Dinosaurs and more

I don’t know why I have this new found fondness for Michael Crichton (rhymes with frighten; according to Wiki). I watched Jurassic Park like everyone else and after that The Lost World, Congo, Disclosure and of course ER . But I never really gave a second thought to reading the books and even lesser thought to Michael Crichton. So I could not really fathom my interest in actually buying the books.

It all started on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I decided to take a walk to this bookstore around the corner. Not that I needed more books with my mother’s incessant nagging that there are just “too many” books around. My Wodehouse collection (still incomplete), my sister’s Agatha Christie’s neatly stacked away as Marples and Poirots, the comic books we never outgrew, my Enid Blytons, and my most prized Mills and Boon collection from the ‘80’s (ok these are classics to me) and then the usual teenage era stuff from Perry Mason to Nancy Drew, John Grisham, Sidney Sheldon and well I could go on. You get the picture. My home might as well pass off for some library. I mean how many books can be too many books? You just can’t have enough books.

So umbrellad and waterproofed, I stepped out into the rain, turning a deaf ear to mom’s stern warning that I better not come home with an armful of novels.

A hop, skip and jump away, I was there. The bearded man behind the counter gave me his silent hooded eyed benevolent gaze that he always bestows upon his favourite patrons. The assistant ushered a dripping me in, umbrella and all. I sniffed the air first. Then I inhaled deeply.... that familiar musty smell of books, of old yellowed pages and crisp new ones, of the rich leather bound volumes and the brusque paperbacks.... Heaven!!!

I made a beeline for the discount section at the very back of the shop... for the classics of course and for the love of mouldy mildewed dog-eared books (and the 75% off!!!) I started looking for Wodehouse (for my collection). They are usually hidden deep down under piles and piles of nondescript novellas. After some time of intense searching, I cast a crestfallen gaze around the shop. No Wodehouses anywhere. There were no interesting romances, and I did not fancy Tom Clancy or James Patterson. So there was nothing much left there. I decided to go upfront and ponder whether I should go for Collected works of Saki or Collected works of Thomas Hardy. Or better yet... both!!

As I turned I saw a gorilla’s face stare at me from the cover of a book.

It was Congo.

I stood there.

I chewed my lip.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

I turned to go.

I hesitated.

I turned back and picked up the book.

It was a paperback. Michael Crichton in faded gold shimmered off the cover. Did I mention I had seen the movie? Thrice. I had actually liked it. And I just wanted to see if the book and the movie script ran parallel. Just curiosity. That’s all. Ok. I decided to go for it.

I walked upfront towards Saki. I went through shelf after shelf looking for something interesting, maybe something new. My eye kept wandering back to the discount section. Shelf after shelf after shelf after shelf, lo and behold I was back at the discount section.

Curiosity got the better of me and I leafed through Rising Sun that was lying amidst Judith Krantzes (I knew this was a Sean Connery film and you can’t dispute that the plot would be awesome). So who was this Michael Crichton other than the dude who resurrected dinosaurs? I mean we all went through the T-rex thrilling phase. But there was definitely more to this chap. I checked out the back cover of Timeline. A handsome face smiled in black and white. Born in Chicago.... Harvard Med School (whoa!!)... post doc at Salk (double whoa)... then MIT... I was floored. Before I knew it I had added Sphere to my kitty as well. It was like a mini Michael Crichton festival at the discount section. I mean all kinds of edition, all kinds of paperbacks. After much internal debating I decided to leave out Disclosure (I had seen the movie too many times and you can’t compete with a smoking hot Michael Douglas and Demi Moore in print. The movie wins hands down).

A Saki, Thomas Hardy, one ChickLit and a couple of Barbara Cartlands later I arrived at the cash counter. Mr Hooded Eyed Benevolent Gaze asked me with extra benevolence if I wanted anything else and pointed out the various Aravind Adigas and Paulo Coelhos and Amitav Ghoshes and Artemis Fowls, I politely declined. Partly because they were all brand new and expensive (and I’d rather bide my time to pick them up as second hands) and partly because Mom was going to fume and imitate a volcanic eruption when she saw all the books.

So I nodded my head vigorously and with an iron willed steel clad certainty stated that this was going to be it.

And then I saw them.

All that metal alloyed resolve melted like ice.

Perched high up on the Best Seller Shelf, next to The Bourne Deception, I saw two capitalized MICHAEL CRICHTONS beckon me... The Prey and State of Fear. I gasped. I reeled. I almost fainted or to put it more dramatically - swooned. More Michael Crichton.....

Wait a minute...

Did I just see The Bourne Deception??

Why that would complete my Bourne Collection. Awesome. I grabbed it.

This time I did not falter. I walked straight up to the counter and billed it. I just about managed to squeeze it within the card limit. I took my crisp paper bag full of exciting new reads and with a heavy heart gave one last forlorn look at the Michael Crichtons on the Best Seller Shelf and stepped out where the smiling shop assistant held out my umbrella for me.

‘Oh come on’, I told myself. ‘You have not read a single Michael Crichton and you already want two more. Another time girl’.

I took my umbrella and stepped out into the miserable rain.

A deafening clap of thunder and a ferocious flash of lightening sent me yelping back into the shop.

“I’ll take Prey and State of Fear. I’ll pay by cash”.

Even the Gods approved.

So why is it called TEN Downing Street???

zero is zen and zilch
zero sounds too rebellious

1 is supreme
1's got too much on it's shoulder...1 is cliche

2 has potential but only uses it to get even (pun intended)

3 is a crowd

and 4 sounds suspiciously lucky...4 is a fraud-too closely associated with 2

5 is virtuous but too weak

6 is glamour and all that jazz

7 is mystical
samurai....but that eye for detail cannot see the big picture

8 is directionless
a servant almost...to 4

and 9 is unstable
just like 3
9 is like an angry young man bound to make mistakes

so ten it is!!!!!
10 is a well rounded number

11 seems shady
12 too overbearing
13 is ominous

so the lowest two digit gets the highest priority

there are other worthy numbers spread across various digits and all
but yeah
10 is the most basic of them all
10 is the first of them all
10 will not let the accolades get to it;s head
10 is modest and knows to deal with stuff


------ Monish Moorthy and Ranjini Balan on a boring saturday afternoon.
Ten Downing Street

The Sun, Sand and a Flying disc: Ultimate Frisbee

The sun had set long ago drowning its fiery flames in the bay yonder. Yet the sands of Elliot’s were scorched with the trailing blazes set by fourteen players as a flying disc whizzed past almost indiscernibly, slashing at the winds, forcing its way through. This is Ultimate Frisbee and it is the most happening beach sport in Chennai.

Ultimate, dubbed as the thinking man’s sport, attracts the smartest athletes from various walks of life. It had its origins among school children in New Jersey and Massachusetts in the United States. It is played passionately by millions of people in more than forty countries around the world. The roots of the game in India come from leading management institutes like the Indian Institute Of Management, Ahmedabad and the Indian School of Business, Hyderabad where this sport is popular.

Ultimate is termed a limited-contact or non contact coed team sport. If a player physically interferes with an opposing player, a foul may be called. The flying disc is used to score points by passing it to a player in the opposing end zone. An offensive and defensive team of seven each make up the fourteen players required to play the game on an area roughly the size of a football pitch. The last 25 yards are known as the ‘endzone’, with goals scored by passing the disc to a teammate inside it. Players cannot run with the disc, and may move only one foot while holding the disc (termed pivoting). On receiving the disc it must be released within ten seconds. If the disc touches the ground or if an opponent catches it, the possession is lost.

The cardinal spirit of the game is that Ultimate is self officiated. No referees are present and players sort out their differences in sportsman spirit. At higher levels of play referees called ‘observers’ are often present. Observers only make calls when appealed to by one of the teams, at which point the result is binding. Sportsmanship, respect for other players, fair play, and having fun are considered central aspects of play, even when competition becomes intense. This is called “spirit of the game.” This philosophy instills a unique sense of mutual respect and unity among all players.

The Chennai Heat Frisbee tournament in October 2010 saw three days of ultimate action packed, sand scorching games. Yours truly was there with her beloved team The Flying Frauds and asked her Frisbee loving, disc throwing, lighter by ten pounds captain, what he felt like at the end of it. Pat came the reply “Thank you Ultimate. I saved my face at the dietician’s clinic today”.

The next big Frisbee tourney, The Fly Baba, will be held in early 2011 at Kodaikanal. So go, get ultimate.

Measure for Measure

First read this in a Wodehouse...
now it has come to mean much more

"Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide"

Mariana in the moated Grange
(Tennyson)

The Stain of Purity

All that glory
All that awesomeness
All that beautiful control comes crashing down....
What is left that is worth anything? Anything at all?
Until it doesn't come written on a neon glow sign planted on the Highway to Hell and sneers at you saying its your name written beneath the "worthless" you just don't get it.

Desire.
Then comes the outright rejection. The humiliation leaves you tarnished.
Waking up next to the disgrace and trying to quell the surge of sickness that hits you, all you want to do is somehow pick up the remnants of last night, hold on to whatever shreds of dignity can clothe your ignominy and get the hell out of there.

It doesn't end there. If only once bitten, twice shy still made some sense. But how will it, when your sagacity is clouded by the vodka. No the lesson will not be learnt until you aren't more disillusioned. You are everything that the heart desires but nothing that the soul wants. The sting of humiliation hurts more than the sting of tears. In one line you are placed on the altar and worshipped and then thrown to the ground and bruised.

There is still more dishonour to come. On borrowed time when the world ceases to exist, the skin is branded with the marks of shame. It frightens you and you just want to slough the skin away if the marks cant be removed.The lump in the throat. Try to breathe and you end up choking. Gasping for air. The tears burn down the cheeks. Standing beneath the cold water, hoping and praying that it will wash away more than just the tears. Drown me. Let me go.

I want to crack the mirror every time I catch my reflection. Break it into a million pieces, ground it into dust. Let it blow away in the wind because every piece is a part broken from my soul.... let the wind scatter it far away just like my scattered soul.

The damages cant be mended. The cracks remain. Chipped heart, a shattered mind and everything lost from the soul. The darkest hour.

Give me some strength to endure. I dont want to die of the pain. Let me bear it and feel it and live through it.

Goddess of revelry:
until you don't fall from the pedestal how will you ever know what fall from grace meant?
Until the blemishes don't seem visible, how will you know what flawless meant?
Until it is not stained, how will you know what purity meant?



from "My Darkest Hours"

Broken

Someday when the heavens rain
Let me cry
till my tears dry

Someday the sun will shine again
Let me find
Darkness to hide

Someday the numbness I will feel
Let me cut
And feel the hurt

Someday I shall see myself heal
Afraid to see
Reflections of me

Someday the scars will remind
The love, the hate
The silent wait

Someday I know I will find
The courage to live
The love to give

Someday it will be when
I am strong to endure
Habitual pain and more

Someday... until then
let the darkest hour
Keep me far

My Piece of Chennai : The Armenian Church

Amidst all the hustle and bustle of George Town, searching for a merchant establishment, I took a walk down Armenian Street. It led me to the quaint little Armenian Church built by the Armenian population which had settled in Chennai as traders during the 16^th Century. The graceful facade stood lit in splendour by the late afternoon sun.

The Church is visible from the street only as a stone stairway leading up to two massive doors but once you enter the church complex through the stone cloister, what greets you is a small chapel with wooden shutters, the breathtaking belfry and the tranquil gardens housing the Armenian cemetery.  The thing that strikes you first is the peaceful silence that engulfs you and you are surprised such an oasis could exist in the crowded, dusty Old Madras trading quarter. A walk through the green garden pathway reveals centuries gone by of a once thriving Armenian population as seen in the Armenian inscribed epitaphs.The chapel has wooden benches beneath wood-panelled ceilings with three antique chandeliers The carved church altar has a fresco of the Virgin Mary placed on a wooden pedestal.  The simplicity and intricacy of the woodwork is fascinating by itself.

The Armenian Church was first constructed in 1712 and reconstructed in 1772 after it was demolished in 1746 during the French occupation of Madras. It is famous for its magnificent belfry. There are six bells in the belfry tower, each weighing about 200 kgs. The bells belong to different eras and were cast at different points of time. Inscriptions show that two of the bells were gifted by a leading  Armenian merchant, Aga Shawmier Soothanoomian, in memory of 19 year Eliazar Shawmier,  his youngest son, buried in the Church’s garden.

 The church functions only as a heritage site, and is funded by the main Church in Armenia. It is maintained by The Armenian Church Committee in Calcutta.

When in Parrys, from the NSC Bose road turn into Armenian street, which essentially cuts off into several streets where the traders and merchants of Chennai have continued through centuries. All around are buildings which are a delightful sight of sheer architectural beauty which have stood solemn and steady through the vagaries of time for more than 300 years. Cycle rickshaws ply down the trading streets and you can almost breathe the serene history of Old Madras. This piece of hidden Chennai sets itself apart from all the chaos of the city with its besotting old world charm.