A mango is a mango. Not! 28 February 2008
Posted by bornonacusp in Dateline: Delhi.add a comment
FrenchBeard and I rarely find any reason to debate about which of what is better, India’s or the Philippines’. Generally, it doesn’t matter to either of us. And in most cases, there’s no contest anyway.
He’ll say, for instance, that Delhi has infinitely more trees, more open spaces, and more parks than Manila can probably ever dream of. And I’ll say yes, hands-down.
Or I’ll say, Manilenos use trash bins in public places far more willingly than Delhiites do. And it’ll be his turn to say, you got that right.
Or he: Indians are more trusting than Pinoys. (I agree.)
Or me: Pinoys do not have a pronounced preference for boy babies over girls. (He agrees.)
So we leave each other be, as far as most of these things are concerned. But there’s one thing where neither one of us has given up just yet: Mangoes.
He insists that India’s mangoes are superior over the Philippines’. I insist that if he’ll say that mangoes here taste really good, then I’ll have to say that Philippine mangoes give you a taste of heaven.
You think he’ll give up, no. He says I haven’t, to begin with, tasted all the varieties of mangoes from all over this subcontinent. And I say, in turn, that I don’t need a hundred varieties to tell me that the best in the world is found only in Guimaras, a province in central Philippines.
And so it goes, and we’re not done yet. We’re still waiting for a non-Indian-non-Pinoy to give us an impartial take on the subject. Meantime, I shall continue to miss my mangga.
For those who have stopped believing in miracles 28 February 2008
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Bhuri is from Rajasthan. On Tuesday night, she traveled on a train to Ahmedabad with her relatives for a medical check-up, as she was seven months pregnant.
Just before midnight, the mother-to-be awoke and went to the toilet. She would later say that she suddenly felt very weak and passed out. The next thing she remembers, people were frantically knocking on the toilet door.
As she came to, she realised her stomach was flat. “My child was gone.” The baby had slipped out of her mother’s womb, into the toilet tube, and landed on rocks between two steel tracks two stations away.
There in Kalol — perhaps just as Bhuri was recalling what had happened — someone had seen a newborn child lying on the track and called the attention of the station master, who quickly ran to the baby. “The baby was lying dangerously close to the left track with the umbilical cord hanging by the side,” the station master would later recount. The baby had turned blue due to the chill at midnight.
The rail workers wrapped the baby in a cloth and called the local doctor. While the child was being examined, a call came, saying the parents had been traced.
Two hours later, mother and daughter were reunited, and doctors say the baby is well on her way to recuperating.
I have a dream … 26 February 2008
Posted by bornonacusp in For Film Buffs, Readings.add a comment
… that of writing a screenplay.
And that’s why I love reading screenplays.
It was in 2002, I think, when the fascination began after seeing The Hours — the Oscar-winning movie about three women of three different generations whose lives are threaded by Virginia Woolf’s novel, ‘Mrs. Dalloway’. Having found the movie entertainingly disturbing, I thought the screenplay would be an even more satisfying experience. So I ran to the University library to scour for a copy of the screenplay. Needless to say, reading it gave me such a singular pleasure that I remember to this day.
Again I was reminded of my screenplay-penning dream, coming across this New York Times article excerpting from the screenplays of three movies which were in the running for the Oscars given out yesterday: Juno, Away from Her, and No Country for Old Men.
I have not seen any of these three films. (Of those in the Oscar race, FrenchBeard and I have only seen Michael Clayton, which we liked a lot. Might write about that later.) And getting a glimpse of these very brief excerpts from their screenplays excites me more than a video trailer, no matter how sleek.
And my dream continues to spin.
Obamamatopoeia 20 February 2008
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Baracker spaniel: Canine Obama supporter.
Obambastic: Rhetoric, as spoken by Barack Obama.
(From Slate’s Encyclopedia Baracktannica)
There we sit, FrenchBeard and I, every time the evening news programme reports on the US presidential nomination primaries. An Indian national and a Filipino national, in Delhi glued to the television, curious about the presidential elections unfolding oceans away.
Invariably we would then turn to each other and ask aloud, why are we so interested in Hillary and Barack? Why, indeed?
Yet, why not?
Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama are, on their own, interesting images of the American politician. One is a woman, another is African-American, both desiring to make history, both smooth with their rhetoric and capable of inspiration.
Beyond the personalities, however, the primaries itself is likewise proving to be exciting, with results swinging in favour of one to the other. And still beyond the primaries being unpredictable (though analysts are already convinced whether it’s going to be Clinton or Obama), I shall keep being interested in Hillary and Barack, in whoever will make it to the presidency.
Because ultimately, my interest has to do with my utter dislike of George W. Bush, and the way he has led this nation of great people. I may not be an American citizen, but I do have family there, and I do care about what happens to that country. Like it or not, too, what the US does sends ripples way beyond its borders, as Bush has so clearly demonstrated with the war on Iraq and climate change, among others.
For more of Encyclopedia Baracktannica, visit Slate.
And so spring comes 17 February 2008
Posted by bornonacusp in Dateline: Delhi.1 comment so far
Of course, the shopping centres were the first to signal the exit of winter, summoning customers with end-of-season sale sprees since a few weeks back.
But for the last couple of days I myself have been feeling the taming of the shrewd chill … Yes, spring is here!
I’ve lived through winter once, when I was doing graduate studies in UK. But tell me why, Delhi winter is more severe, because I just don’t know.
Here, in the same way that summers are acute, winters are very challenging too. (Spoken in true Queen’s English fashion, given I’m in India, ‘challenging.’) Here in Delhi, climatic swings go from one extreme to another. The word ‘mercurial’ becomes more than a pun for measuring the peaks and troughs in temperatures, and you do actually feel the erratic nature of the weather.
At the peak of summer, I was praying for the coming of the cold season. Please, I would implore the high heavens, I’ve had enough of this heat, so dry, that it felt like a solid wall suffocating you. When winter came, after a few weeks of basking in its comforts, there I was again seeking divine intervention against the chill. I was getting impatient with myself: What do you really want?
This is what I want. Spring is simply glorious.
Then again, you don’t know what it will bring next. Tomorrow it might just rain, and the monsoon season that failed to show up in August may decide to come belatedly. Or winter could say, wait, I’m not done yet.
Eagles vs. cockatoos 16 February 2008
Posted by bornonacusp in Elsewhere in the world.add a comment
I love these stories. Give me a page off the news, whether print or online, and my attention will invariably be called far more quickly by this sort of news than all other stories in there.
Who wants to read about politics when I can read about how desperate staff at a cultural landmark in Melbourne, Australia, are using the help of an eagle called Zorro to scare away cockatoos flocking to the tower and consequently causing damage? The second is far more interesting. Reminds you of the elemental struggle of humans with nature. And here with a twist. Then immediately it gives you a mental image of an eagle (could have a mask on, for it’s called Zorro!), perched on top of a piece of Melbourne’s pride, looking mean and nasty and scaring off the smaller birds.
The report is from BBC. This is Melbourne’s Arts Centre.
Eagle guards Melbourne landmark
Staff at a Melbourne landmark have resorted to unusual methods to try to prevent damage to their building – a wedge-tailed eagle called Zorro.
They hope Zorro’s presence on the roof of the city’s Arts Centre will scare away white cockatoos that have been attacking its iconic tower.
The flocks of cockatoos have been pecking at the tiny lights that illuminate the 163-metre spire.
So far they have caused more than US$63,000 (£32,000) worth of damage.
Zorro will also be joined by a peregrine falcon named Bibi and the two birds will be brought to the building every day for the next six weeks as a trial.
“Cockatoos are part of their prey, so it’s a natural solution,” Arts Centre spokesman Jeremy Vincent told the French news agency AFP.
“The cockatoos aren’t hurt, because the predators are tethered to the building, but their presence on the building acts as a deterrent.”
A handler will also be present to monitor Bibi and Zorro while they are on the roof of the Arts Centre.
So far the two birds of prey were keeping the cockatoos away, Mr Vincent said, but they were also attracting groups of tourists.
Cockatoos are parrot-like birds known for their destructive habits.
‘That the injustices of the past never, never happen again.’ 15 February 2008
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Australia did a wonderful thing, offering its official apology to the generations of indigenous peoples across the country forcibly taken away from their families over 70 years in the last century, to be taught how to become ‘white.’ After a series of conservative Prime Ministers who chose not to, Kevin Rudd is taking the honourable path on behalf of all Australians.
The text of Prime Minister Rudd’s statement:
Today we honour the Indigenous peoples of this land, the oldest continuing cultures in human history.
We reflect on their past mistreatment.
We reflect in particular on the mistreatment of those who were Stolen Generations—this blemished chapter in our nation’s history.
The time has now come for the nation to turn a new page in Australia’s history by righting the wrongs of the past and so moving forward with confidence to the future.
We apologise for the laws and policies of successive Parliaments and governments that have inflicted profound grief, suffering and loss on these our fellow Australians.
We apologise especially for the removal of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families, their communities and their country.
For the pain, suffering and hurt of these Stolen Generations, their descendants and for their families left behind, we say sorry.
To the mothers and the fathers, the brothers and the sisters, for the breaking up of families and communities, we say sorry.
And for the indignity and degradation thus inflicted on a proud people and a proud culture, we say sorry.
We the Parliament of Australia respectfully request that this apology be received in the spirit in which it is offered as part of the healing of the nation.
For the future we take heart; resolving that this new page in the history of our great continent can now be written.
We today take this first step by acknowledging the past and laying claim to a future that embraces all Australians.
A future where this Parliament resolves that the injustices of the past must never, never happen again.
A future where we harness the determination of all Australians, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, to close the gap that lies between us in life expectancy, educational achievement and economic opportunity.
A future where we embrace the possibility of new solutions to enduring problems where old approaches have failed.
A future based on mutual respect, mutual resolve and mutual responsibility.
A future where all Australians, whatever their origins, are truly equal partners, with equal opportunities and with an equal stake in shaping the next chapter in the history of this great country, Australia.
On my shelf: Delhi Is Not Far 7 February 2008
Posted by bornonacusp in Dateline: Delhi, Poetry, Readings.add a comment
“The India that I love does not make headlines. The India that I love comprises the goodwill and good humour of ordinary people.” – Ruskin Bond, Anglo-Indian writer, from the preface to his The India I Love.
Ruskin Bond is in his 70s, but he writes with such innocence you can hardly tell. An everlasting curiosity for what is normally obscure; a wisdom to know what is essential, what counts, in what seems to be an ordinary life.
Delhi Is Not Far tells the story of a struggling writer in a fictional small Indian town called Pipalnagar — a composite, the author says, of various real small towns across the country — and the people whose lives intersect with his own, on his way to pursuing a longing for journeying to Delhi.
I first met Ruskin Bond through FrenchBeard, who gifted me a year ago with the writer’s collection of short tales, Time Stops At Shamli. And you just know when you like an author, right? Whether it’s the subjects they write about, or their prose, or simply the way their stories relate to your own — you can always tell when you’ll go back again and again to their work. Ruskin Bond is one of mine.
Here’s a poem of his from The India I Love:
Come Roaming With Me
Out of the city and over the hill,
Into the spaces where Time stands still,
Under the tall trees touching old wood,
Taking the way where warriors once stood;
Crossing the little bridge, losing my way,
But finding a friendly place where I can stay.
Those were the days friend, when we were strong
And strode down the road to an old marching song
When the dew on the grass was fresh every morn,
And we woke to the call of the ring-dove at dawn.
The years have gone by and sometimes I falter,
But still I set out for a stroll or a saunter,
For the wind is as fresh as it was in my youth,
And the peach and the pear, still the sweetest of fruit,
So cast away care and come roaming with me,
Where the grass is still green and the air is still free.
Brrrrr! 6 February 2008
Posted by bornonacusp in Delhi life.add a comment
Woke up this morning to a nasty chill and some very thick fog. Was rather wanting to just stay inside the heated bedroom, under the thick cozy quilts, and curl up with my new Ruskin Bond novel. But kept thinking of an equally nasty work schedule, including an editing job whose deadline is creeping in. (No way I could tell the publisher, ‘It was too cold. I’m not a real Delhiite, would you mind moving my deadline?)
So what to do, in what meteorologists call the tail-end of winter, but get up. And, a couple of hours later, voila! The fog lifted, the sun came out, and while the chill is still present it is hardly unmanageable. (Soundtrack inside head: Here comes the sun, The Beatles)
Nature does have its tricky ways. Last week, just when the Met predicted that there will be a sharp drop in temperatures — and primary schools had to suspend classes to spare the little ones from the cold wave — sunshine was happily frolicking with clear clouds and everything was bright and chirpy.
On days when the Met says, on the other hand, that the winter chill would give way to ‘more comfortable’ days for Delhi, snowfall would come down in the northern regions and, naturally, blow a sharp chill towards the capital.
I remember the same thing back in the Philippines. In fact one classic joke (Filipinos like to make jokes, much like Indians do) went something like this: If the weatherman says Manila will be sunny, bring a raincoat; If he says it’s going to rain, then dress up in halters.
Lesson clear: Don’t bet on these weather ‘predictions.’ Except for the disastrous extremes, of course. Science can approximate, yes, perhaps the normal ups and downs, but it’s still simply too puny for nature.
