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Voices from the War

War, bloodshed, guns and anguish- it is difficult to believe something as ghastly could have taken place on an island as tranquil and lovely as Sentosa. Tranquil, that is, as it must have been between the end of the Second World War and the invasion of the island by commercial predators. Even now, though, there are large pockets on the island that do not swarm with pleasure-seeking multitudes (of which we were undeniably a part- even so), which do not seem to draw crowds with the tenacity of gift shops placed strategically at the exit of every major attraction- theatre, gallery, park.

Fort Siloso is a relatively quiet section of the island (or so it was yesterday, thanks maybe to the heavy rain that suddenly started to fall, dauting potential families of visitors, but not strong enough to prevent us from running across the road to the entrance), and we were taken to the buildings by a quaint green bus, reminiscent of the past century and its glories. Don’t let the word ‘Fort’ mislead you as it did me- I’d expected a castle of sorts, huge intricate doors, gates and all, but it was more a military establishment. It was built by the British to defend Singapore and other Asian establishments from Japanese invasion, but that didn’t deter Japan from capturing Singapore during WW II.

Now, as a tourist spot, Fort Siloso offers you enough glimpses of history to send shivers down your spine- pictures of emaciated soldiers, people ravaged by war and running helter-skelter to protect themselves from raids and firing, stern, cold men sitting across tables and signing treaties for control over people whom they could later kill and torture according to their whims. A cottage has been remodelled to depict the various sections on ships that carried soldiers to Singapore- the sleeping quarters, the kitchen, the laundry and the tailor’s. Large fans sweep through the silent air in the room, their shadows falling eerily across the dimly-lit objects. As you step into the room, speakers play the voice of British generals shouting out orders mercilessly in harsh tones. You see the ingratiating smile on the face of the native tailor as he fits the Britisher, hoping, perhaps, for one kind word.

Large guns dot the hillside. How hard can it get to imagine ships wending their way into the harbour, spilling out tired, spent soldiers, or balls of fire being spouted out by the great guns and causing massive destruction to life and property? Through the rain, we got a spectacular glimpse of the harbour, the grey skies, the clouds hovering over the skyscrapers. The skies were menacingly grey as we looked up through the thick foliage, making our way to the Surrender Chambers. This is perhaps historically the most important part of the fort, featuring the surrender of Singapore to the Japanese: lifelike effigies of men at tables, working out (or destroying) the future of a people who had unwittingly been entrapped in the power struggles of two unconnected nations. Fort Siloso also served as a PoW camp after the British surrendered; imagine being isolated in dungeons on a secluded island, away from all civilisation and humanity, at the mercy of cruel men.

We peeked into a couple of underground chambers, but didn’t go through the tunnels for lack of time- it was creepy and musty in there, with the doors open and the lizards crawling across the walls- you don’t need high powers of imagination to think how it must have been back then, guns firing all around, never knowing when you’d be attacked. The fort indeed brings back to life the sounds and the sights of the war- the authoritarian voices, the stony eyes of murderers, the anguished cries of pain and separation, the mothers’ wailing, the children’s screaming- and the eternal question about the futility of it all, and why we still have so much faith in violence as the best solution to the problems of boundaries and territories. We’re either incorrigible, or incredibly stupid, as opposed to all our claims of being the most intelligent species on the planet.

 

Posted in Travel.

4 comments

By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – July 7, 2009


Four Weeks’ Reading

A motley collection of writing, most of it pleasing, some of it a let-down, a bit of indignation, a lot of satisfaction- the last four weeks of reading.

Miguel Street by V S Naipaul strings together snapshots of people in Port-of-Spain, their vocations and hardships, the current of life that runs through their struggles to make ends meet, the amusements and the simple joys that keep them going through endless days and nights. Ambitions and hopes more often than not come to naught, women fall prey to prostitution and men succumb to drink, but finally one young man breaks free from the imperceptible jinx and leaves his cloistered world to make it big outside. Never depressing, the book is a breezy, evocative read, and I’d say it’s a good way to begin an author you’re reading for the first time.

A Damsel in Distress is vintage Wodehouse. Maud’s troubles with her busybody brother and her aristocratic aunt and the subsequent confusion are hilarious. Wodehouse takes you on a thrilling ride through country streets, castles and Piccadilly; if only all the Mauds of the world had a PGW to rescue them from the predicaments they manage to put themselves into! On second thought, do these Mauds exist, or do I need to make another expression of gratitude to the Master of Humour? The mere glimpse of a Wodehouse book and the anticipation of decent humour, devoid of any traces of slapstick comedy, can get you through bleak nights and tiresome hours at work.

The autobiography season opens again. Something of Myself, Rudyard Kipling’s sketch of his life, is a decent insight into his life and the awe-inspiring literary circles he moved in- with contemporaries of that mettle, anybody would have needed an immense amount of talent to make himself known, and Kipling, of course, was a man of no mean skills. One of my favourite books from my school years is Stalky & Co., and it was interesting to read about the experiences in Kipling’s life that shaped the story. As a writer, I shall always admire Kipling for his gifts, but I cannot quite say the same about his ideas. Very colonial and superior in his outlook, his writing reflects a demeaning opinion of the ’subjects’ of British rule; a fault that I detested in Frances Hodgson Burnett as well. Faults we have many, but it does arouse your indignation when you find your people being looked upon as the rightfully designated slaves of a mighty Empire; where religions that advocate unknown methods are dismissed as pagan and worthless, native customs that are incomprehensible to the unaccustomed mind are only worthy of ridicule.

Continuing with religion, the last book I read was Catalina. To be honest, I’d expected much more from Maugham in terms of the story as well as the language, and it was a bit of a let-down. The undercurrent of humour and satire couldn’t be missed, of course, and the politics of religion (which, of course, applies to every religious order in the world) was disarming- how can people who profess welfare and faith act more to advance their own interests than in those of the millions who follow without discretion every word of theirs? They are only human, agreed, but the levels they can actually stoop to are astounding. The book opens in the troubled times of the Inquisition with sixteen-year-old Catalina’s vision of the Virgin, and her miraculous recovery from her infirmity. Maugham sees through the masquerades and the pretence and weaves a delightful story with some marvellously depicted, extremely human characters in Dona Beatriz, Bishop Blasco and Don Manuel, but somewhere towards the end, it just seems to lose its way and comes to a rather disappointing end. The language often seems repetitive, and some words are used too frequently for comfort- as if his vocabulary had suddenly deserted him. Maugham has done much better in his more famous works, and I am just glad I’m done with the disenchantment before moving on to the books that he is really known for.

Anita Desai, sadly, I abandoned. Clear Light of Day didn’t inspire me enough, and after a few pages where I felt like I was bobbing on the still shores of a lake without making much headway, I decided to give up.

I’ve begun on another autobiography, and it is extremely promising- how could it be otherwise, with a life as colourful and controversial as Boris Becker’s!

Posted in Books.

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By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – June 29, 2009


Oriental Delights

While I haven't gathered courage enough to let the experimentation go as far as the palate, I must confess I have been much enamored by whatever offerings of the Orient I have experienced thus far.

Saturday evening, I had the opportunity to take in two more monasteries. While the destination was the Burmese Buddhist Temple, the address, a nondescript street somewhere around Balestier Road, a short bus ride from Novena, did not make much sense to our cab driver. The map at the Novena MRT station not being enlightening enough as we scanned it for Tai Gin Street, we asked at enquiries, only to be told that there were quite a few monasteries along Balestier Road and they weren't aware of exactly what we were looking for. So, in the deepening blue dusk, under trees that spread their leafy branches wide open over the milling crowds at the churches and on the roads, in an area that brought back strong memories of our short visits to Bangalore, we waited for a bus.

Through narrow streets, past hardware and lighting shops, paint-stripped blackened walls and unsymmetric cobblestones, lanes that got increasingly reminiscent of home, we made our way on a bus in a spirit of adventure (a grandiose term for something as insignificant as this, I agree, but then we didn't know where we were headed); we got off at the stop by the first monastery we saw, and for perhaps the first time in Singapore crossed the road in the typical Indian way, cutting through the middle, for there was no crossing visible.

The monastery was medium-sized, not the one we'd been looking for, but pretty and inviting in its own way. Incense sticks and candles burnt at several places, and one of the people apparently working there welcomed us as we stood hesitantly outside, explaining the significance of the deities there, telling us about the Laughing Buddha, and then leaving us to wander through the room at the back and look at the glorious statues of the Buddha. The people here, as I have often said, are extremely warm and friendly, and importantly, have ready smiles.

A sudden streak of fortune led me to notice the sign that said 'Burmese Buddhist Temple' as we wandered out aimlessly, wondering where to go next. Off we went down the narrow lane, the much sought-after (for us) Tai Gin Street, crowded by a number of students and worshippers. I wonder if there is some sort of Burmese settlement there, because quite a few streets around bear names from Burma Irrawaddy, Rangoon etc.

The Burmese Temple is a grand affair. A magnificent marble statue of the Buddha, carved in Burma in 1917-18, sits in state in the hall, inspiring awe and a feeling of incredible peace. A congregation was gathered there, singing verses, as a steady stream of people kept flowing in. We went upstairs to the third storey, where the muffled singing from downstairs wafted up; people sat quietly there, paying silent obeisance to the standing statue of the Buddha. There being few people up there, we were able to see the statue more clearly, and what a piece of workmanship it was indeed! The folds of the Buddha's robe fell gracefully against His strong, reassuring figure, the fingers of the right hand held up in a gesture of blessing. High up near the ceiling were pictures depicting various incidents from the life of the Buddha- Angulimala, dragons, elephants, demons, masses of clouds- it indeed felt like being in a temple back home. The tepid blasts from fans in the sultry evening, the quiet and the calm of minds coming to rest and surrender to a greater power, the irreplaceable sense of well-being: a sense of déjà vu was inevitable, of course. There are some mysteries that no amount of questioning can unearth.

Weekends are also often devoted to Buddhist music. One of the walks through the alleys of Chinatown led to the discovery of a shop that sells Buddhist music and artefacts; I love the Tibetan mantras that I picked up, sung in a mystical, soothing female voice, complemented by traditional wind instruments and drums, and as you hear them, it is hard not to be transported to the heights of the Himalayas, to imagine yourself by a prayer-wheel, monks walking to and fro, clouds drifting dreamily by a red-brick shrine nestled in a nook of a snow-clad mountain rising ambitiously into a lilac, sun-sprinkled sky, wrinkled women in colourful shawls and young women with babies smiling from the windows of stuffy little houses. The mantras are a delight- familiar verses couched in unfamiliar language to suit the pronunciation of their tongue; for instance, Om Mani Padme Hum becomes Om Mani Bae Mae Hom. What doesn't change, though, is the sincerity and the tranquility.

On to more materialistic pleasures, the Orient has always been an infinite source of trinkets, fabric and lore. Precious stones in unimaginable, pretty colours are extremely attractive, even if you are a practical girl with little interest in jewellery. I have already been lured into jades, amethysts and corals. Maybe sapphires, next? Tantalising indeed are the strings of agate, onyx, emerald, pearl and garnet, like treasures tossed out of a wrecked ship washed ashore from a distant century. What surprise is it, then, that they should warm the heart of a person who likes to revel in the unreal?

In broad daylight or at night, when blue glass reflects sunlight or the skyscape glitters with the lights from office towers, when the neon sheen blots out the simple, primitive shimmer of the faraway stars, the world comes back to what we call normalcy, puts on the garment of 'civilisation' and pretends and preens. Beneath it, though, the ghosts still lurk, the songs of the past reverberate and call, the stories strike a chord, and through all our pretentiousness, we thankfully succumb.

Posted in Travel.

3 comments

By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – May 4, 2009


A Season turned Upside Down

Not in years has the Formula One season got as unpredictable and exciting as this. The first three races of the season have seen two different, not much fancied teams win, with the ‘inevitable’ frontrunners biting the dust as they try hard to forget a most difficult start to the new season.

The rule changes have helped bridge the gap among teams, and all of a sudden teams like Toyota, Red Bull and Honda (in its new, entirely modified avatar as Brawn GP), which once vied to be the best of the rest, have thrust themselves out of the shadows and completely outclassed Ferrari and McLaren-Mercedes. With Toyota taking the top two spots in qualifying for the Bahrain GP and Red Bull and Brawn GP performing creditably, the teams that formed the middle and the back of the pack last season are stamping their authority this season. Ferrari and McLaren have been left puzzling over where exactly things are going wrong, and if Ferrari indeed decides to concentrate on the 2010 season, it will probably not be entirely in the wrong. Unreliable performance backed by some unwise decision-making has resulted in their failing to score a single point yet in 2009; vaguely reminiscent of the 2005 season when they played second fiddle to Renault, with the major difference that this time around, a number of ex-midfield teams have surged ahead to claim their place, and nothing short of a miracle of perfect reliability and performance can bring them back. McLaren, too, have managed to get themselves into murky waters not just on the track but off it as well, and their frequent run-ins with the FIA are not quite furthering the purpose.

It is indeed interesting to see how well F1 can continue to rouse viewers, especially as all the teams with cult followings fail to perform. True, change is good, but somewhere deep down, you also want the traditional powerhouses to do well, if only because they have been instrumental in lending the sport the charm and whatever competition has existed over the last few seasons. While drivers like Jenson Button and Jarno Trulli seem to be getting their due finally and youngsters like Sebastian Vettel are proving their mettle, it would be good to see last year’s title contenders come back in contention and add to the storm that is brewing. What fun I anticipate!

Posted in Formula One.

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By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – April 26, 2009


A Country that Cares

Singapore is a country where citizens really try to make a difference to the way things are run. They are proactive for sure, and when they voice their concerns, it is evident that they are heard immediately and prompt action is taken.

Quite a bit of whatI know of their efforts comes from the newspaper distributed at the train stations on weekdays. ‘My Paper’ is an extremely praiseworthy attempt at keeping the people of this country abreast with the happenings, and a platform for themselves to alert one another to things of note and be on their toes all the time. You never know who might be watching and chastising you for your misconduct in public, so you always have to be careful about how you behave lest you should find yourself in the newspapers for doing something gross or not abiding by the rules.

From students who vandalise or treat people with contempt to people who refuse to give up their seats on the train to those who need them more, appreciation for people who work hard (recently, ladies who distribute the paper at the stations were lauded by readers or their friendliness), road accidents (of course, there aren’t too many of them, because rules here are stringent), or regulations that citizens might have a grouse against, the paper carries reports on them all. And it isn’t just regional in nature. While the primary focus is on happenings in and around Singapore, there is quite a lot in it about China and India as well, key players in the world now, and regional superpowers. Recession, business, sport, music, television, cinema, some light, heartwarming writing- indeed a good way to pass time on the train. The team behind the paper is pretty young and enthusiastic, and  I am sure everyone there works really hard on making it what it is- a clean, kitsch-free paper, and a far cry from many of the ‘urban’ supplements we have back home, which seem to thrive on Page 3 sensationalism or yellow journalism.

What is most impressive is how people really care and try to make a difference. Of course, it helps that those at the helm of affairs also listen to them and try to address their problems. No pompous speeches, no chaotic politics. This is clean, exemplary governance. Singapore is said to abide strictly by its laws. If stringent regulation is needed to keep things in check, so be it. They are a hard-working lot and their efforts show in the precision with which the country is run. Life here really spoils you to the extent that I sometimes dread having to come back home to work in the dust and the grime- and you know what I mean by that. However, we are probably not as callous as we were, and I am sure things are changing for the better. Optimism helps.

Posted in People.

3 comments

By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – April 25, 2009


Back to Business

The Formula One season begins this weekend at the Australian Grand Prix. This time, the hype and anticipation seem more justified than usual, considering the fact that there are some genuine changes coming into force; the FIA is doing more than just amending the qualifying rules this time around. The introduction of the Kinetic Energy Recovery System or KERS, while optional, does seem to hold some promise, of course counterbalanced by reduced downforce and aerodynamic changes; so does the introduction of slick tyres, albeit with the use of both soft and hard compounds in each race still being mandatory.

The whole business of recession has taken its toll on F1. With Honda pulling out and jeopardising the population on the F1 grid, the epitome of reliability, Ross Brawn, came to the rescue with the Brawn GP team. Brawn force with Rubens Barrichello, reminiscent of the good old Ferrari days when a legend called Michael Schumacher stalked the circuits, along with the charismatic Jenson Button, should definitely pack some punch and bring life into a grid that is raring for a show of unpredictability. BMW drivers Robert Kubica and Nick Heidfeld linger on the horizon as men of immense talent, and hopefully this season their consistency will develop into improved performance and race victories. Toyota still remain the sometime-soon-will-prove team, the wins have remained an unrealised dream, and Jarno Trulli and Timo Glock (in particular, after the notoriety he gained following the dubious slowing down at the Brazilian GP 2008) will really have to work some magic to justify their presence on the grid.

Renault seem to have entered the latter stages of convalescence, and after their strong showing at the end of 2008, Fernando Alonso should be a happier man than he has been the past couple of years. Some flamboyant Latino spirit seems imminent this year, with Alonso, Massa and Barrichello promising much. Boys, you’d better deliver.

Force India, through some stroke of luck, are not the last team on the grid in terms of their position on the pit lane; that will not carry them up the grid when it comes to points, sadly, and Giancarlo Fisichella will have much work to do to add to his tally of points as his career evidently enters its last stages. Adrian Sutil, well, is it misfortune for him or luck for Force India? Time will tell, though there doesn’t seem to be much on the surprise or unpredictability front coming in from that quarter.

The heirs, the sons of ex-F1 drivers, unfortunately, are yet to create their own identity. Talented but still in the shadows of drivers delivering more consistently or worse still, of their fathers, Nico Rosberg, Kazuki Nakajima and Nelson Piquet Jr. have their tasks cut out for them. With younger drivers waiting in the wings or already on the grid, this is possibly their last chance to get a firm foothold in the sport.

One rule I would recommend the FIA include in next season’s changes is a ban on the name Sebastien (or Sebastian- irrespective of the way it is spelt). The Red Bull-Toro Rosso combine seems to have a knack for picking them out, though I’m sure nobody is really complaining. While Sebastien Bourdais was nothing much to talk about last season, Sebastian Vettel proved a stunner, winning the Italian GP. This season, he can well play the role of upstart, if not a potential title contender. That will have to wait until Red Bull take their game up several notches. Sebastien Buemi, much praised and watched out for, replaces Vettel at Toro Rosso as the young ‘veteran’ slides up into Red Bull. Mark Webber remains at home there, though, still waiting for the performance of a lifetime.

Ferrari remain unmoved from their position of favourites, of course, as Kimi Raikkonen will try to refute all the criticism of last year as critics insisted he was losing focus. Massa will attempt to get over the bitter loss (how cruel it is to lose the championship by a point!), putting his guts in. McLaren-Mercedes, on the other hand, have had a rather rocky start to the season with chassis problems and testing crashes, but can pre-season testing be a true enough indicator of what the races will be like? Lewis Hamiton will drive his heart out before he concedes the championship for sure, Heikki Kovalainen perhaps trying to prove a point beside his more fancied teammate.

This season will not feature races in North America. F1 is growing increasingly Asian in terms of geography as seven of the seventeen races this season take place in Asia or Asia-Pacific. Call me old-fashioned, but I do admire the natural settings of European circuits much better than the polished to perfection, blue-and-grey swanky structures of the new ones springing up all over Asia- not to mention the street circuits among skyscrapers, a patch of harbour and sleek yachts thrown in to relieve the monotony. Whatever happened to the forests, mountains and chateaus? Oh yes, this is F1. It’s all about money. And also surprises, plotting, sportsmanship. So what are the odds like for the drivers?

Speculation ends (or begins?) this weekend.

Posted in Formula One.

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By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – March 27, 2009


What Makes a Book

How do you pick your books?

A few days ago, I read an article on the books blog of the Guardian which mentioned how certain books are worth owning just for their covers. Oh, the pleasures of possession! While being too possessive about books is probably viewed as plain old selfishness, you must take into account how much it pains the owner of a much-loved book to see the beginnings of a dog-eared edge or fingerprints on a glossy cover…it isn’t like the yellowing or the brown spots that are the sign of age and make the book seem very real, if you know what I mean.

I looked at the books I brought back from the library yesterday, stacked now on my table, and scrutinised their covers. All Quiet on the Western Front has a yellow, faded, blurred cover that reminds me of the inky black pictures from the World Wars, the Dandi March and the numerous sessions of the Indian National Congress, where row after row of faces stared ahead, unseeing and thoughtful; Annie Besant wrapped in a shawl, a graceful womanly presence among the straight coats and khadi kurtas and twirling moustaches of brave, troubled men. Isaac Bashevis Singer’s Old Love has a quirky cover with figures in sharp lines, for some reason making me feel like an undergrad in a musty room in a University hostel, preparing for a lesson in literature. (Don’t ask me for an explanation on the comparisons; I have none.) Animal’s People is simple and plain, nothing much to write about, a little like A Thousand Splendid Suns, but not quite as bold. Kanthapura is colourful and very like the copies of R K Narayan’s novels. Different publishes, yet similar styles. Was that some kind of stereotype for pre-independence Indian authors writing in English?

I picked none of these books for their covers. It was the blurbs that attracted me, and I must confessed that the fact that Animal’s People was shortlisted for the 2007 Man Booker made me more than justifiably curious. I never learn, you see. The Booker winners or contenders have never really satisfied me. Kiran Desai was okay, Arundhati Roy got rather repulsive at times, Anne Enright was sometimes incomprehensible and absolutely revolting most of the time. I still expect better from Indra Sinha, though. Hope and optimism, that’s the new me. The reason I picked up Kanthapura, though, was downright silly. True, I wanted something earthy, rustic and Indian after the overdose of ‘civilisation’ I’d been subjecting myself to, but what really spurred me on was the realisation, when my roving eyes suddenly hit the name, that my mother had studied it in college for the prescribed ‘non-detailed’ lessons. The funny part is she hardly remembers anything of it now, but I’m extremely keen on reading it. Raja Rao isn’t as impressive as Narayan, but maybe that is the way he intended the narration to be. Atleast that’s what he says in the foreword.

I do pick books for their names, pretty often. Famous names, attractive names, curious names. Covers don’t really matter. Names are more powerful than covers, I think. Think of A Brief History of Tractors in Ukrainian, and The Hindi-Bindi Club or The Saree Show (or some such title). Which of these would I rather read? I’m probably being silly, but the first inexplicable, mysterious title attracts me infinitely more than the other two which sound like books written by aspiring Page 3 women, wives of businessmen or writers for a vague, glossy women’s magazine that has little of sense to offer. (I’m way off the target in all probability, but come on, I think NRI stories are causing an overkill. Culture shocks are inevitable, but we definitely have more to us than garish colours and raucous Aunties.) Covers come later. It is indeed a delight to run your hands on the raised letters of a smooth cover or on the spine of a book, but it isn’t quite as much a deciding factor for me as the name of the book.

In the end, though, it’s what is inside the book that matters most. The keen, sharp feeling of disappointment that shoots through you when a book you expected much of fails to deliver, when writers flatter to deceive; the extreme delight and thrill that comes from brilliant writing- such real emotions these are, capable of making or breaking a day. Oh yes, words do create magic.

 

Posted in Books.

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By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – March 8, 2009


Parent Attack

Trust not-so-young Indian parents to show off their “general knowledge”.

Whether this “trivia” was put to good use in school and college and directed into useful channels of quizzing, or not, it certainly serves as a trustworthy irritant for reasonably young nerves. Not to talk of the poor, incomprehending child that is caught in the midst of all the ostentation.

“What animal is that?” Loud, clear, ringing tones.

“Tiger?” Meek, nervous, terribly unsure.

“The King of the Jungle?! Come on, you know it.” Incredulous, coaxing and threatening.

Silence. A moment or two of the heavenly bliss that one craves for and finds in the most unexpected places. Oh, how much enlightenment can come from three-quarters of an hour of inane talk thankfully endowed with those blessed pockets of silence! From the silence, by the way, not the talk.

“It is a lion.” The other parent. Defeat, submission, a tinge of embarrassment. The child isn’t learning much. Let’s send him to school earlier than we thought we should. And tuitions, too.

Before I leave you craving for a pocket of silence, let me also tell you that this is just a sample. The other things I was forcefully, unwillingly taught that Saturday night was that fawns are the young ones of deer (or deers, as our young Tamizh Maami insisted on calling them), tapirs have sharp noses, zebras have stripes, and those thick-skinned animals that wallow in the mud are bisons. There, now that I have dutifully shared my knowledge, let me explain what triggered off this whole rant. It isn’t fiction at all; not a bit. It is based on a conversation which I cannot say I eavesdropped on (ugh! not the most obsessive-compulsive voyeur would choose to eavesdrop on something of this sort), or overheard (this, because it was carried on as audibly as possible). I was on the Night Safari with three of the girls, and we were ensconced comfortably in our seat, ready to lose ourselves in the mysterious wonders, habits and habitats of nocturnal creatures, when along came this couple with a very young son, and just our (or is it my?) luck, they plonked down right behind us. So for the entire duration of our trip through the park, in the lovely darkness with the breeze carrying the breath of the forests and some not-so-enticing natural odours, we were forced to put up with the agonising coaching of the parents, a most uninterested child squeezed between the two wildlife enthusiasts. (I cannot think of a more sarcastic term.) The mother, we came to a unanimous decision after the trip, was the most excited of them all, almost jumping out of the tram in her excitement to see the Indian buffaloes in their incongruous Singaporean setting, the prowling lions and the sleeping tigers. (Digressing: the guide on the trip said tigers are natural energy conservers and sleep a lot, upto 20 hours a day. Indeed? Um…can we have something more interesting than that, because we know enough human beings who do that, and that fateful night, I was actually in the midst of them. Lucky me, my flatmates don’t read my blog.)

The trip, setting aside the unwanted presence, was soothing and enriching. When you see animals in their natural settings and watch them in their power and glory, you are awe-struck and want to see them flourish. The importance of conservation hits you harder when you see for yourself how nature abounds in wealth and how cruelly we are destroying it all. The gentle eyes of the elephants and the deer seemed to tell a story of immense suffering, and you just felt the urge to go stroke them and tell them that you’d be able to set things right.

Hope is a good thing to have. To be hopeful is almost as good as being single.

Posted in People.

7 comments

By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – February 24, 2009


A New Experience

So I took this really long, unannounced sabbatical because I felt like it, and faded into total oblivion. I am writing now from this distance, and life has changed in many ways, and I am perhaps more independent and confident than I ever was. Deep down, though, it is still the same. I love the rain as much as I did, and shall plague you with my thoughts on it as much as I want to. So bear with me.

I am in Singapore. It is a new city, an entirely different world from what was. The precision of life, of every little detail, and the extreme levels to which man can take the comforts of living is astounding. So much precision that sometimes, despite myself, I feel a longing for the chaos and colour of home. Behind the painted faces lies courtesy and kindness; they are indeed a very polite people, and the ready smiles and the quiet respect they show one another proves it.

Through all the new and exciting experiences, my fascination with people endures. It is marvellous to study them and their actions and get a glimpse of their lives (curiosity, not voyeurism). This is a whole new culture waiting to be explored, to be dug into, and I have fallen in love with quite a few things here in this little city-country.

True, there isn’t much in terms of nature here, and I really miss the rolling hills back home. Large, flat areas, covered over with tall box-like structures remind you of a sometimes maddening sameness. Blue and grey skyscrapers shoot up into the sky, a testament to the hard work and determination of a small little country. A confluence of cultures strikes you as you walk through the streets and the malls (of which there are plenty); what makes this place so popular? Sadly enough, the answer is commerce. This is a place where you can spend all you want. You would always find something to buy, whether you need it or not, whether you even want it or not. It entices and attracts with its sparkle and glitter; the much-famed Sentosa was disappointing in its artifices. But I was here during the F1 Singapore GP weekend- the tickets were all sold out before I set foot in the country, but I will never forget the sight of a Ferrari and what looked like a BMW whizzing by as I passed the street circuit during qualifying- the whine and the roar of the engines, the glorious atmosphere- I am definitely not missing the race if I’m still here when it comes around this season.

Notwithstanding the so-called deception of all the commercialism (which probably makes the place such a delight to live in), it is indeed a lovely city to be in, and certainly an experience that I wouldn’t miss for the world.

 

Posted in Life.

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By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – February 8, 2009


Books and Retirements

Mila 18 is one of the most marvellous books I have read in a while. Set in the Warsaw Ghetto, it is an engaging story of Jews standing up to the Nazis. Leon Uris describes in a compelling fashion the trials of the Jews as they withstood the onslaught of heavily armed Nazi attacks with their ragged armies formed by ordinary people. With extreme determination, the Jews stood up to wave after wave of evil, endless crimes and horrors perpetrated against them by the arrogant, indifferent Nazis under the leadership of Hitler. It is really hard to describe the way I felt when I imagined a large mass of humanity struggling to survive despite the indignities being heaped on it. Such books make one appreciate life better, to realise how blessed one is not to have to suffer such atrocities.

What an irony that I was in the midst of this particular book when I heard, for the first time, about a woman named Irene Sendler. Sendler, who died recently at 98, smuggled 2,500 Jewish children out of the Warsaw Ghetto to give them a chance at life. Mila 18 describes just such people, who dedicated their lives to giving the rest of their kin a chance to live. It was an extremely risky job, and they did it really well.

Uris describes war not just through cold facts, but by delving into the hearts and minds of people who were involved in it. You can feel the grit and the anger of Andrei Androfski, the quiet determination and frustration of Alexander Brandel, the bravery of the Catholic Gabriela Rak who defied her people to come to the aid of the Jews; while most other Poles cowered under German domination, people like Rak came forward to help the Jews out of their misery. It is hard to conceive how anybody on this planet can be capable of such cold-blooded cruelty. But it has happened, and continues to.

It’s rather disappointing to think Justine Henin is retiring so early. I had been expecting her to play for two more years at the least, to win a Wimbledon title, the only Grand Slam title that has eluded her. Perhaps it wasn’t to be, or she would have won it last year. She capitulated in a bizarre fashion to Marion Bartoli in the 2007 semi-finals, throwing away her best chance to win arguably the most prestigious Grand Slam title and prove her skill on grass. I must admit that my loyalties had begun to get a little confused with the rise of Ana Ivanovic, but I did want Henin to win as much as possible because she had very little time ahead of her. However, she is retiring gracefully, while at the top, and she will be remembered long for her talents, playing  amidst a host of female players who depend on brute force. She hasn’t been having a very good season this year, and obviously she knows best if she is really going irreversibly downhill. Her announcement did come as a shock, though; perhaps her turbulent personal life hastened her decline. Alongwith fellow Belgian Kim Clijsters, she came as a breath of fresh air in a women’s game that was increasingly depending on power and force, rather than skill. The summit will probably belong to East Europe again, with the Russians and the Serbs leading the pack.

Another star female sportsperson, Swede Annika Sorenstam, has announced her decision to retire at the end of the season. I haven’t really followed her career or exactly been a fan, but she was the first female golfer whose name I knew, and I respect her for the stature she has earned in yet another male-dominated game.

I shall go back to reading My Name Is Red now. It is pretty different from the books I’ve been reading all this while, and I find it pretty absorbing. The power cuts have made my progress miserably slow, for I really don’t fancy holding a book for long with sweaty fingers, perspiration running into my eyes as the rain clouds stubbornly refuse to grant respite from over-40 temperatures.

Posted in Musing.

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By Jayalakshmi Srinivasan – May 16, 2008