Category Archives: writing

Recovering from a summer cold in india

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Indira Ganesan, The Curtain, 2017

There is already an oxymoron in the title, for how can one get a cold in India? Yet, here I am, sniffling, sore throated, and tired. Luckily I am at my aunt and uncle’s, where I recover in an airy room, with a thick volume of Hercule Poirot stories nearby. There should be something romantic about this recovery, but for the physical discomfort. Outside, a crow caws, a dog barks, and the rumble of traffic is punctuated by the noise of motorcycles. A vendor calls out his wares.

Reading about Poirot, a Belgian in England, and a war refugee, a dandy who is poked fun at as he meticulously cleans his suits, as he gets the better of English policemen as well as criminals is an Indian pleasure. That is to say, Hercule may as well be Indian. I know these stories, but read again for the comfort. I read The Guardian to keep up with the current cruelties occuring in our world, the vile responses espousing hatred and ignorance from the elected officials. Christie herself expressed prejudice and racial stereotype in her work, but somehow I do not think the Belgian detective could. Somehow, I can see him throwing contemporary newspapers down in disgust, with deep distaste for what we have become. Mon Dieu, Hastings, I hear him say, what animals we are.

When I Was Seventeen, It Was A Very Good Year

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Enrolled as a first year at Stella Maris College, when I was seventeen, I was a freshman abroad.  I studied in the Fine Arts department, which encompassed both art history and studio art.  We began with Mesopotamia and Assyrian, learning to diagram Buddhist stupas, and number Buddha’s attributes in sculpture ( a top-knot, elongated ears, and our favorite, loti-form lips.) I found my notebooks on this visit back, which I haven’t seen in almost forty years.

Another circle, another fan

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This time in my aunt’s house, in Chennai.  Can time be measured in circling ceiling fans, beating back the heat?  In the afternoons, perhaps, but mornings, papers rustle, the breeze cool.  It’s been almost ten years since I’ve been here last.  The family has gotten smaller, and grief leaks.  My father; my uncle.  Meals are served, the rustling papers read.  Outrage over the news.  Could not a million be spent than in the personal acquisition of Princess Diana’s private letters?  Imagine if that money was given to produce a play based on the letters instead.  The best line I’ve recently read is in Interred with Their Bones, a novel by Jennifer Lee Carrell:  “If you must choose a church, go to the theater.”

Yes, in India, musing about the royals, reading about Shakespeare, under a circling ceiling fan.  Outside, the air is thick with the noise of traffic, worship, capitalism. The indifferent cows only come out at night.