Machines Like Me

Machines Like Me
By Ian McEwan

Robots aren’t taking over, panic not. They surely are what we humans create. We input, we download and we compute. We make them like us, or more like us. Is it possible they’ll become us?

We have not taught machines to lie, take revenge or get angry. We are still safe.

I read this book with a certain amount of dread and only McEwan can do that to me when there really is no ‘dread’.

“I was reluctant to touch him. I put my hand on his shoulders…My plan was to topple him towards me then ease him out of the cupboard onto the stretcher. I cupped my free hand round his neck, which seemed warm to the touch, and pulled him over on to his side. Before he hit the cupboard floor, I caught him in an awkward embrace. This was a dead weight. The fabric of the suit jacket became bunched up against my face as I lowered him. I got my hands into his armpits and, with immense difficulty and much grunting, twisted him onto his back while dragging him from his confinement. Not easy. The jacket was tight and silky, my grip was poor. The legs remained bent. A form of rigor mortis,…”

Suspend belief. Suspend history. A novel to be read with an open mind.

We have a love triangle. Charlie Friend purchases a handsome male replicant, Adam, for 86,000 pounds. He would have preferred an Eve, but all 13 Eves had already been snapped up, leaving behind 12 Adams . When Charlie gets home he plugs Adam in to charge, he clothes his new naked friend. From a manual he downloads to create Adam’s character, adds to the default programme.

Charlie is in love with the girl upstairs, Miranda, a university student. He gives her part choice of adding to Adam’s character. Soon Adam reaches a point when he too is in love with Miranda. He says to Charlie, “We are in love with the same woman. We can talk about it in a civilized manner.”

Adam breathes. He is intelligent. He has emotions, can love and he can be sad. He is a thinker, he composes Haikus. He surfs the net and he has a keen ethical standard. He works with the currency market and is highly successful at making money. Adam feels. Like this Adam the other Adams and Eves from his batch too, they feel enough to know when life becomes unbearable, they can and do commit suicide.

It is 1982. Besides human like robots we have self-driving electric cars, AI, Allan Turing, Margaret Thatcher and the Falklands War. Much of pre-1982 history becomes the present and is turned inside out. An alternate past and an alternate present. The story digresses at times. I had to go back and reread parts. An alternate British history running parallel to Charlie acquiring Adam. And there is also Miranda’s back story that could land her in prison or get her killed. There is the little boy, Mark, and his story. McEwan writes ‘children’ well from The Cement Garden, The Child in Time, The Children Act, to a baby in the womb as in Nutshell.

I enjoyed the book enough to have given five stars had it not been for the fact that at times back-story, unnecessary detail and “telling” back story breaks up the flow which is somewhat disruptive and confusing.

HIDING FROM INVASION

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Hiding from Invasion

Motor bikes roar to the gate,
men in green, Myanmar men
arrive masked and ready,
carrying machinery heavy and
light: weed-eaters, brooms, rakes.
Grass cutters to mow the lawn. Noisily
dinning the quiet neighbourhood
They spread grass scent raw, warm.

Sunday peace torn apart.
Mr Spooks will have none of it
Gone the observation deck
atop parked motor car.
Sun-snooze on best chair.
Gone.
Stretch on the damp grass.
Gone.
Roll in the dirty sand.
Gone

He seeks solace indoors.
He shuffles himself against papers,
keyboard and books on table.

Studying me his muted gaze says,
‘Don’t look, this is not me,
I am not here.’

Opening Sentence

Some time ago I received a link from my friend Melody that appeared in The Atlantic on how much time Stephen King spends on “opening sentences” to his novels. It is also interesting that he concentrates on an opening sentence

I hope some of our keen fiction writers who have not read the article will do so. I have bookmarked it. I am no fan of Stephen King but I read his “On Writing” twice and I am sure I shall find reading it a third time just as illuminating. Interesting how hard famous writers work

The first page of “God of Small Things” by Arundathi Roy gives us a clue to the whole story, I thought it was powerfully written and did not fail to keep one going.

One of the commentators says of opening sentences: “We’re intrigued by the promise that we’re just going to zoom.”

For me first lines are not a problem, it’s the endings I cannot come up with. First lines of some of my short stories the collection:

Floating Petals

“I am ten and my friends smell of fish.”
“It is still dark at predawn. I panic, I look around, can’t find myself.”
“Gods, they were many in our household.”
“When did they break your toes?”

Quite often opening sentences pose problems. “Open a book in the middle of a dramatic or compelling situation, because right away you engage the reader’s interest” says one author but quite often I find a plodding back story starts to unfold after that. And there times too when one reads a great and catchy first sentence or paragraph and the book quietly dribbles into mundane.

I partially agree with a reader who said:
“In my opinion, if an author needs a catchy first sentence to draw his reader in, he’s missing something much more important. (Similarly, if a reader judges a book by its first sentence, that reader must be so lacking in understanding of writing that why the heck would anyone write for him anyway?)
A good book is a good book. A catchy first sentence is the pretty parsley on top.”

Ouch!

ME MISTAKEN FOR A MURDERER

Author mistaken for fictional character

Before the publication of my first collection, when my short stories were published individually, I received an email from a reader in America. She had come across one of my short stories about a chauvinistic man who treated his new bride rather badly. The reader loved the writing but immediately assumed it was my life story. She was much distressed at my ill-treatment at the hands of my “son-of-bitch” husband. She said she herself was married to a wonderful, courteous, kind man who treated her well. Her comments made me furious that she imagined the incidents my personal experiences at the hands of a cruel husband. The story was not even written in the first person.

A few years later, at a reading, it was assumed the charming grand-mother in one of the stories was my grandmother. A listener commented how lucky I was to have such a wonderful grandmother. I had never known either of my grandparents, not from my mother’s side nor from my father’s side, and had not had close contact with someone else’s grandmother. This time I became mildly annoyed. I was a little amused too.

I am sure many writers are trapped in such boxes – readers assuming that the author tells his or her own story. That everything we write about comes directly from our own life experience. Observation and imagination seem to play no part at all. I could write a murder story and have the murderer not caught, and get myself arrested instead. Or have readers wonder why no one reported me. Am here still to write another short story.

Years have passed, and now I am the author of three published collections of short stories. I realize that this type of assumption and misunderstanding is a very good thing. My imagined fictitious work is so realistic, so too true to life that it is as good as a my life well told, the emotions and descriptions strong and clear beguiled the reader into feeling it personally. Flattered I must have experienced it to be so true to life, I couldn’t possibly just have imagined or plucked it out of nowhere.

A doubtful accolade!

Mywriters Penang Retreat

Anna organized the retreat and Diyaa arranged the Batu Ferringhi accommodation.

Rest of the group: Eashwer, Leela, Liz, Shrivatsn, Soo, Wan Phing, Wilson.

Nine writers of various genres and levels of fiction came together. An intensive writing and discussion session, Friday 15th Sept to Monday 18th Sept. We settled in and started off with goal setting where each member talked about what project they were engaged in and what their plans were for the four days.

The Gang

Flourishing and Budding Writers

Every day we had a time to write and a time to discuss what each one of us was doing. We arrived bursting with ideas, some ready to blossom and others needing tending and a bit more work.

Hard at Work

Efficient Eashwer brought his computer table, his compact PC and a big monitor.

Have Machine

ON 18th, after noon, we broke up, feeling like zombies, especially the writers who stayed up till 4am the night before. With goodbyes all round, the writers from Penang were meeting again that evening for some critique work.

In the meantime, there was another break-up afoot — a new tribe on the scene.

Committee Meeting
(secretly photographed)

Let’s wreck the cars — tear off their number plates (paparazzi in the bushes)

Anna

Diyaa

Eashwer

Leela

Liz

Shrivatsn

Soo

Wan Phing

Wilson

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Book Review — Nutshell

Nutshell by Ian McKuan

“Oh God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.”

Hamlet, William Shakespeare

I am a big fan of Ian McKuan. My love for his writings goes back to the Cement Garden (1978). Since then, I have read nearly every book he’s written, and I eagerly await each new masterpiece. No disappointment, each novel strong and precise.

Nutshell is a story told by a child in the womb. A tale of much humour, wit, cleverness. It’s insightful and suspenseful and often  times gripping.  But what appeals to me most as a writer is the author’s way with words.

The tale: in order to spend time with her lover Claude, who is her brother-in-law, Trudy asks her husband to give her a little time and space by moving out of their home, his inherited family home, while she is pregnant. John obligingly moves out. Claude, John’s brother, moves in to give Trudy some company and support. Together they plot to kill John so Trudy can inherit the family home and sell it. The lover and she then can enjoy their life together. There are no plans for the baby-to-be.

A tale of few characters …

An unborn child who is confused and worried about his future. He also wants to save his father from being murdered. The foetus would prefer “to get born and act” and not “lie idle and inverted wasting precious days”. He also worries about his mother, who will be an accomplice if they murder his father. The foetus says: “could my mother who never had a job, launch herself as a murderer? No pay, no perks, no pension but remorse.”

Trudy, a beautiful, manipulative mother-to-be, does not love her husband. She is carried away by love for her brother-in-law, and does not worry too much about the unborn child.

John, the father of the unborn child, is naïve and sees little beyond his interest in poetry. “His visits don’t end they fade” sums up much of the father’s character.

Uncle Claude wants the house and his brother’s wife and has hardly a thought for the unborn child. He’s prepared to resort to murder to achieve his goal.

A brilliant story, brilliantly written.

P.S. The author goes into descriptions of wines in too much detail, I thought — they border on too much telling — but the novel’s readability and interesting plot compensates for this slight irritation.

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The Dragonfly

Hanging from a Dewdrop

The Dragonfly

Let me hang from this dewdrop

My gossamer wings at rest.

Colours scintillating,

Iridescent eyes aglow

Hum stilled.

Before me drifts a mist curtain.

Floating, veil-like, tranquil

In windless whispers.

Poppies crimson and beyond the green

A shimmer of light refracting

No shadows embedded

In my dawn dream

Haze nearly gone,

Sun rays nearly here

I will not soar yet,

Not yet.

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EARLY WARNING

Early Bird Warning

Researchers have long known that chickens and birds can hear through their eggs—allowing them to imprint things like who their mother is, and after hatching enjoy the relationship and become capable of fending for themselves.

MagentaTwins

However, recent research has found birds singing to their eggs late in development may give the young a headstart in dealing with warm weather once they hatch. The heat the parent bird feels from the weather will be given to their offspring as an early weather advisory right through the eggshell.

Blind but all faculties working

This acoustic signal is potentially being used to program the development of offspring. Hearing the call affects growth relative to the temperature that is experienced.

Animals have very subtle ways of inferring how the environment is likely to change, and (being able) to develop and adapt accordingly.

Mother patiently singing, waiting

(Adapted from www.Smithsonianmag.com)

Photos: Leela Panikar

DIDGERIDOO DANCE

This magnificent dance had me in fits of laughter, besides tempting me to join in. The music, which possibly came about after the choreography, is perfect.

That dance better be spectacular in the presence of the lady you are trying woo. She is giving you careful consideration. “Is he impressive enough to be the father of my children or shall I just have him for dinner?”

Talk of spiders gives most people the shivers. Dark, ugly, scary and scream come to mind. Not rainbow colours and fancy antenna-work.

For Jurgen Otto, the Australian entomologist, the study of rainbow spiders of the genus Maratus has taken him more than a decade.

“Typically, he collects the beautiful arachnids from the bush then drives them to his home in Sydney, where he photographs and records their mating dances in a dedicated “spider room.” He then returns them to the wild, sometimes a 28-hour round trip.”

So far 48 species have been studied and catalogued and another 16 are waiting to be studied.

Otto, besides being busy doing scientific research, enjoys giving his pet arachnids
fun names like hokey-pokey, sparklemuffin and skeletorus. 

Mmm!

SEXIST

Paid to be sexist.

If you are a boy chick, within a day of being born (hatched), you will be separated from the rest of the gang. You’ll never get to know your mother and your siblings. You, with no egg laying capacity, are of no use to the chicken-egg framer and of no use to the chicken-meat man as your flesh will not be good enough, no breasts, see!

So chicken-sex experts known as ’sexers’, separate you from the female chicks. You,a male, will be grabbed by the neck, or a leg or a fragile wing, and hurled down a chute. Panic and scream for mother and wave your wings about all you want. Your tiny body will rush down mutilating you as you toss about. But don’t fret you are still alive.

Alive, torn you go into a grinding machine. You have been saved … as feed. You are now food for other animals that feed humans and their lucky pets. You’ll never know what happiness or love is. A family, nature and sunshine and the joy of playing on green cool grass. No one will know you, your intelligence, curiosity and sensitivity.

But take heart, you are not alone – over 30 million male chicks are disposed of in a year by us humans.

A SINGLE BOOK

A Single Room A Single Book

Slow down, read a book.

Recently I came across a short article about an interesting concept. A Japanese book shop, Morioka Shoten, concentrates on one author at a time and the bookshop stocks only the one title of an author for a period of six days… book of the week. Copies of that one title are available to the public.

With thousands of authors publishing and marketing books every day this concept could become overwhelming when deciding to choose which author is worthy of dedication. On display besides the book are artwork and photographs relating to the book, the subject matter and the author. Book readings are organized. Intimacy with the writer is created as the author is present to answer questions from readers and would be readers.

… Continue Reading

A Halloween Tale

The Singeing Shadow

The kerosene lamp almost out of oil. The children gone to bed. The animals shut away.

Ah Chai surveyed the shadows outside. It was late; no light appeared from the neighbouring huts. The rain had passed leaving the air moist and the trees heavy, wet in the dark night. There was no sign of their two dogs. ‘On the prowl again, fine guard dogs they make,’ he said.  He was surprised there was no barking from the village dogs either. It was too quiet except for a faint strain of Peking Opera from someone’s radio. He tossed his cigarette stub out, a neat smouldering arc. He spat, warm, smoky. He checked the door was properly fastened for the night.

He was about to secure the tin sheet that served as the door when he felt a presence. … Continue Reading

WE ARE STILL EVOLVING

Recently, at a luncheon with some close friends, our cheerful conversation took a wrong turn and some rather staunch Christians began to talk about the atrocities of Muslim fundamentalists. Torture, stonings, mutilations and beheadings were brought up, just before my favourite dessert, Kuih Talam was brought in.

I tried with a little timid interruption to mention that religious zealots, and armies in times of war, were equally brutal, if not more so. There were a few loud dissenters. I mentioned the War of the Roses and Joan of Arc and treatment of bonded labourers and slaves who were given the task of building the Great Wall of China and the Pyramids, in quick succession. One person at the table looked at me like he could be agreeing but the rest grew even more vociferous.

I tried to recollect a few more facts on torture and terror used for displaying and maintaining power, horror that men could inflict on fellow humans, but little support came my way.

A few days later in one of my readings I came across some of the ancient atrocities that were committed.

… Continue Reading

WE ARE PENANG PEOPLE

Don, Spooks and I have moved to Penang. We absolutely love it. We have acquired our selves a lovely and decrepit old bungalow with a garden. Quality of life is great. People here are kind and friendly and smile a lot. Weather is pleasant except between noon to 3pm when it is too hot to be walking about. Food, selection of different regions and fusion, is excellent, and is most reasonably priced.

We had always thought of of ourselves as Hong Kong people, had never thought we would ever leave our lovely home and garden in Ha Yeung, but pollution — air, noise, light, and tourist — has forced us to make this decision. We love this new paradise. All the same we miss you, Hong Kong.

Now where could they have hidden my village?

But we’re Penang people now.

2004 TSUNAMI REMEMBERED

Today, 26 December, Don and I send our love to all those who lost family and friends in the tsunami ten years ago. We share their pain; remember the day that brought so much destruction to the regions in the Indian Ocean. From our breakfast table on the beach we saw the giant wave approach. We had an easy escape.

Death Mattress

A floating mattress from a bed in our hotel, Le Meridien Khao Lak, Thailand. Bright sun and sharp shadow deceive us. The mattress is floating on a 4- or 5-metre wave of muddy water and debris that drowned all those on the ground level and level one of the hotel, all those who were having a relaxing morning in their beds after a wild and joyous Christmas party at our hotel the night before.

Our diaries of the event – 2004 Tsunami

Don: http://www.kleptography.com/gallery-tsunami.htm

Leela: http://www.leela.net/tsunami.htm

BLOOM READY FOR BLOODSHED

Imagine a Boy

Bloom ready for Bloodshed

Imagine a child, a boy 3 or 4 years old, from a family of six to ten children, too poor to give him a full meal, a proper home or education. Or imagine an orphan with no one to care for him. This boy will be taken on by a Madrasa run by fundamentalists. They will feed him and clothe him and educate him. He will spend his growing up years in the company of boys and men.

He will not learn anything but Koran related and religious matters, and of the might that once was held by the Muslims. He will learn of the suppression of the Muslims, according to the fundamentalists. He will learn of the atrocities and  the decadence of the West, the evil and sinful ways of the rest of the world. He will only get to know the harm done to the fundamentalists. He will read no newspapers or watch television.

He will grow up never ever having played with a girl, or ever having known the love of a girl or woman. He would never have been hugged by a female. As a teenager it is possible he may not know what a woman looks like except for a face or a pair of eyes. But there is a much promise for this young man: Virgins in paradise.

This parallel world produces the fundamentalists.

HARUKI MURAKAMI SPEAKS

Aurhor Haruki Murakami

Encouragement from a great source for the Hong Kong Occupy Youth.

“Accepting the award on Friday, he spoke of his own memories of the Berlin Wall prior to its fall 25 years ago this weekend, and attributed ongoing conflicts throughout the world to a system of walls that drive people apart based on intolerance, greed and fear.

Murakami said it is the task of novelists to help readers penetrate these walls, and that harnessing the power of each person’s imagination “could be the starting point of something.”

A world without walls can be created “in the quiet but sustained effort to keep on singing, to keep on telling stories, stories about a better and freer world to come, without losing heart,” he said. “We can see (a world without walls) with our own eyes, we can even touch it with our own hands if we try hard.

“I’d like to send this message to the young people in Hong Kong who are struggling against their wall right now at this moment.”

Student led peaceful protests in Hong Kong began on 28 Sept 2014 and is still going strong.

“Student-led blockades of major roads in Hong Kong have continued since Sept. 28 (2014) in response to an Aug. 31 decision by authorities in Beijing to restrict candidates for the territory’s 2017 leadership election to those vetted by a committee.

Six weeks into its struggle for democracy, the once-carefully planned Occupy movement has grown and shifted in ways beyond the imagination of organisers. And that raises a question: is the protest still a civil disobedience campaign?

More than a year before Occupy kicked off, its founders discussed their plans, organised meetings and wrote articles on their thoughts for a civil disobedience campaign. They published a detailed “manual of disobedience” for protesters to follow.

The ultimate aim of the campaign is to establish a society embracing equality, tolerance, love and care. We fight against the unjust system, not individuals. We are not to destroy or humiliate law enforcers, rather we are to win over their understanding and respect. We need to avoid physical confrontation, and also avoid developing hatred in our hearts.”

Book Review: THE GUEST

By Suneetha Balakrishnan

In this novella ‘The Guest’ author Suneetha Balan gives us an unusual take on a mother-in-law. Mothers-in-law are a much-maligned tribe. We hear endless seedy jokes about them, and often the jokes are unkind and cruel. We hear of horror stories of how they ill-treat their daughters-in-law often siding with their spoilt sons. We hear of them wrecking marriages. But in ‘The Guest’ we come across a different kind of mother-in-law. Here we come across the mother of a young man who falls in love with her son’s the bride to be. After their marriage the couple move in to live with the widowed mother. We follow this story of love in which the mother-in-law treats the wife of her selfish and often inconsiderate son with much attention and precious care. Together, the mother and the wife manage to convert the young man into a caring and family orientated person. Read this unusual tale, follow the twists and turns, enjoy.

HARD WORK PLUCKING STORIES

OUT OF ONE’S IMAGINATION…

But the pay off is great for for authors who make it. A recent short chat about my demise of interest in the Hong Kong International Literary Festival and it’s dearth of well-known authors has brought to light that we in Hong Kong need sponsors, big ones at that if the HK International LitFest is to survive. We have enough number of millionaires here, it is time to get them interested in improving the Hong Kong culture of books and authors.

I read with some interest that  investors of start-ups in Bangalore are backing  literary culture in India’s technology capital. The Bangalore Literary Festival is getting a big boost, big sponsorships from the business sector.

And here in Hong Kong the festival has had yet another change at the top. We now have a new manager, 26-year-old Jessie Cammack. Her SCMP profile says she “has lived in Hong Kong little more than a year” and has “spent the first four months doing an intensive Cantonese course”. Here’s wishing her and the festival the best of luck.

Our festival runs from October 31 to November 9, 2014.

Become an award winning writer if you want to travel first class, live in mansions and get rich.

It is unfortunate that Sir Naipaul’s agents did not state upfront what fees are expected for his showing up.

And now to who is invited and how it works.

An extract from a longer article in the Sydney Morning Herald:

“The late cancellation of Nobel laureate V.S. Naipaul from next month’s Ubud Writers and Readers Festival has exposed the fierce competition and delicate negotiations behind the flourishing international festival scene.

Since Janet DeNeefe founded the festival 11 years ago as a healing response to the Bali bombings, the Australian-born restaurateur and writer has built a successful annual event that attracts almost 26,000 visitors to enjoy talks, performances and food amid Ubud’s hillside rice paddies, art galleries, temples and resorts.

While her main mission is to showcase Indonesian culture and social-political issues, DeNeefe knows she needs big names to appeal to the foreigners – mostly Australians – who make up half the audience. She has just signed the musician-writer Nick Cave – a guest in 2012 – as an international festival patron.”

V. S. Naipaul

Lost headliner: V.S. Naipaul was let go after a fee demand.

“For this year’s festival from October 1-5, she invited the American writer Paul Theroux, who had expressed interest after eating at her Ubud restaurant Indus. When she rejected his request for a fee for which, she says, “I could have got David Attenborough”, Theroux agreed instead to appear at the Singapore Writers Festival in November.

DeNeefe then invited V.S. Naipaul, the distinguished but difficult 82-year-old Trinidad-born British writer, who recently ended a long feud with Theroux. To her amazement the Wylie Agency accepted, with the promise of first- and business-class travel and a luxurious villa.

The festival program was launched on August 1, headlined by “a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet a literary legend of the 20th century”. But this month the Wylie Agency contacted DeNeefe again, demanding a $20,000 fee, and after agonised consultation she decided to let Naipaul go.

As she announced his withdrawal on Friday, “the result of us being unable to accommodate Sir V.S. Naipaul’s 11th-hour requests”, he and Theroux were named as guests of India’s Jaipur Literature Festival in January.

“To be told about a week ago is pretty atrocious,” DeNeefe said. “When we did our sums we realised we would not be able to pay wages post-festival or move premises when we lose our donated space post-festival.

“Our cash sponsorship so far this year is less than $100,000, so we can’t spend 50K of that on him. I actually rejected some Indonesian musicians because we can’t afford them.”

Like DeNeefe, Australian writers’ festival directors resist appearance fees, and writers are generally content with travel expenses, a modest honorarium, publicity, book sales and a pleasant trip. Sydney Writers’ Festival brought Vince Gilligan, Alice Walker and Dave Eggers this year for no extra payment.

However, Perth Writers’ Festival is understood to have paid Martin Amis between $30,000 and $50,000 for exclusivity this year, perhaps to counter its isolation. The Sydney Opera House commonly offers $10,000 and paid more to bring Salman Rushdie to last month’s Festival of Dangerous Ideas. Melbourne’s Wheeler Centre pays some speakers on its year-round program.

While pressure is building to pay popular writers for their time on the road, most festivals run on tight non-profit budgets (though Singapore’s, for example, receives generous government funding – $A1.2 million in 2012).”

THE ISRAEL/GAZA DEBACLE

They Are Not Our Children

The Israel/Gaza debacle. I have the solution but only for one year.

Read on.

Sympathy of the world would, no doubt, be with a country that is constantly attacked by rockets, and the phrase is ‘unprovoked attacks’. But what kind of provoking is called for when the attacker in question is imprisoned in his country?

Gazan lives are completely controlled by Israel.

The Gaza strip is an area of 365 sq. km (141 sq. mi). It supports 1.82 million Palestinians whose lives are completely controlled by the Israelis. Gaza is locked in the south by Egypt. And the rest of the country, North and East is controlled by Israel, and bordered by a 3 km buffer zone. The 42 km long waterfront too is under Israeli control, no fishing and no shipping allowed, and recently children playing on the beach were killed by Israeli attacks.

Anything you can do we can do better is Israel’s policy and they can too. Hamas’s home-grown rockets and Palestinian boys’ sticks and stones against a Goliath. Israel fire power helped by US technologically advanced power of fighter jets, bombers, and tanks is no match for a defenseless Gaza.

Israel has accused Hamas of hiding weaponry in homes, schools, and mosques. Israel say their attacks are are pinpointed and target military installations, weapons cache and terrorists in Gaza. How is anyone able to pinpoint anything in a confined overcrowded place without killing and wounding civilians? There is nowhere for the civilians to escape to.

The most recent pinpoint has been a UN-run school, a place where civilians were sheltering. An attack was carried out even though the UN authorities had given the exact co-ordinates to Israeli authorities. More than 15 killed and 200 injured in this safe haven.

‘Chris Gunness, a spokesman for the UN Relief and Works Agency for Palestine refugees (Unrwa), also said the Israeli army had been formally given the co-ordinates of the shelter in Beit Hanoun.’ BBC.

And pin-pointed it is too when Flechette shells are used. These are illegal under international law and are not to be fired at civilians.

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/jul/20/israel-using-flechette-shells-in-gaza

Flachette Shell Darts

This image provided by the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights of darts from a flechette shell it says the Israeli military fired in Gaza last week.

‘The shells release thousands of 37.5mm metal darts that embed mini arrow in the body. Does Israel care for international law or common humanity?’

Come to the negotiating table but with no preconditions. Why would this be possible? Why would the Gazans want to continue to be blocked and live as they do, imprisoned in their own country?

The United States seems ready to step in and help resolve the problem each time there is a flare up. But U.S. shows no balance.

Good to hear the US has promised a $47 million aid to the Palestinians.

US aid to Israel amounts to billions. (US$130 million per year on going) Israel has been the largest annual recipient of U.S. foreign assistance for some time and much of this aid goes to help develop Israeli military power. Since 1976, millions have been given to develop their anti-missile system. U.S is the chief supplier of arms and military technology to Israel. Through the Excess Defense Article Israel also receives free rifles, grenade launchers and machines guns.

And all this to be used against whom?

The world watches this unbalanced debacle – the Palestinians imprisoned and killed and wounded in their own country for choosing to their own government and to live as they want.

I have a solution.

Role reversal. Let the 2million Israelis move into Gaza for a year under the same conditions that exist now, let them enjoy the restrictions. And the Gazans move into the border regions in Israel and enjoy what the Israelis have: freedom of movement, and basic necessities like medical attention, good water supply, constant electricity, fresh food.

And the Israelis in Gaza please don’t send off any rockets, for this is what you have been asking Gaza not to do.

MY BIRTHDAY

On this my birthday

I wish all my family and friends safe and peaceful lives. The world is shrinking with hate. I am shocked by the atrocities fellow humans inflict on each other and so much in the name of a God. Time to reflect and spread goodwill amongst all religions.

Love to all.

Shanta – Peace

It is by chance Shanta’s photo, age four, got into this image magenta lilies. And she is forty and a bit, and still symbolizes peace.

The Mysterious Disappearance

GRATITUDE LOST

MH 370, a plane and its load of crew and passengers disappeared on March 8th. Millions of dollars have been spent. Thousands of multinational specialists risking lives have spent hundreds of man-hours searching for the missing plane. The most advanced machinery known have been used.

Not a sign and not a clue of the missing plane. Every move made to find this plane by scientifically advanced nations has been fully reported. The whole world knows what is going on. A big puzzle indeed as we have moved past the 50th day.

But above all that what puzzles me most is the attitude of the grieving relatives and friends. Their belligerence and obnoxious behaviour confounds and shocks me. There has not been a word of gratitude, no appreciation shown for what’’s being done. No patience and no tolerance visible. The mourners insist their ‘request be taken seriously’. They want the Malaysian government and the airline ‘to return their disappeared relatives and friends’, and failing that tell them where they are.

Is this a new middle class risen up with new expectations? A new class raised to believe in unreasonable demands, blindly seeking certain rights.

The mourners have been flown to Kuala Lumpur by the Malaysian authorities. They have been fed and quartered in hotels in Kuala Lumpur and Beijing. Doctors and psychologists have looked after them and their emotional needs. The mourners have taken up squatters’ rights, resorted to violence towards airline personal and others looking after them. They have held protests both in Kuala Lumpur and Beijing. Protesters have been allowed with impunity to march to and be violent at the Malaysian Embassy in Beijing by a government that tolerates no protests.

I am flummoxed. These indeed are strange times we are living in. No appreciation for anything that is being done. Horrific, childish temper tantrums cloaked as sorrow seeking justice. And as one of Shakespeare’s characters may have said, ‘I want that pound of flesh, and I want it now.’ Though in reality the one that could offer that pound of flesh has disappeared without a trace.

Ha!

ROOTS

Roots

Roots spread
In harmony
Seeking no depth
Earth bound and floating
Sun-ray
Fueled
Moon-beam
Nourished
Rain
Fed

Leela Devi Panikar

LADY MAZDA

MAZDA MX5

LADY M

Lady Mazda, Lady M to my friends. I am retiring, after 21 years. Not that I have come to be run on rope, hope, and charity as Leela’s cars have known to be run before me.

Her vintage cars, a 1964 Datsun Fairlady, a 70’s MGB, and Vintage Triumph, were mostly run on those three until she met Don. She opted for a newer and more reliable classic, and a more lady like life style too.

She first spotted my cousins generation Mazda MX 5, at the Macau grand prix in 1991. But before she acquired me she waited for a white model to be imported into Hong Kong. She is a little particular about colours; white would better match her outfits. But in 1992 she and Don walked past Causeway Bay Mazda show room where I was quietly enjoying the admiration and praise of passers-by. One look at me and they fell in love, with me that is. Don convinced her racing green was more her style. The couple popped in; went for a test drive, and bought me outright. I became the LeelaDon Lady Mazda.

We, the Mazda Sports cars are the best-selling two-seat convertible sports car in history. Our Mazda family of sports cars are Jinba ittai – translated person horse rider. This sums me up. Me one with the driver, a team. My response to her driving is a perfect, I know her intentions. The two of us effortlessly united and forge ahead.

I have had few unusual adventures. There was a time when a cyclist beside me lost his balance tipped his large bucket of hotel-pigs-swill on me. I had the brunt of the smelly stuff, Leela had the windows up. And there was another time when the couple decided to spend New Year’s day in a cemetery up in the mountains and got lost. That was a bit scary. Mechanical I may be but wandering with ghosts is not my scene.

The Cemetery Stint

Then one very late night having arrived from Tokyo that day Leela drove around Hong Kong completely lost and on the wrong side of the road too. Somewhere in Wanchai a police man was blocking her side of the road. She tooted him, beckoned him to get out of the way. He came over, not too menacing, and she asked him to move aside and let her pass. He told her very politely she was going the wrong way on a one-way street.

Well it has been a fun 21 years.

My cousin, a 2006 model, is joining the family.

Zoom Zoom Ra Ra

She is no a lady like me. I am a classic soft-top. My smooth flowing silhouette is unmistakable, recognizable by my pop-up headlights. I emit quiet powerful roar, low-noise assurances. She too is a mean machine like me but a ‘zoom zoom, ra ra’ type. She lacks certain finesse but makes up for it with her silver sleek, airbags, and increased engine power.

Leela is a little cautious with my cousin, she likes being in control, manual control. She is not used to an automatic drive, does not know what to do with her left foot. She had better have that rock music going loud, to keep the foot tapping while driving.

Mazda Sports and LeelaDon the perfect Jinba Ittai.

Book Review NORWEGIAN WOOD by HARUKI MURAKAMI

“I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me…
this bird had flown.”
Beatles

Haruki Murakami borrowes his novel title “Norwegian Wood” from the Beatles.

On a cold soggy November day as Toru Wanatabe’s flight makes its decent into Hamburg a version of the Beatle’s track Norwegian Wood comes through the p.a. system. Thirty-seven-year-old Toru feels a shudder go through him. He remembers his story. Eighteen years have gone by when during a walk Nakao said to him:
“I’d never find my way back. I’d go to pieces and the pieces would be blown away.”
The pieces do get blown away but Toru remembers every detail of the sad and strange love story, a story of life and death.

It began as a tale of three close friends Kizuki, his girl friend Naoko, and Toru. They spend much time together. A short time later Kizuki who was good at everything and had everything, it would seem, commits suicide. After this Toru’s and Naoko’s friendship develop into deep love. She becomes a much-troubled girl and eventually ends up in a sanatorium, Ami Hostel, in the mountains.

Other characters come into Toru’s life too. A fellow university student, Nagasawa, strong, debauched. He leads a charmed life at his university and only reads books by authors dead 30 years with one exception, Fitzgerald. Reiki is Naoko’s interesting room-mate. She is wise, kind, and spends much time learning to play new pieces on her guitar. It is when visiting Naoko in the Sanatorium that Toru first hears a version of Norwegian Wood played by Reiki. Midori, another strong character, a wild and energetic girl teaches Toru to take life as it comes. Her energy and flirtatiousness and a sense of sexual freedom give much relief to Toru through his troubled times.

Norwegian Wood

Murakami’s characters are fully developed and strong, and strong too is his dialogue. As always he is good at balancing the light and dark side of life. Throughout the story Toru is torn between his loyalty to Naoko and his attraction to others.

This novel, like his other novels, is deep and philosophical, at times strange but always with a touch of humour. Much of the author’s love of Western music, of pop and jazz, comes into play in Norwegian Wood first published in in 1987

Toru’s painful love story is meditative and quiet. Naoko had insisted he remember her in the future, constantly reminded him not to forget her. He remembers.

SHIMLA, INDIA -1

Part 1

In November 2013 we spent 8 days in Shimla, Himachal Pradesh, India.

Shimla

Everywhere we went there were Ram Leela posters. I could not resist the temptation to pose with one

Leela Flavour

Shimla the capital of Himachal Pradesh was once known as Simla, the summer capital of the Raj. Steeped in history both Indian and British, Shimla is a gracious city. It is smoke free, plastic free and boasts 94.14 percent literacy rate.

At 2,200 metres (7,234ft) above sea level it seldom gets hot and enjoys snow in winter. A Camelot for me. We were in Shimla for 8 days at the end of November 2013. But alas no snow fell while we were there and there was no skating and skiing.

Sunny cool days, and chilly nights, temperatures ranging from 10c to 18c made November weather magical, but being dry it was a little too dusty, not quite right for body-warmed woolens that caught every mote.

And everywhere is bright and brilliant and colourful, more colour is added by the women in saris and other traditional clothes.

Girls

Garlands for Temple

Citizens of Shimla are kind, helpful, polite and amazingly generous. There are also a great number of dignified elderly people, calm and leisurely. At school break hordes of smartly uniformed students are seen everywhere. Shimla is also packed with local tourists, a haven for Indians from the south and other warm regions. We encountered very few overseas tourists. One thing that really stood out about the local tourists was when we were aiming our cameras at some scene they’d stroll right into our camera view and dawdle, fully aware of what was going on, so unlike Hong Kongers who are always extremely polite and accommodating when they see someone trying to take a photo.

The Ridge and the Mall are reminiscent of the Mall in Darjeeling. The area dominates social life of residents and tourists. It overlooks a ring of snow-capped mountains, and is lined by amazingly beautiful heritage buildings, an eclectic assortment of pleasing architecture many more than a 100 years old, some in ruins, others have aged well and are still in use.

Snow-capped

Mall Homes

Viceregal Lodge

Many of the very busy banks are tiny places, really old and sagging with the weight of Internet traffic. Only US dollars are welcome at the money exchange counters.
See Part 2

SHIMLA, INDIA – 2

Part 2

The wide Ridge, clean and with no through vehicular traffic, is where all tourists and locals with nothing to do but people watch spend their time; sitting on tiered benches all around or standing about chatting, snacking and, of course, people watching. At the end of the Ridge and where the old mall begins are horses for hire.

Horse for Hire

Children and a few adults get to sit on horses that are led up and down a short stretch. The horses do foul up the mall at times but sweepers are quick at hand and immediately clean up.

Here too are Monkeys.

Indifferent Model

Monkeys in the whole of Shimla range from tiny babies to many as large as medium sized fluffy dogs. It is interesting to see many residents caged in by bars and barbwire fencing, keeping inmates safe in and monkeys out. The monkeys on the Ridge are a cheeky and daring lot but seem harmless. They dislike people pointing cameras at them; they make faces, scold threateningly baring their teeth or turn away.

Most leave you alone, but a few snatch bags, sunglasses and food from unwary tourists and vendors.

Veering off and going down the path of any slope brings one into a warren of activity. Shops, stalls, restaurants, temples and dwellings balance precariously, built and supported on slopes and narrow steep ledges. They line the rocky and very narrow crowded pedestrian paths. A big pleasure of walking through the crowded lanes and stopping at times to admire and feel the scene is that no one tries to sell you anything. There are hardly any beggars pestering one unlike in other big cities of India. In the time we spent there we encountered only three disabled beggars.

SHIMLA, INDIA – 3

Part 3

Choice of Wool

The old mall consists of small shops and restaurants, vendors with a variety of goods and homegrown vegetables all on mats on the ground.

Veg Vendor

The route lead down a tortuous path to one of the largest hospitals, Tenzin Hospital.

In the Mist[/caption]

The rest of the city, the lower parts, consists of narrow paved roads that carry heavy horn blowing motor traffic. The congested roads choke with dust and exhaust. We were amazed at the skill of drivers who are able to squeeze through the narrowest of lanes with oncoming traffic, cyclists, pedestrians and parked vehicles. Hotels, office buildings and homes cling to the steep cliffs of mountains. Paths meander through the mazes of mansions and forestry of pine and deodar.

Shimla’s very similar to Darjeeling. Twisting, narrow roads and lanes are lined with stalls and shops some brightly lit and others dark as night. They stock local and foreign goods. We loved walking up and down these lanes until we were ready to collapse. Snack shops abound, hundreds of beautifully packaged snacks. And stands with cauldrons of hot oils frying samosas, pakoras and interesting savories, smelling delicious and warm.

Big Wok

Lots of dhaba style eateries offered freshly made hot parathas, and pickles.

Parathas and Pickles

Food was not too exciting for us – the usual North Indian stuff and some poor imitation Southern food.
We found Baljees Resaurant on the mall one of the best.

Baljees

Mo-mo (dumpling) stalls, especially in the cold nights, are inviting but there was a definite lack of vegetarian mo-mos.

Nothing available like the delicious chilli-cheese and spinach mo-mos of Bhutan, Sikkim, and Nepal.

P.S.
Warning: Avoid public toilets unless you plan on committing hara-kiri whilst in there and so not return to civilization. Restaurant toilets are bearable.

A Suitable Girl

Vikram Seth is back with a girl this time. Wondering if she is thick or thin. My 19 year-old Suitable Boy is 1,349 pages long.

Aleph Book Company has acquired publishing rights of Vikram Seth’s much-awaited ‘A Suitable Girl’, sequel to the 1993 bestseller ‘A Suitable Boy’. The novel is set for release 2016. Aleph will also be publishing the 20th anniversary edition of “A Suitable Boy”, set to release February 2014.

The announcement came after the author was asked to return a $ 1.7 million advance by his previous publisher, Penguin, in July, as he had failed to deliver the manuscript of the sequel on time. Though no figures have been revealed by the publication house on the signing amount,
Seth, in a statement released here Monday, said he was happy with the new association. “I am delighted to be working with David Davidar and Kapish Mehra. My publishing relationship with David goes back 25 years, and I have more respect and affection for him than for any other editor,” said Seth. “As for Lata’s mother (protagonist of ‘A Suitable Boy’), Rupa Mehra – she tells me that she highly approves of being published by a company backed by her namesake,” he added on a lighter note. Aleph Book Company is promoted by Rupa Publications India. “It is an honour and a privilege to publish Vikram Seth. We are delighted,” Kapish Mehra, managing director, Rupa Publications, said.
Novelist and publisher David Davidar says he is “beyond thrilled” with this deal. “We are thrilled to be given the opportunity to publish ‘A Suitable Girl’ — that would be a massive understatement. We are beyond thrilled by the prospect of publishing what will be, without a doubt, the publishing event of the decade,” said Davidar, co-founder of Aleph.

100 year Literary Nobel

Rabindranath Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) received the Nobel Prize in literature for Gitanjali on November 13, 1913, a hundred years ago. He was educated at home in Bengal; and at seventeen was sent to England for formal schooling but he did not finish his studies there.
Tagore was a foremost poet. Among his more than fifty volumes of poetry were many protests against British policies in India. Besides poetry he wrote musical dramas, dance dramas, essays, about travel and he wrote diaries. Tagore also left numerous drawings and paintings, and songs for which he wrote the music himself. He wrote two autobiographies, one in his middle years and the other shortly before his death in 1941.
In addition to his vast literary contribution in his latter years he managed the family estates, a project which brought him into close touch with common people and increased his interest in social reforms. He was a close and devoted friend of Gandhi. Tagore was knighted by the ruling British Government in 1915, but within a few years he resigned the honour.
‘For the world he became the voice of India’s spiritual heritage; and for India, especially for Bengal, he became a great living institution.’