Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Of Infinite Justice and Small Things...

Ok, I was so laid up and couldn't resist writing, this one came almost impulsively. It definitely runs the risk of not letting the visitors read my previous post which is definitely more relaxed piece. But, when am on a roll, who can stop me from blogging. And before tonight, don't be surprised if there are 3 more blogs! Read on, mate!
Arudathi Roy is not just the God of Small Things who aspires to alter the scales of the Algebra of Infinite Justice, she also is a bandwagoner! And she is no loner in this area.
Writers, especially novelists these days, have become much more media-savvy than others. Perhaps they need to be more so. People in show-biz or entertainment industry or music industry all are more visible as personalities with faces. Writers unfortunately are personalities with not too many photographs in the press. Of course, things are changing now. But pray tell me, how many of you remember the face of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Raja Rao? Raja who? I understand. And all I need to do is say Rushdie or Rowling and the faces come flashing on view. With the changing face of the publishing industry and its need to survive, public relations and advertisement gimmicks have improved. Things are at a stage where writers are given advance and news written large about it now-a-days. The Visual and Video Media is playing a large part in reckoning the fortunes of a writer and the publishing industry. Good, good. But it has its flip-side. Like what I am talking about Ms. Roy.
She has successfully managed to keep herself in news. Two books and a celebrity. Because her first book was the recipient of Booker? Not exactly. Booker has its role, though. There is a long list of writers who win awards or become best sellers and a couple of acceptance speeches carefully worded and delivered, some magazine or newspaper's feuilleton pages commission them to be columnists. Every country has its example. And that perhaps is how Ms. Roy is more popular than her one book wonder. When you are a savvy writer who knows you can't come up with classy works everytime, you bide your time, keep visibility by churning out weekly columns on eclectic subjects ranging from Dr. Sirleaf's ascendancy to become the first African woman head of state to the squareroots of algebra and Sanjeev Kapoor's cooking to Rang De Basanti, publish it timely as a collection of essays by a popular publisher who has the muscle to publicise... lo and behold! Another Bestseller. The aura does it all. Am not saying Ms. Roy's Algebra book spawns from Sanjeev to Sirleaf. I haven't even read it. But the pattern is familiar. From Umberto Eco to your columnist writer next door. They just sing anything for their supper. What difference it makes whether you sing covers or originals as long as you sing well!
So, Sahitya Akademi recognises her book. She de-recognises them. If she accepts the award it is a news... sustainable for a month. Now it is an event. Ms. Roy refrains from acceptance. Ms. Roy protests. What protests? The protest is going to get shit, because it is getting tiresome. Too many writers are playing Errant Knights to Protest Lady-in-Distress. It is disgusting. Ms. Roy doesn't seem to have any specific personal politics that is meaningful. Isn't it sick sometimes when people who are already public figures get into these activist trips? It doesn't make sense. Beyond a point it just comes through as pure gimmick. Is this what they call insecurity? Identity crisis?? What is the need? And the Akademi is not going to give it to someone. So, her name will be on the proud annals of .html pages of the Akademi Website with something apolegetic in parenthesis, as a sour reminder that they have been rebuffed. Akademi must not pander. Come to talk of it, The God of Small Things was not even great. The Brits have no sense of recognition. Someone uses their vocabulary breadth and syntax expanse very well and amusingly, without discomfiting them, they give them Bookers and Whitbreads! 'The world', I tell you, like the Bard said in Richard II (I think!), is one huge "Caterpillar of the Commonwealth."
And people like Arundathi Roy, Orhan Pamuk, Salman Rushdie realise this. The Publishing industry realises this, the governments that issue orders against them and those that protect them both realise this. I do totally agree their politics is serious. They are committed to their beliefs and hence protest. But there has to be something called temperance. But again, probably without these buildups, the prospect of future Nobel for Literature does probably not exist. Nobel is a noble prize that recognises people who strive for peace through various fields, one of which is Peace itself. And its history seems to be getting more and more strife-torn, buffetted with figures that Fight for Peace (what an oxymoron!), its pages riddled with attention seekers as well as quieter ones who let their work talk. Now don't tell me the Rushdies of the world are genuine voices with genuine problems with a genuine right to voice anything. This Blue Ribbon is the biggest shit invented to cover up any and every crap talk. There needs some line to be drawn regarding Democratic Freedom of Speech. It's not about what we talk, but how we talk. Remember Tagore, Gandhi, Martin Luther Jr, Bishop Tutu, Nelson Mandela. And how they expressed their protest.
I think Ms. Roys and Pamuks of this world are witty but not responsible in their talk and actions. Being fire-brand and rebel is passe! Let them remember it. To hide their rebellion behind ideological discourse is not justification enough to claim the crown of attention. It is 'sad' attitude. Ineptitude not to let their writing work talk. To bring in the branding got through one field to strengthen the cause of another is glamorising the other. Which is demeaning. Hope the so-called protestants with rebel genes in their blood realise that your work speaks than your speech works. Gone are the days of rhetoric. With the prevalence of television channels and rhetoric writers dime a dozen, enough and more secretaries can be hired to pen rhetorical or soul-stirring, mob-swaying speeches. And the joke of it all is that there is a mob out there who just come to listen to a good speech, in the absence of a good movie to go to. It doesn't necessarily mean they're going to support you or vote for you.
(Sorry about the harshness, folks. But it comes from the heart. Because it hurts to see someone rebuff someone who tries to recognise you for your goodness. I may not be a fan of Sahitya Akademi. But I guess, if someone recognises you, you must have the basic courtesy to accept it with a large-heartedness than use it as a platform to fart your protest in public... and the anger was directed at someone else! Ms. Roy sucks!)

Teething pains... seething salivas

Um... ah.. ouch...
 
Woke up in the wee hours - 3.50 to be precise - of yesterday a.m. (not today the 18th) with a pulsing pain in the 2nd upper molar that has been troubling the past month. Shtinging so bloody paining it sent shivers through my body as though my body temperature dropped. 'Sleep with a dog and rise with a bag full of fleas' from Kane came to my mind as I jumped out of my bed, desperately fumbled and found the floor light of my room (as my mind alarmed me that I should not switch the ceiling light on with people sleeping around me) and rifled through my medicine draw, found a flagyl and a zinc (to balance), stuffed water and went back to bed. Not for the next 20 mins the world was paradise to me and the notion of God as the obviator of small and big things held nary a thing. Acute pain. Have you been through? Blood coursing through at Launch blast-off speed and pain pulsing through veins and thumps and throbs of thrummings of your every nerve and fibre feverishly headbanging across the bone-depths. Then... I slipped into oblivion as the numbing took over. Passed out to date Nithra Devi
 
A certain pathological grief took over my dreams as Doctors crouched overhead of me with faces full of showercaps and mouth-masks and white half-sleeves and latex gloves holding various gleaming aluminum plated metal weapons of surgical science held sway... through the close-up of this frame I sensed the distant flicker of a lone phosporescent bulb in the peripheral vision of a blurred long-shot aided by the little hole left between the convergent heads of the savlon army for dentists...
 
6.25 a.m. Woke up to the familiar smell of coffee and Paul Krugmann op-ed and Rohit Brijnath take-over of Nirmal Shekar's rococo excess on Australian Open. Wished the previous wee-hour happenings were a surreal dream. Nope. God was with me. Painful padre that he is, the unforgiving usherer guarding the front of house of the operating theatre with an innocent smile of "Why fear when am here?" or "Bear the Cross with a Smile son" Son of Man grin, this ubiquitous presence with various nom-de-plumes from God to Hindu Names to Communist Manifesto to Agnostic Scientific Rationale to Plain Logic for non-believers, brought about a sense of urgency about the pain.
 
Reminded of the fact by someone passing in my house that the two tablets I took musta bin preceded by some food intake, I turned around to find out who it was and turned around to see my paper was gone - into those hands that belonged to that voice. It was a ruse to distract me to part with my deviation from pain. Thanks Botha, broer, brother. And the general flurry of domestic chores until 9.05 pretended to distract from the acute pain that had by now taken alarming possibilities of rekindling memories of another day when I - like millions of you (wishful thinking) reading this - was subject to the existence of the scalenes and isoceles and right-angles and other trigonometric variants of lines. Yes, the pain was flubbing itself into various angles and shapes with theses and theorems forming in my head. The cause thetas and sign thetas of the adjacents and opposites were having apposite effects on my tanned gums. And the first given moment - 9.25 a.m., rushed to my near-by dentist who had proved my savior the past ten days. Clap... lap... dissolve...
 
Overlap of rushing bikes and whizzing black and brown and sun-film coated windows of cars, an odd bicycle tucked in... Pan through wide-lens zoom... clap to...
 
Couple of lefts and rights, I was parking my bike next to an overflowing Onyx bin hiding a smooth and sober white tile of Jesus in the centre, another of Om sign in the middle and yet another of Sai Baba with a mosque behind him... all next to each other at 3 inch from floor level on a sloped cement and concrete platform prefacing the dentist's clinic.  Rush...
 
Empty little 7 by 5 reception area with a table full of client ref sheets from previous day and 5 chairs gazed down by a shut-off television. The receptionist comes, looks etherially disinterested at my pain...
 
R: Name, sir?
I: Shecon uppa tee... pai... khan shphe...
R: Been here before, sir?
I: shaliva... shpit... whey shink...?
R:
(points index finger in the general direction of faucet, smirks with her back to me, vanishes)
I: (notice the othai jadai plait with a shock of snaky 3 hair strand trailing to that butt-ressed part dressed with 3 layers of clothing and several inches above around where the medula oblangata must have been, a single saamandhi poo incongruously reminding of my yellow teeth wincing in pain) Shee... (by now have forgotten the existence of the alphabet t)
 
I rush to the nearest sink and gargle and spit...
 
R comes: "No, you can't wash there"
I: Then
(now reasonably relieved to speak) why the hell (total erichchal) can't you put a sign.
R: You must ask me...
I:
(incredulous) Excuse me...!
R: Where to wash!
I: Where is your doctor? 
R:
(on the defensive) He's gone out
I:
(check the watch) is 9.40 a.m. You open at 9!
R:
(still defensive) Yes...he came and went saying will be back in 20 mins.
I:
(sit there pitifully ignored like Garfield at the influx of Odie)
 
10.05 a.m. Mr. Pain has become blood-relative. Am still sitting, legs unable to kiss the floor, doing raps in the air, ably assisted by his two commanding assistants the shin doctors. By now the whole body is practising gavottes and jigs like the jellicles in Webber's CATs... the innards of my mouth making revolutions such as being triggered by the Chavezes and Morales' and Bachelots in Latin America against Big Botha USA. And somewhere the practice turns into pirouettes of twin-globules exhibited by orange and metallic blue and tangerine pow-pow weaving cheer-leading bimbos with several pairs of globules flashed everytime they swivel around a full circle. Life is turning into a garage session of head-banging teeth-gritting... couldn't finish my thought. Get up, storm out... jump on to my bike (sung to Marley tune)... dissolve
 
streets on fire... (no springsteen here) libero city cruises with no lx... across the potholes of sastri nagar streets to m.g. road. Another Dentist... more protocols (god, they ask you to fill form while you want them to pull out tooth in emergency!). And when I refuse by putting up an extravagant broadway act of abby and emma and pulitzer winning pain-o-drama in mime, they rush me to the guillotine with more cushy objects sorrounding you. Annnnd... the syringe goes following the tong, past the underside of the tongue. There it is... the needle through the gums... It's over... Ouch... prick... ing of the needle only now. A warm feeling of Pink Floyd spreads me with medicinal acid. Can't even french any now. Won't even feel the snaking tongue if any gets in now. And am comfortably numb.
 
"Am giving you L.A. Get a couple more today. It's acute... (thanks doc, for ack.!)"
 
bunga bunga bunga goes my thoughts, unnh...unnh...unnh goes my speech abilities like some bimbo answering someone while being banged on the cold floor by some muscle-rippling bay-watcher inside the wooden cabin up above the sands of glamourised beaches on TV serials.
 
"And you need to house-arrest your speech for 3 more days (wow, i still  can sms!!!). Am putting you on anti-inflammatory (yo, thanks dento-dude-ist, I am gonna blog through and catch up with all my MDRs and Bismilla Shehnai and DVDs.), once you're comfortable, get back, we shall x-ray. May required a surgery. Bones unsettled (he means teeth) in their ranks and files and rows." By now, I thank the dent... start singing Hosannas to my Good King Wenceslas...
 
Pay up!
 
Well, it's twenty four hours... the pain in the teeth is on a continuum (on and off between bouts of metrogels and other gyls)... on a roll... And all I get is a darting blog post to boot.
 
still ill
rsvp asap

Monday, January 09, 2006

Blog...er!

Well, people of my blog roll and frequent flyers to this country, am going into a heavy workload phase for another week, I guess. So hang in there, I will continue to visit your blogs. I may or not post comments, that doesn't mean am inactive. Lack of time. Sigh! So many posts to make. My take on Putin-Gorby issue on Goodbye-ing to Lenin, my tribute to Gilliam, my walk behind the trail of legendary Piper of Hamelin upon my visit there, my introspection on the F-1 season ahead... and many more. Hopefully I shall return renewed in vigour after my work. Until later...

Saturday, December 31, 2005

This and That Bloggettes:

These are little stuff that, were they to be published in an opinion journal or magazine, would have been called tidbits or snippets or finger-eat-readings. Of course, some of them are long enough to be merited an Order of Individual Blog Post honour! Since I have either dealt with them in individual blog posts in detail (as in the case of Saurav) or are not timely or critical enough to merit a full blog (yes, really, Orhan Pamuk case is getting a bit tiresome, dearie!. Or some are in the developmental phase that I would like to underline what's worth following on the international news radar. The earlier one, Oh Captain, My Captain! was the first of these bloggettes, as I would like to term them. Read on...

* * * * *

Saurav Ganguly affair like Mohd. Azharuddin's, Ajay Jadeja's, Manoj Prabhakar's and much before that Mohinder Amarnath's and not too late in the past, Nayan Mongia's never seems to end. Of course, they can't end it. At least, the press wouldn't let it end. Else how do they fill up the space? Antickpix had remarked in the comments section to my previous blog on this topic that perhaps my article musta been reserved for after-Pakistan than now. After all, he feels that the purpose of my blog is defeated. Saurav is back! I don't think so. I still hold to my statement: Saurav must have opted out of the "Stake Your Claim" racket rather than making a huge hullabaloo about the whole thingie and meet Pawar and strengthen his case. My shout in the post was not about Ganguly's inclusion or exclusion from the team, but how a Loch-Ness is hiding inside More-ji! How past never seems to leave us Indian! Calcuttans may have gone on cracker-ing the celeb. My lowdown on the upshot of "Mission Saurav Inclusion" is this: Saurav must be pretty careful. By giving him a ticket to Pakistan, they have played an Azadi game. The Train to Pakistan is a veritable booby. How? Remember that 90s series where Kris Srikant was the Captain and he achieved what till then no one had achieved in recent memory! Square a series in Pakistan. And yet, when the Indians came back, he was not only stripped of captaincy, but axed from the team. Since then, the only couple of times Kris wielded the willow were 1) the Bi- and Multi-lateral over-35 ODIs and the recent Essilor Lens ad! And yet, another man who was equally dubious in the series, an erstwhile captain, opening partner in crime, the man who actually stole the Audi Car from Srikkanth in the 85 B&H WSC - inspite of not producing anything spectacular in individual matches to outshine Srikkanth or to actually do a Lara or Symonds or Pietersen or Lee or Warne to win any crucial match single-handedly - Ravi Shastri went on to be retained in the team. Because he was smart enough to play a dogged innings to wrap up a timely century to save his gluteus maximus. The same is going to happen to Saurav if he is not careful. How do you think Sachin survives these days? We have spoken about this in the L'Affaire Saurav article. My Ramp-up to this dope: Take Saurav's record against Pakistan. 7 Matches with 200+ runs at an average that is in the none too impressive 20s to warm the idiomatic cockle of the hearts! Actually it is a jathetic poke... er pathetic joke! And he has come at the expense of someone who survived the late 90-s and the beginning of this decade due to the clemency of his Dada! Saurav Dada has come in at the expense of Mohd. Kaif. And the other beneficiary of Saurav's munificence, Yuvraj, is preferred ahead of him! Dramatic Irony? Poetic Justice? Reasons enough Saurav must produce out of the world stuff. Stuff to claim back his opener slot in ODI; stuff enough to get back his patta for the 3-down slot; stuff big enough to whack the s**t out of the Frog Dance Moron of Indian Cricketing Chairmanship who goes on to say something very different each day about Saurav: alternately pandering and breathing pan masala spit. So, Saurav watch out. They are digging a bigger grave for you. As the Bard would say "Honor you at the trifles to Deceive you at the highest!" Time will tell whether Saurav is the Gladiator in the Arena or Kheema matter for Pindi Express - the man who Bends it Like No-one Else Can - Akthar! Or even Umar Gul, the latest Aquib Javed. It is the stuff of legend that Aquib Javed took about 70 odd wickets in ODI and 80% came against India, in Sharjah!

* * * * *


Fernando Alonso: I remember this bloke about 4 years ago. His debut was with Minardi. There was this race where it was a do or die for David "the undying" Coulthard. What the heck! He was in the Championship race. And the Scot was getting frustrated. Try as he might, he could not overtake the minnow in front of him. And he was furious, shaking his helmet-ed head and his bunched up fist... getting furious at the marshals for not blue-flagging the car in front of him... radioing expletives to his team at the pits... Imagine what you would do if this happens for like 18 laps... and the guy in front of you wasn't even a top-10 runner... the guy was a debutant in a Minardi! Well, the young turk in front of him had other ideas. He was in the clear. Coulthard may be fighting for the championship, but as long as the former was not a backmarker to Coulthard, he had a right to defend his position. Well drubbed the gravel on the grass, upstart! That was Fernando Alonso. The year, I guess, was 2001. And 2 years later, he won his first Grand Prix at Hungaroring! and almost earned a hard-fought duel with Schumi at the Spanish Barcelona Grand Prix. The home-fans squealed in manic delight that day. And 2 more years later, this guy has shaken up the entire paddock area 2 further years in advance. Well, the news - for those not following F-1 world when there is no race - is Alonso has already signed up to move over to McLaren for 2007. And the 2006 season has not started. Would not start until another month or two! A lot of questions are being raised over this Paddock Poaching for Driver Line-up 2007 by Ron Dennis when there is no apparent need to. At least, Alonso-Dennis combo need not have announced it now. So if Fernando doesn't due to some reason win as many races in 2006 as he did in 2005 or cannot retain his Championship (there's already breaking news that Schumi has set early season testing times ablaze at Fiorano circuit), question marks are going to be raised. And what of Montoya or Raikkonen at McLaren. Is this Ron's way of shaking Kimi for not winning the Driver's Championship? Or is this a way of rattling Montoya who until the other day, before the emergence of Alonso out of Renault testing service, was the fieriest and angry young driver of F-1? So who goes out? Who stays in? A lot of commitments are going to be put to test in what seems a difficult year for F-1 : 2006!

* * * * *

Breaking News on the F-1 front: Hockenheim in recent financial trouble is already the only true-blood German Grand Prix. Nurburgring, although technically is in Germany and even closer to Schumis' home-town of Kerpen than Hockenheim, is considered a European Grand Prix hosted by Luxemborg Racing Authorities and the State of Luxemborg. And those folks are adding salt to the already wounded pride of Hockenheimers by offering to sharing the financial burden. Internal German take-over? What with BMW stepping in directly into the ring! On that count, we have a new team for 2006. A Japanese team that is not Honda, not Toyota... Of course, Taku Sato is in the driver line-up with another newbie. All Jap line-up. Sony took over Hollywood. Will Japan take over F-1 too? Max! Bernie!! d'ye both hear? Or will, when he retires, Schumi be the hier-apparent to Max and Bernie's stranglehold on the business part of F-1? Already we hear this week that Luca di Montezemolo - the honcho at Fiorano (Ferrari Headquarters) - announcing that Schumi is Ferrari's eternal future, hinting that even after quitting competitive racing, Michael would be active either as Manager or as Technical Chief or whatever Michael desires. Good thing that Rubens has decided to move over at the long last! But sad thing, everyone who moves into Ferrari talks rose before taking the tack Eddie Irvine took 5 years back. Losers grumblers, eh? That's it from F-1 paddock this week. You can check my dedicated brand new blog Little Shop of Formoola One Musings for regular updates and more detailed and specialized posts!

* * * * *

Johnny Depp: Since the day - about 8 to 9 years or even more - I first saw the movie Edward Scissorhands, I have never lost an opportunity to admire Depp's acting. Of late I have been analyzing his work style and subtle approach to handling roles, he never fails to amaze me. In my 30 years of movie watching, I guess, this is one fellow who has really made me spout sweeping statements. Just this day, after belatedly watching Finding Neverland, I realize Depp is the finest actor of this generation. I have been taken in goosebump zone by Val Kilmer's facility with varying choice of roles and the handling of them (Independence, Top Secret, The Doors, Batman...the list is long!). I have occasionally wondered at the a-la Zen calmness that Keanu Reeves brings to his approach to his roles; I have been occasionally (initially) misled to consider Di Caprio as a potential (nah! Not Titanic, but The Man in the Iron Mask), but I was pretty disappointed by his portrayal of the hyped Aviator movie. And so with Hollywood's true successor to the blue-eyed boy seat left vacant by Paul Newman - Tom Cruise. In spite of repeatedly forced into watching The Last Samurai, I conclude that his range is limited. Of course, now they are all talking Orlando Bloom and Jude Law and others of the ilk. And my friend Radio Krishna says Javier Bardoe and Ed Norton are gunning at Johnny's heels now, but Depp still beats them all by streets and autobahns. I have seen him now in Edward Scissorhands, Deadman (directed by Jim Jarmusch of the Coffee and Cigarrettes and more recently the Cannes 2005 winning Broken Flowers fame and on whom alongside Terry Gilliam I plan to post a blog shortly), Finding Neverland and a couple of other movies; and there is a certain silkiness of approach and subtlety of undertanding he brings to the characters he plays. Even a movie like Pirates of the Carribean (which incidentally stars Orlando Bloom alongside) an apparently comic role in a bravado cult movie-line, he brings so much to the role. He makes is all his movie. When it's a Johnny movie you are never out of Deppth!

* * * * *

Kerry Packer: The last week has seen the biggest event of perhaps the most catastrophic year of this millennium heretofore! The cricketing moghul who turned the world upside down in the Rand-era by introducing the ODI World Series - otherwise eponymously known as the Packer Series until it was officially accepted as a game worth considering blood brother to Test Cricket - died at the age of 68. It was a watermark but very sweeping sad moment. How else would the world of Lance Kluseners and Jayasuriyas and Yuvrajs and Kris Srikkanths have survived, if not for this invention! The Kiwis have tried their own share of Max and 20-20 series... and they have failed to uproot the fascination a ODI has till now. Salute the Great Gatsby of Modern Cricket, Late Kerry Packer, ladies and gentlemen! I shall try and post a dedicated blog later to this genius. I guess, juxtaposed next to his contribution, Sir WG can take a flight to moon and get back leisurely (if he wants he can stay there. It ain"t windy up there!)

* * * * *

Orhan Pamuk: It is getting a bit of tedium, this Case of Orhan "the Turk" Pamuk. The Turkish author - famed for his works My Name is Red, Snow, The Black Book et al. - perhaps the only of his ilk to have come from a bigoted and beleagured Turkey that is fashionably teetering on the edge of ambiguity vis-à-vis its entry into European Union membership, has been basking under the wrath of millions of fanatical Turks, who have been castigating him in all possible ways regarding his comments on the Turkishness of the National Turk Army (in a recent October interview to a German Press); who have been baying for his blood a-la Ayotollah for Rushdie's blood back in the 90s, for his apparent opinions upon the 1915-22 killings of 1.5 million Armenians and heck of a lot of Kurds at the hands of the Ottoman regime. First they went abuzz and paranoid and psychotic and mob-hysterical about his February comments to a Swiss paper about the Armenian alleged-Genocide. And then they issued some sort of a fatwa on him. Then they made a date for his trial in October. It was postponed.

They pushed it to December 16th. Now they have pushed it further to February. Grounds of adjournment and stay and postponement range from "non-availment of proper orders from the Justice Dept." to Outcry of the Western media. Ha! My Conspiracy Theory is this... I think, on a purely personal side it is turning out to resemble a purely sales-pitch by pro-Pamuk press and his retinue of small-scale industry (read publishers, agents and of the plumage) to keep him eligible for Booker, Nobel and whatnots. On the other hand, at a larger public scale it seems like an advertisement riot by the Turkish government to keep itself in the news constantly as the gather support for their membership. To project a "cry for freedom of expression" from media and artist community and then provide it (hopefully shortly) to a cued-timing, whereby the Western countries and the E.U member countries heave a sigh of relief; and Turkey can score a few brownies in its bid for EU membership. Of course, Greece is watching! They are not going to sit tight. As I write this, I truly adore My Name is Red and recommend it as a good laugh read. Have just started reading Snow. I would put Pamuk in the same scale of Italo Calvino in his ingenuity and on par with Eco in his plotting. Well, Dan Brown is a fake although he has better claims to pace and tempo in comparison with Pamuk.

* * * * *

The Ambler Warning is one kitsch I managed to read (though not in one sitting) in one bated-breath in a long while. I had to labour through Archer's latest False Impressions (am tagging to Samanth's review of the book) and did not think unputdownable about Crichton's State of Fear (although is it highly recommendable as a read); thought of the allegedly legendary Da Vinci Code as inferior even to Brown's own Digital Fortress and repudiate anything by Brown as nothing more than a distant pollutant particule cousin of any of Umberto Ecos; and refused summarily to even read beyond the blurbs of the last two Cusslers and Forbes lest I get into a comatose for recognizing good reads. Ambler is apparently Ludlum's last individual novel. So they keep purporting. How many more? I mean, with a mother of mother-lode of talent such as Robert Ludlum's you need not have to pull all those sackfuls of wool to ensure sales of his works, however posthumous the publications may be. If co-authored books such as The Moscow Vector could sell, Ambler definitely will take care of its 1 millionth copy. My personal paean for The Ambler Warning is due to various factors. It is a better book than what is considered to be his best yet - The Bourne series. Subject matter is similar. An individual's quest for himself and his identity, caught in a political stabilization web. Well, finally Ludlum has conclusively taken the step other authors have made in a financial hurry: towards the Bamboo Curtain that is slowly getting the world under its slow but sure and large dragnet - China. Nice thing, Ludlum was not alive to see the Iraq operation of the US and Saddam fiasco, else he would have joined the band in wasting his time in writing umpteen journeyman fiction versions of Three Kings (in support of the movie, I must say, it is a fun watch!). But back to Ambler. For stats, it is 480+ pages. Four Parts. Sweeps the world from Langley Base in US to Hongkong to Parrish Island off US to Taiwan off China to Paris and Davos in Mitteleurope! It moves from a search for an individual's identity - not to mention his totally changed face (remember the ol' time Desmond Bagley novel in which this guy goes to sleep in England and wakes up in Oslo to discover to his horror that he's had a face-off and has to remember to drive on the wrong side, er... right side in Norway of the road?) - to a huge plot by the US to keep healthy-minded South East Asian political leaders from living and hence transforming the world to a peaceful place. Behind all these is a bunch of followers of Mr. Ashton Palmer - a once highly-tipped hier to the US Gubernatorial position and now a Professor of Politics, incognito of course! - a sort of quiet maniac who wants to do a Ramana (a-la Captain Vijayakanth in the eponymous movie) to ensure the Machtpolitik, Realpolitik and Geopolitik supremacy of the foremost upholder of democracy in the Universe - United States of America. A brilliant, at one-go, unput-downable crescendo of a finish in Part Four, spanning about 100 pages. Just Buy It. Worth its Rs. 250/- (an edition by Orion Books for Sale in Indian Sub-continent only).