched the ground and that the ordeal was not over yet. I also realised that I did not have any momentum left to make my way down.
I calmly weighed up the options in my mind:
1. try and keep my eyes open for longer, look around me (and maybe even look down) and decide whether:
a. I should jerk myself loose by wiggling my bum
b. I should try to sit up and move down the slide
c. I should swing my leg over the side and chance a fall (yeah right!)
OR
2. listen to the advice +/- threats from the impatient boys waiting behind me such as:
a. 'curl up into a ball so that I can kick you down the slide' (very kind, but please don't trouble yourself)
b. 'stand up and run down the slide' (really guys, if I could do that, would I get stuck in the first place? honestly!)
c. 'get out of the way or I'll kick your head in' (hmm... that was clear enough)
OR
3. cling on to the sides of the slide, screw my eyes tight and cry out at the top of my voice till someone 'responsible' comes running
Strangely enough option 3 seemed the most sensible thing to do, so I did not waste any more time.
The end result was:
1. the boys above got frustrated and jumped on to the slide so that three of them bounced off my head, two plunged to the ground straight off the curve while the third rolled over me and cannonballed down the slide
2. I donated a significant portion of the skin from my palms and forearms to the slide trying to hold on for dear life
3. I lost one shoe and half my shirt pocket
4. Being of reputable character and of a friendly neighbourly disposition, the slide repayed my generosity in full, so that the whole of my back had a respectable coating of the slate grey top layer of the slide to replace the skin I had lost
The amazing thing was, all of this took no more than 48 seconds.
Like I said, it is all inexplicable
So I never bothered to attempt any sport whatsoever, but as my friends all liked sports, I HAD to go out and play in the evenings. It was only later (when we bought a TV) that I realised that there is no 'back goalie' in football or 'second wicky' in cricket. The truth was, knowing how 'good' I was at sports, my friends had devised a way of making me useful.
During a typical evening's play I would:
1. retrieve the football after a goal has been scored. The goal post was usually the space between two big boulders and the top bar of the goal post was an imaginary line above the goal keeper's head which is deemed reachable by the oldest boy in the group. This meant that if a goal is scored, the ball would shoot off into the undergrowth and then it was upto me to retrieve it (back goalie)
OR
2. retrieve the cricket ball if it goes wide and is too far for the wicketkeeper to reach (second wicky)
I must say I cannot blame my friends, for all kinds of balls scared me. I used to field at mid-on once upon a time (when I first moved into the neighbourhood, before my friends knew me), but I remember turning around and running away when the ball went up in the air and then came down straight on top of me (i.e., a catch). The football being bigger, you can imagine my response.
Nowadays, I just don't bother. I am quite happy sitting in a corner and picking my scabs.
I was never good at any sport, ever in my life - not even going down a children's slide. For inexplicable reasons, I would somehow manage to hurt myself and walk around like a sacrificial lamb who has been briefed regarding his grim future (yes, ok, my mother should not have paid so much attention). Take the slide for instance. I remember going to Lion's park in Calicut and getting stuck on the slide (usually I just freeze up at the top and gingerly go back down the steps, but that day there was one of those scary looking boys - freckles, missing front tooth, evil snigger, you know the type - breathing down my neck, so I had to at least pretend that I was planning to go down the slide in the near future). I remember lying down on the slide (when I sat up, the ground looked too far away and the slide looked too steep) and hoping for the best.
The slide was one of those fashionably curved ones and with me lying down, which the poor guy who designed the slide had not anticipated, I got stuck in the curve. So there I was, lying down on the slide, stuck about 2 feet from the ground while the boys behind me were getting more and more impatient by the minute. As I had closed my eyes at the point of departure, it didn't dawn on me till a few moments later that I had not touched the ground and that the ordeal was not over yet. I also realised that I did not have any momentum left to make my way down.
I calmly weighed up the options in my mind:
1. try and keep my eyes open for longer, look around me (and maybe even look down) and decide whether:
a. I should jerk myself loose by wiggling my bum
b. I should try to sit up and move down the slide
c. I should swing my leg over the side and chance a fall (yeah right!)
OR
2. listen to the advice +/- threats from the impatient boys waiting behind me such as:
a. 'curl up into a ball so that I can kick you down the slide' (very kind, but please don't trouble yourself)
b. 'stand up and run down the slide' (really guys, if I could do that, would I get stuck in the first place? honestly!)
c. 'get out of the way or I'll kick your head in' (hmm... that was clear enough)
OR
3. cling on to the sides of the slide, screw my eyes tight and cry out at the top of my voice till someone 'responsible' comes running
Strangely enough option 3 seemed the most sensible thing to do, so I did not waste any more time.
The end result was:
1. the boys above got frustrated and jumped on to the slide so that three of them bounced off my head, two plunged to the ground straight off the curve while the third rolled over me and cannonballed down the slide
2. I donated a significant portion of the skin from my palms and forearms to the slide trying to hold on for dear life
3. I lost one shoe and half my shirt pocket
4. Being of reputable character and of a friendly neighbourly disposition, the slide repayed my generosity in full, so that the whole of my back had a respectable coating of the slate grey top layer of the slide to replace the skin I had lost
The amazing thing was, all of this took no more than 48 seconds.
Like I said, it is all inexplicable
So I never bothered to attempt any sport whatsoever, but as my friends all liked sports, I HAD to go out and play in the evenings. It was only later (when we bought a TV) that I realised that there is no 'back goalie' in football or 'second wicky' in cricket. The truth was, knowing how 'good' I was at sports, my friends had devised a way of making me useful.
During a typical evening's play I would:
1. retrieve the football after a goal has been scored. The goal post was usually the space between two big boulders and the top bar of the goal post was an imaginary line above the goal keeper's head which is deemed reachable by the oldest boy in the group. This meant that if a goal is scored, the ball would shoot off into the undergrowth and then it was upto me to retrieve it (back goalie)
OR
2. retrieve the cricket ball if it goes wide and is too far for the wicketkeeper to reach (second wicky)
I must say I cannot blame my friends, for all kinds of balls scared me. I used to field at mid-on once upon a time (when I first moved into the neighbourhood, before my friends knew me), but I remember turning around and running away when the ball went up in the air and then came down straight on top of me (i.e., a catch). The football being bigger, you can imagine my response.
Nowadays, I just don't bother. I am quite happy sitting in a corner and picking my scabs.
Friday, December 01, 2006
do indians dream of white terrorists?
Feeling quite bitter. I am trying my best to separate my ego from the whole issue, but it is easier said than done. Two things happened last week that has brought back the sense of unease I used to have a year or so ago.
1 AM on tuesday in Liverpool. My wife is on-call. There is a difficult case and she asks for senior help. One of her senior paediatric surgical colleagues, an Indian who also happens to be our friend is on his way to assist her. He stops at a traffic light when a police car pulls up beside him. The lady officer asks him to pull over and step out of the car. He complies and shows her his NHS ID card and explains that he is going to the children's hospital for an emergency surgery. Her only response is 'I am glad you are not operating on me'. He asks her why she wanted him to stop. She says it is because she saw that his car was beginning to move forward when the light was amber, a few seconds before it turned green. He apologizes and says that he did not do this intentionally. She starts walking around the car as if inspecting it. He offers to bring his car into the station the next day and reminds her that he is on his way to help in this surgery. At some point in the conversation he addresses her as 'madam' and she latches on to this. She says 'in my language madam is someone who runs a brothel'. He recognizes then that this whole incident has racial undertones. Quietly he apologizes again and says 'I am sorry I do not know your language as well as you do and I am sorry if I caused offence without intending to' (he has only been in the UK for about 12 years, so I guess he is still only starting to pick up this strange language). After about 45 minutes of this he is finally let off. He asks for a receipt as a record of the 'offence' he is supposed to have committed, but he is simply asked to go. In the meanwhile, my wife has asked one of her other senior colleagues (English) to help her who arrives in a few minutes and they finish the case. He says he was stopped on the way for speeding in a 30 mph zone, but was waved on when he flashed his NHS ID. After they finish the surgery, my wife meets her Indian colleague in the doctors' room when he tells her what happened and why he could not be there to help her. It is ironic that all of them were trying to help a two year old child (need I say English) survive.
The next day I am making my way from Liverpool to Leicester. It is a two hour train journey. From the station, I get on the hospital shuttle that takes me to my place of work free of charge (provided I have my NHS ID card). I have two pieces of luggage with me, my shoulder bag and another bigger one with all my laundry and my food (long story - I work in Leicester, but I have a house in Liverpool, which means I get to see my wife and do my laundry and do the cooking for the working week over the two days I spend at home in Liverpool). Anyway, the bus is packed, so I pop the big bag in the luggage rack and stand leaning on a nearby pole till the next stop. People get off and I get a place to sit, so I take my small bag with me and sit down, till I get to my hospital. As I make my way to the front of the bus to get down, I notice the commotion at the front. I hear a lady frantically point to my bag and say 'I saw this asian get on the bus with two bags from the station. He got off at the next stop, but only took one of the bags with him. This other one is here and it all looks very suspicious'. The driver (an Indian) tries to reassure her saying that he is positive that the 'asian' in question has not run off without taking his bag. The lady does not listen. She repeats 'I am telling you, I saw this guy get off without taking his bag. This is all very suspicious'. While this is going on, I quietly take my bag from the luggage rack and slip off the bus without turning back. My immediate response (not verbal, but in my mind): 'go on b****, judge everyone everywhere based on their skin colour'. Then I think more rationally and I accept the fact that I cannot blame her for being suspicious. After all, 'asians' have not been at their best behaviour recently in the UK. Nonetheless, how convenient that asians are the new bad guys, for it helps people to develop and nurture their latent racism. I wish people would think from a slightly different perspective. To an Indian in India, a German and an Irishman and an Englishman all look the same, so how would the Englishman feel if he is blamed for the Nazis and the IRA? What if someone walks up to him and says 'when will you apologize to us for the CIA torture centres and Guantanamo?' I can see him seething self righteously and saying: 'I am not American or Irish or German, can't you see I am English?'. Well, how does he expect the Indian in India to differentiate between them? They all look white!
The only difference is, the Englishman's story is hypothetical, where as the Indian's story is real. I hate terrorists even more than the English, because I am as likely to die if a bomb goes off (strangely enough explosives tend not to discriminate on skin colour) and the rest of the time, I am a suspect. How I wish there were non asian terrorists so that people understand that it is not just asians who are the bad guys. Really, I do sometimes dream of white terrorists.
1 AM on tuesday in Liverpool. My wife is on-call. There is a difficult case and she asks for senior help. One of her senior paediatric surgical colleagues, an Indian who also happens to be our friend is on his way to assist her. He stops at a traffic light when a police car pulls up beside him. The lady officer asks him to pull over and step out of the car. He complies and shows her his NHS ID card and explains that he is going to the children's hospital for an emergency surgery. Her only response is 'I am glad you are not operating on me'. He asks her why she wanted him to stop. She says it is because she saw that his car was beginning to move forward when the light was amber, a few seconds before it turned green. He apologizes and says that he did not do this intentionally. She starts walking around the car as if inspecting it. He offers to bring his car into the station the next day and reminds her that he is on his way to help in this surgery. At some point in the conversation he addresses her as 'madam' and she latches on to this. She says 'in my language madam is someone who runs a brothel'. He recognizes then that this whole incident has racial undertones. Quietly he apologizes again and says 'I am sorry I do not know your language as well as you do and I am sorry if I caused offence without intending to' (he has only been in the UK for about 12 years, so I guess he is still only starting to pick up this strange language). After about 45 minutes of this he is finally let off. He asks for a receipt as a record of the 'offence' he is supposed to have committed, but he is simply asked to go. In the meanwhile, my wife has asked one of her other senior colleagues (English) to help her who arrives in a few minutes and they finish the case. He says he was stopped on the way for speeding in a 30 mph zone, but was waved on when he flashed his NHS ID. After they finish the surgery, my wife meets her Indian colleague in the doctors' room when he tells her what happened and why he could not be there to help her. It is ironic that all of them were trying to help a two year old child (need I say English) survive.
The next day I am making my way from Liverpool to Leicester. It is a two hour train journey. From the station, I get on the hospital shuttle that takes me to my place of work free of charge (provided I have my NHS ID card). I have two pieces of luggage with me, my shoulder bag and another bigger one with all my laundry and my food (long story - I work in Leicester, but I have a house in Liverpool, which means I get to see my wife and do my laundry and do the cooking for the working week over the two days I spend at home in Liverpool). Anyway, the bus is packed, so I pop the big bag in the luggage rack and stand leaning on a nearby pole till the next stop. People get off and I get a place to sit, so I take my small bag with me and sit down, till I get to my hospital. As I make my way to the front of the bus to get down, I notice the commotion at the front. I hear a lady frantically point to my bag and say 'I saw this asian get on the bus with two bags from the station. He got off at the next stop, but only took one of the bags with him. This other one is here and it all looks very suspicious'. The driver (an Indian) tries to reassure her saying that he is positive that the 'asian' in question has not run off without taking his bag. The lady does not listen. She repeats 'I am telling you, I saw this guy get off without taking his bag. This is all very suspicious'. While this is going on, I quietly take my bag from the luggage rack and slip off the bus without turning back. My immediate response (not verbal, but in my mind): 'go on b****, judge everyone everywhere based on their skin colour'. Then I think more rationally and I accept the fact that I cannot blame her for being suspicious. After all, 'asians' have not been at their best behaviour recently in the UK. Nonetheless, how convenient that asians are the new bad guys, for it helps people to develop and nurture their latent racism. I wish people would think from a slightly different perspective. To an Indian in India, a German and an Irishman and an Englishman all look the same, so how would the Englishman feel if he is blamed for the Nazis and the IRA? What if someone walks up to him and says 'when will you apologize to us for the CIA torture centres and Guantanamo?' I can see him seething self righteously and saying: 'I am not American or Irish or German, can't you see I am English?'. Well, how does he expect the Indian in India to differentiate between them? They all look white!
The only difference is, the Englishman's story is hypothetical, where as the Indian's story is real. I hate terrorists even more than the English, because I am as likely to die if a bomb goes off (strangely enough explosives tend not to discriminate on skin colour) and the rest of the time, I am a suspect. How I wish there were non asian terrorists so that people understand that it is not just asians who are the bad guys. Really, I do sometimes dream of white terrorists.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)