Shiva's Arms

Intermission

2012-01-30T12:53:00.000-05:00

later, 'gator

Evgeny Kissin: Happy Birthday

2012-01-27T20:05:00.000-05:00

It's Mozart's birthday!

Virginia Woolf

2012-01-25T19:03:00.001-05:00

Rabindranath Tagore's voice

2012-01-22T08:57:00.000-05:00

Guiomar Novaes plays Chopin's Berceuse

2012-01-19T07:43:00.000-05:00

My Winter Poem

2012-01-17T09:57:00.007-05:00

Flicker Vertigo

Two old pilots play chess in the park,
hearing aids off, cataract eyes
unable to track disturbances
in an air of newsreel memories.
Contrails corkscrew
toward animals cringing in fur
like dowagers in a bad neighborhood,
and glint struck off a propeller tells a story
begun far from here. It's a parable made luminous
with silver nitrate and dust, about their wars,
when charged images flicked past too fast to register.
Information received at 15 spins/second
always condenses thought to pudding,
ricochets off the exits
under the perpetual threat of fire.
A riffle of stills, too, can fool the eye
into a perception of continuous motion;
the brain fills in what’s missing,
the blanks between light and light,
a corrugated sky hanging over
the theater’s false ceiling. It's where
wounds still bloom, where a pounding
in the temple calls up fists full of summer poppies
pushing through the scarred gray crust of winter.

Pongal

2012-01-14T05:45:00.002-05:00

Just when you thought the festival season was over, Pongal is upon us. This is a secular harvest festival, also known as Makar Sankranti and Tamizhar Thirunal (The Festival of Tamils). In Tamil, there is a saying, Thai Pirandhal Vazhi Pirakkum, that means "the birth of the month of Thai will pave way for new things." The festival lasts for four days, during which old clothes are burned in a bonfire, fresh milk is allowed to boil over (the literal translation for Pongal),and a bull-taming contest called Jallikattu is organized. People eat sugar cane and decorate their houses with kolam, and brothers are encouraged to give their sisters gifts of money.

In my novel RESCUING RANU, I set a scene in the third day of the festival:

Nela and Ranu looked out on a passing parade of decorated cattle, horns painted and covered with shining metal caps. Multi- colored beads, tinkling bells, sheaves of corn and flower garlands surrounded their necks. “It is Mattu Pongal,” the girl declared. “End of winter!”

“It is why we take oil baths,” Nela told her. The girl cocked her head. She had only learned the ritual, not the origins. Nela said, “Once Shiva asked his bull, Basava, to go to the earth and ask the mortals to have an oil bath every day and to eat once a month. But Basava made a mistake. He announced that everyone should eat daily and have an oil bath once a month! Shiva banished Basava to live on earth forever. He would have to plough the fields. This is why we appreciate him.”

Something, a detail, the half-glimpsed gesture, a particular scent perhaps, caught Nela’s attention just then. She did not answer Ranu’s stream of questions about the bull, but scanned the scene before her, narrowing her eyes to sharpen her vision. Nearly lost among the commotion of lowing beasts, shouting vendors, and rickshaws, she saw a disheveled man slumped in a chair. He was stirring his drink as if that small motion took all of his strength. His skin, waxy and hanging like steamed folds of fabric, looked feverish even from a distance. Nela’s body recognized him before her brain remembered his name. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.

Gurdjieff Chants "Hymns and Dances" - 01

2012-01-13T08:52:00.000-05:00

How About Those Resolutions?

2012-01-11T15:45:00.002-05:00

Eleven days into it, how are you doing with yours?

* "New Year's Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual." - Mark Twain

* "But can one still make resolutions when one is over forty? I live according to twenty-year-old habits." - Andre Gide

* "Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense." – Ralph Waldo Emerson

*"Why won't they let a year die without bringing in a new one on the instant, can't they use birth control on time? I want an interregnum. The stupid years patter on with unrelenting feet, never stopping – rising to little monotonous peaks in our imaginations at festivals like New Year's and Easter and Christmas - But, goodness, why need they do it?" – John Dos Passos

* "For last year's words belong to last year's language. And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning." – T.S. Eliot

* "Good resolutions are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account." - Oscar Wilde

* "Time has no divisions to mark its passage. There is never a thunder-storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols." – Thomas Mann

* "I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me." – Anaïs Nin

Poulenc - Improvisation 7

2012-01-07T11:13:00.000-05:00

Birthday boy

Optimism

2012-01-06T09:45:00.000-05:00

Woody Guthrie's Resolutions

2012-01-05T09:03:00.001-05:00

What are yours? I'm recycling last year's.

Jimi Hendrix - Band Of Gypsys Auld Lang Syne 31/12/69 2nd show

2011-12-31T14:06:00.000-05:00

Michelangeli plays Scarlatti - Sonata in C major

2011-12-27T17:04:00.000-05:00

Bach - Christmas Oratorio, BWV 248

2011-12-23T18:31:00.000-05:00

Christmas Waltz - Chet Baker & Wolfgang Lackerschmid

2011-12-23T07:39:00.000-05:00

Ophelia's Letter to Santa

2011-12-21T12:53:00.004-05:00

Dear Santa:

How does my lord? I am fine. I believe ’tis possible you did not receive my wish list last year, or that it fell into unsavory hands and was rudely tampered with before reaching you, as all you brought me was a chastity belt and some granny underpants. I pray that this one flies to you untainted since this year hath really sucked. I wish for the following:

— He’s Just Not That Into You (book and DVD)

— “All About Me” Lock and Key Diary

— National Geographic Flower and Leaf Pressing Kit

— Coastal Deluxe Automatic Inflatable Life Vest

Fingers crossed,
Ophelia

...from http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/letters-to-santa-written-by-shakespeare-characters#.TvD5GOAurzM.twitter

painting by Janet Snell

The Best Book Sale I've Ever Seen

2011-12-05T14:00:00.004-05:00

Until December 20, Writer's Lair Books is offering Shiva's Arms and other books absolutely FREE. You pay S&H, that's all. Season's Greetings!

Holiday

2011-12-04T20:19:00.006-05:00

A friend suggested I make this collection available for holiday giving, so here you go! It's called Color and the preview will show you the whole thing. The less expensive paperback version is available here

Hindsight

2011-12-03T10:50:00.001-05:00

Maurizio Pollini plays Debussy L'isle Joyeuse

2011-12-01T08:17:00.000-05:00

Two Takes on the Same Folktale

2011-11-30T09:36:00.001-05:00

#2

2011-11-30T09:30:00.004-05:00

HOW THE CHIPMUNK GOT THE STRIPES ON ITS BACK.

DO you all know the little striped chipmunk which lives in our woods? He has a cousin in far off India called the geloori.It is said the stripes came on the back of the geloori in a wonderful way.

One day the great Shiva saw a little gray chipmunk on the seashore.He was dipping his bushy tail into the sea, and shaking out the water on the shore.Twenty times a minute he dipped it into the ocean.

In wonder, Shiva said, “What are you doing, little foolish, gray, geloori? Why do you tire yourself with such hard labor?”

The geloori answered, “I cannot stop, great Shiva.The storm blew down the palm tree, where I built my nest. See! the tree has fallen seaward, and the nest lies in the water; my wife and pretty children are in it; I fear that it will float away. Therefore all day and all night I must dip the water from the sea. I hope soon to bale it dry.I must save my darlings even if I spoil my tail.”

Shiva stooped and with his great hand stroked the little squirrel.

On the geloori’s soft fur from his nose to the end of his tail, there came four green stripes! They were the marks of Shiva’s fingers, placed there as signs of love.

Shiva raised his hand, and the water rolled back from the shore. Safe among the rocks and seaweeds, the palm tree lay on dry land.

The little squirrel hastened to it; his tail was now high in the air. He found his wife and children dry and well in their house of woven grass-blades.As they sang their welcomes to him, the geloori noticed with delight that each smooth little back was striped with marks of Shiva’s fingers.

This sign of love is still to be seen upon the back of chipmunks.That is the reason why in India, good men never kill them.

A man who loves both children and chipmunks says, when he tells this story, “Perhaps our squirrels, though Shiva never stroked them, would be grateful if we left them, unharmed, to play in the maples in our woods.” (from Project Gutenberg)

Seven Ways to Stay in the Writing Groove

2011-11-29T17:41:00.003-05:00

Do the holidays have you worrying that you'll slip out of your creative groove? Here are a few tips I've found helpful:

1. Don’t vamp for time: there is no perfect clutch of hours in which to write. Establish a schedule and stick to it. "Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work," Flaubert told us. A corollary to this might be, “Don’t wait around for inspiration to strike. It’ll only hit you when you’re at your desk.”

2. If I didn’t believe that writer’s block was a hoax, I’d break it by switching genres. When I was composing my novel Shiva’s Arms, I’d work on it until I stalled, then switch to Samsara, the poetry collection I was making at the same time. Similar themes (cultural identity, the meaning of home, metaphysical conflations of mortal and immortal) in both works made the overlap easy, and added a layered richness to each. And I never suffered whiplash.

3. Read widely and deeply. If you can take classes or workshops that are slightly over your head, do so. If not, when you read a novel, Flaubert’s Sentimental Education, for example, also read criticism on the same book. In this case, I’d choose Pierre Bourdieu’s Rules of Art.

4. Stay connected to your work. I carry a small notepad with me everywhere and let my mind wander to my work-in-progress while I’m doing other things. Joyce Carol Oates once said that housework helped her concentrate. Repetitive movement loosens thinking. Remember how your little nephew would spill all the family business the moment you put him on a swing? Resting my case…

5. Let your routines and rituals assist you. As soon as they stop helping, change them. Fickleness is its own reward! When I was younger I’d write after the house had been put to bed, when everything was quiet. I insisted I could think better surrounded by the dark. Now I do better with shorter writing stints throughout the day.

6. Utilize psychological distance. When you change your way of thinking about a character in concrete terms to abstract ones, new connections occur. You might develop empathy for an unlikeable character, and drive your story in a new direction, for instance. This happened to me with the mother-in-law, Amma, in Shiva’s Arms.

7. At the end of the day, leave yourself hanging. If I stop writing in mid-sentence, I’m encouraged to plunge in at that spot the following day. No checking e-mail or fiddling with the lamp (or SAD light-box). Just me and the words, wrestling again.

Pitch

2011-11-29T17:11:00.005-05:00

Did you ignore the Black Weekend frenzy, too? I can help you out -- my books are on Amazon, and there are more books, calendars,and art portfolios at Lulu, where a 30% off sale is raging until midnight. Just so you know.

Five Reasons to Give Books for the Holidays:

ONE: One book can speak volumes.

TWO: Books make a room look smart.

THREE: Books are a bargain; e-books even more so, like, for instance,Rescuing Ranu.

FOUR: The writer does the work, and you get the credit for good taste.

FIVE: Books don't spoil, and are always the right size and shape. Like money.

Intermission

2011-11-06T18:05:00.000-05:00

We'll be back...

Takagi Masakatsu - Birdland

2011-11-05T09:11:00.000-04:00

The Centrifugal Eye, Live!

2011-11-03T08:36:00.004-04:00

My sister Janet and I have work in this issue, which is as much about mood as it is about writing. It’s about movement: action and inertia, substance, absence, departure, and arrival. It’s about temporary place, negative space, loss, and gain.
Read it here

Man Asian Literary Prize

2011-11-01T10:33:00.004-04:00

“The Wandering Falcon” by Jamil Ahmad
“The Good Muslim” by Tahmima Anam
“Rebirth” by Jahnavi Barua
“The Sly Company of People Who Care” by Rahul Bhattacharya
“The Colonel” by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi
“River of Smoke” by Amitav Ghosh
“1Q84″ by Haruki Murakami
“The Folded Earth” by Anuradha Roy
“Please Look After Mom” by Kyung-sook Shin
“The Valley of Masks” by Tarun J. Tejpal
“Dream of Ding Village” by Yan Lianke
“The Lake” by Banana Yoshimoto

That's the longlist. Who do you like for the prize? Razia Iqbal, chair of the judging panel, says what connects these books is a thing that happens when we read good fiction: the cumulative impact of sentence after good sentence is transforming for the reader.

BOO

2011-10-30T14:44:00.001-04:00

Happy Halloween!

HIS DEAD WIFE'S PHOTOGRAPH, a ghost story

2011-10-28T08:34:00.001-04:00

(by S. Mukerji)

This story created a sensation when it was first told. It appeared in the papers and many big Physicists and Natural Philosophers were, at least so they thought, able to explain the phenomenon. I shall narrate the event and also tell the reader what explanation was given, and let him draw his own conclusions.

This was what happened.

A friend of mine, a clerk in the same office as myself, was an amateur photographer; let us call him Jones.

Jones had a half plate Sanderson camera with a Ross lens and a Thornton Picard behind lens shutter, with pneumatic release. The plate in question was a Wrattens ordinary, developed with Ilford Pyro Soda developer prepared at home. All these particulars I give for the benefit of the more technical reader.

Mr. Smith, another clerk in our office, invited Mr. Jones to take a likeness of his wife and sister-in-law.

This sister-in-law was the wife of Mr. Smith's elder brother, who was also a Government servant, then on leave. The idea of the photograph was of the sister-in-law.

Jones was a keen photographer himself. He had photographed every body in the office including the peons and sweepers, and had even supplied every sitter of his with copies of his handiwork. So he most willingly consented, and anxiously waited for the Sunday on which the photograph was to be taken.

Early on Sunday morning, Jones went to the Smiths'. The arrangement of light in the verandah was such that a photograph could only be taken after midday; and so he stayed there to breakfast.

At about one in the afternoon all arrangements were complete and the two ladies, Mrs. Smiths, were made to sit in two cane chairs and after long and careful focussing, and moving the camera about for an hour, Jones was satisfied at last and an exposure was made. Mr. Jones was sure that the plate was all right; and so, a second plate was not exposed although in the usual course of things this should have been done.

He wrapped up his things and went home promising to develop the plate the same night and bring a copy of the photograph the next day to the office.

The next day, which was a Monday, Jones came to the office very early, and I was the first person to meet him.

"Well, Mr. Photographer," I asked "what success?"

"I got the picture all right," said Jones, unwrapping an unmounted picture and handing it over to me "most funny, don't you think so?" "No, I don't ... I think it is all right, at any rate I did not expect anything better from you ...", I said.

"No," said Jones "the funny thing is that only two ladies sat ..." "Quite right," I said "the third stood in the middle."

"There was no third lady at all there ...", said Jones.

"Then you imagined she was there, and there we find her ..." "I tell you, there were only two ladies there when I exposed" insisted Jones. He was looking awfully worried.

"Do you want me to believe that there were only two persons when the plate was exposed and three when it was developed?" I asked. "That is exactly what has happened," said Jones.

"Then it must be the most wonderful developer you used, or was it that this was the second exposure given to the same plate?"

"The developer is the one which I have been using for the last three years, and the plate, the one I charged on Saturday night out of a new box that I had purchased only on Saturday afternoon."

A number of other clerks had come up in the meantime, and were taking great interest in the picture and in Jones' statement.

It is only right that a description of the picture be given here for the benefit of the reader. I wish I could reproduce the original picture too, but that for certain reasons is impossible.

When the plate was actually exposed there were only two ladies, both of whom were sitting in cane chairs. When the plate was developed it was found that there was in the picture a figure, that of a lady, standing in the middle. She wore a broad-edged dhoti (the reader should not forget that all the characters are Indians), only the upper half of her body being visible, the lower being covered up by the low backs of the cane chairs. She was distinctly behind the chairs, and consequently slightly out of focus. Still everything was quite clear. Even her long necklace was visible through the little opening in the dhoti near the right shoulder. She was resting her hands on the backs of the chairs and the fingers were nearly totally out of focus, but a ring on the right ring-finger was clearly visible. She looked like a handsome young woman of twenty-two, short and thin. One of the ear-rings was also clearly visible, although the face itself was slightly out of focus. One thing, and probably the funniest thing, that we overlooked then but observed afterwards, was that immediately behind the three ladies was a barred window. The two ladies, who were one on each side, covered up the bars to a certain height from the bottom with their bodies, but the lady in the middle was partly transparent because the bars of the window were very faintly visible through her. This fact, however, as I have said already, we did not observe then. We only laughed at Jones and tried to assure him that he was either drunk or asleep. At this moment Smith of our office walked in, removing the trouser clips from his legs.

Smith took the unmounted photograph, looked at it for a minute, turned red and blue and green and finally very pale. Of course, we asked him what the matter was and this was what he said:

"The third lady in the middle was my first wife, who has been dead these eight years. Before her death she asked me a number of times to have her photograph taken. She used to say that she had a presentiment that she might die early. I did not believe in her presentiment myself, but I did not object to the photograph. So one day I ordered the carriage and asked her to dress up. We intended to go to a good professional. She dressed up and the carriage was ready, but as we were going to start news reached us that her mother was dangerously ill. So we went to see her mother instead. The mother was very ill, and I had to leave her there. Immediately afterwards I was sent away on duty to another station and so could not bring her back. It was in fact after full three months and a half that I returned and then though her mother was all right, my wife was not. Within fifteen days of my return she died of puerperal fever after child-birth and the child died too. A photograph of her was never taken. When she dressed up for the last time on the day that she left my home she had the necklace and the ear-rings on, as you see her wearing in the photograph. My present wife has them now but she does not generally put them on."

This was too big a pill for me to swallow. So I at once took French leave from my office, bagged the photograph and rushed out on my bicycle. I went to Mr. Smith's house and looked Mrs. Smith up. Of course, she was much astonished to see a third lady in the picture but could not guess who she was. This I had expected, as supposing Smith's story to be true, this lady had never seen her husband's first wife. The elder brother's wife, however, recognized the likeness at once and she virtually repeated the story which Smith had told me earlier that day. She even brought out the necklace and the ear-rings for my inspection and conviction. They were the same as those in the photograph.

All the principal newspapers of that time got hold of the fact and within a week there was any number of applications for the ghostly photograph. But Mr. Jones refused to supply copies of it to anybody for various reasons, the principal being that Smith would not allow it. I am, however, the fortunate possessor of a copy which, for obvious reasons, I am not allowed to show to anybody. One copy of the picture was sent to America and another to England. I do not now remember exactly to whom. My own copy I showed to the Rev. Father —— m.a., d.sc., b.d., etc., and asked him to find out a scientific explanation of the phenomenon. The following explanation was given by the gentleman. (I am afraid I shall not be able to reproduce the learned Father's exact words, but this is what he meant or at least what I understood him to mean).

"The girl in question was dressed in this particular way on an occasion, say 10 years ago. Her image was cast on space and the reflection was projected from one luminous body (one planet) on another till it made a circuit of millions and millions of miles in space and then came back to earth at the exact moment when our friend, Mr. Jones, was going to make the exposure.

"Take for instance the case of a man who is taking the photograph of a mirage. He is photo graphing place X from place Y, when X and Y are, say, 200 miles apart, and it may be that his camera is facing east while place X is actually towards the west of place Y."

In school I had read a little of Science and Chemistry and could make a dry analysis of a salt; but this was an item too big for my limited comprehension.

The fact, however, remains and I believe it, that Smith's first wife did come back to this terrestrial globe of ours over eight years after her death to give a sitting for a photograph in a form which, though it did not affect the retina of our eye, did impress a sensitized plate; in a form that did not affect the retina of the eye, I say, because Jones must have been looking at his sitters at the time when he was pressing the bulb of the pneumatic release of his time and instantaneous shutter.

The story is most wonderful but this is exactly what happened. Smith says this is the first time he has ever seen, or heard from, his dead wife. It is popularly believed in India that a dead wife gives a lot of trouble, if she ever revisits this earth, but this is, thank God, not the experience of my friend, Mr. Smith.

It is now over seven years since the event mentioned above happened; and the dead girl has never appeared again. I would very much like to have a photograph of the two ladies taken once more; but I have never ventured to approach Smith with the proposal. In fact, I learnt photography myself with a view to take the photograph of the two ladies, but as I have said, I have never been able to speak to Smith about my intention, and probably never shall. The £10, that I spent on my cheap photographic outfit may be a waste. But I have learnt an art which though rather costly for my limited means is nevertheless an art worth learning.

Diwali!

2011-10-24T12:12:00.003-04:00

Diwali (Deepavali, in the south) is now upon us. Deepa in Sanskrit means ‘light’ and avali means 'a row', and all of India is ablaze with fireworks, candles, and oil lamps.
The lights recall how villagers set out diyas to guide Rama home after vanquishing Ravana, the return from exile that forms the basis for the Diwali celebration. Oil lamps such as the ones pictured decorate thresholds during the Festival of Lights to welcome Goddess Lakshmi, also. Lakshmi is the goddess of wealth, and devotees worship her with oil, turmeric, soil from the River Ganga, grains, durba grass, flowers, and festive vegetarian dishes – khichuri, naru, narkel bhaja, chirey and taaler phopol. Worshippers may stay awake all night, awaiting the goddess.
The word 'Lakshmi' is derived from the Sanskrit word Laksya, meaning 'goal'. The goddess is usually depicted with four hands, representing dharma (righteousness), kama (desires), artha (wealth), and moksha (liberation from the cycle of birth and death). As a female counterpart of Lord Vishnu, Mata Lakshmi is also called 'Shri', the female energy of the Supreme Being.
Diwali is a five-day festival, but my husband recalls that his family condensed it into one. The best part for him as a boy was the setting off of firecrackers. His brothers and he would wake in the dark, and go across the courtyard of the Om building to the gymkhana where there was a long fence. They would place the flowerpot fireworks on the vertical metal rods and set a line of Atomic Bombs burning along the chain link row. Dangerous, but thrilling! Then the children would go back home and take a ritual bath with gingerly oil, and powder. Breakfast was muruku, jalaibees or halwa. Dessert for breakfast—what’s not to love? Gift-giving came next, with brand new clothes. In this household, there was no gambling, although it is practiced in some families, in honor of Parvati’s famous dice games with Shiva.
Desserts like those just mentioned are a huge part of the Diwali celebration. A favorite at our house is halwa. It is all things to all people, this dessert--a pudding or fudge. In some recipes, it's based on semolina, like the southern version called Kesari, and has a texture like gelatin. Other versions use carrots or mung beans.
Halwa is not just for eating. Apparently, you can tease with it as well. In Tamil Nadu, if you ask someone "Are you trying to give me halwa?" you are asking if he's trying to outsmart you. In Mumbai, the word is used to imply simple. "Halva hai kya?" means "Is it that simple?" In the north, halwa means a mish-mash. "Halwa bana diya" means "you made a Halwa out of it".
Let's just eat the thing, shall we? Heat 1/2 cup unsalted butter at medium heat. Add 1 cup cream of wheat. The mixture should turn a pink/ gold color. Add 2 cups water. Stir quickly --no lumps! Add 1 cup sugar, raisins and cashews. And have a happy Diwali from Shiva’s Arms!

Origin of Diwali

2011-10-24T11:13:00.000-04:00

The Ramayana is an epic poem attributed to the Sanskrit poet Valmiki. It’s in couplets (slokas) using a meter called Anustup. The verses are grouped into sargas, and the sargas are grouped into six books called Kaandas. They detail the life of Rama, whose return from exile forms the basis for the Diwali celebration.

Killing the Messenger

2011-10-23T11:46:00.001-04:00

Shopping List

2011-10-22T11:46:00.004-04:00

Did you forget to pick up a Diwali gift for your favorite Mama and Mami? Not to worry, my two Indian-themed novels and the prequel are for sale at Kindle. Cheap, fast, literate -- what's not to love?

2011-10-21T17:54:00.000-04:00

Tough Room

Preparing for Diwali

2011-10-17T19:57:00.006-04:00

The holiday season all across India is in full swing now, and it's only natural to wonder how other people prepare for and celebrate Diwali, so let's ake a peek inside the household of my fictional character Nela and her adopted daughter Ranu and see what they're up to:

One night, long before dawn, Nela awoke to the sound of
fireworks. Someone else might have identified it as gunfire, but this
pop was distinctive, and immediately brought her childhood back to
her. It was Divali, the Festival of Lights celebrating Rama’s
triumphant homecoming after killing a foe, the time of year when
she and Ramesh would rush out of the house after an excited, light
sleep, armed with Atomic Bombs, and Flowerpots. Arms full of
firecrackers saved for and selected weeks before, they would race to
the gymkhana across the street. No matter how early, there were
always children already there, waiting for the brother and sister
famous for balancing the flaming flowerpots on the vertical bars of
the chain link fence and setting off the fuse of the Chinese crackers.
Soon the night bloomed with burning flowers, hovering over whole
neighborhoods before dissolving.

Now Nela rubbed the sleep from her eyes and opened the front
door. There was Ranu, crouched in the fallow garden, setting off a
few tiny blazes. The path from the kitchen door to the plot had been
lined by diya pots, and a kolam made from rice paste drawn outside
the porch. How long it must have taken Ranu to do this! Nela ducked
inside before the child noticed her and the surprise was spoiled. She
went to her bookshelves. The child needed a Diwali gift! There was
no time now to make traditional sweets or buy new clothes, but a
book would do. Nela picked up her Gita and drew her finger along
the spine, rubbed her thumbs over the embossed cover. How could
she part with this piece of her history? Chitti had given the book to
her when she was still too young to understand it, although she
could have recited any story from it on the spot.

She took the volume out to Ranu. “Happy Diwali,” she said. “This
was my auntie’s book. You have seen it before, at the hut. Chitti gave
it to me, and now I give it to you.” The child received the book like a blessing.

on Genre

2011-10-17T15:58:00.005-04:00

I recently clicked on a group named My Genre Fiction Can Kick Your LitFic's Ass, where a debate about the merits of literary fiction versus genre fiction raged. Accusations hurled from practitioner and aficionado alike are cliches by now -- pretentious language goes up against formulaic plots and stock characters, inscrutable meaning takes precedence over entertainment. But how to define literary fiction? I found this take on SheWrites:

1.Literary fiction puts strong focus on how the story is told. “Literary” writers play with form, point of view, and language. Readers find themselves paying as much attention to the manner of telling the story as to the story itself.

In Shiva's Arms,I employed a multiple POV technique that recalled film's Rashomon Effect for one critic. And my use of language, strongly influenced by my work as a poet, affected many readers positively, but one thought my language was "fractured for effect".

2.In literary fiction, readers are asked to do some work–make connections, deduce motivations, recognize turning points. There’s plot (or there should be!) but the plot is there to reveal themes, not just for the fun of the action.

Although I included glossaries in both of my novels, I hope the readers' exploration won't stop with unfamiliar words. The theme of altruism in Rescuing Ranu,for instance,is revealed through the relationship between Nela and Ranu. It transforms Nela, and might encourage a reader to familiarize herself with the mathematics that underscores that transformation: Hamilton's Rule, and how questions of loyalty and relatedness work in her own community.

3.In literary fiction, characters wrestle with the big issues. Characters, and readers, come to a deeper understanding about the human condition. Literary fiction deals with “truth” with a capital T.

Animosities between in-laws, even complicated by a culture clash, are classic, and to develop empathy for a difficult,three dimensional character can sometimes be as hard for the writer as it is for the reader. I had to re-frame Amma in light of her own fictional world to provide a more fully human portrayal of what it meant for her to live in that world. And after all, isn't that one of the reasons we read fiction? We want to learn how to be.

Misty - Oscar Peterson & Itzhak Perlman (1994)

2011-10-17T15:02:00.000-04:00

Before They Were Famous: Rejection Letters of the Stars

2011-10-14T17:21:00.000-04:00

Match 'em!

“There certainly isn’t enough genuine talent for us to take notice.”
A Anne Sexton
B Sylvia Plath
C Lady Gaga

“The girl doesn’t, it seems to me, have a special perception or feeling which would lift that book above the ‘curiosity’ level.”
A Bastard Out of Carolina
B A Good Man is Hard to Find
C The Diary of Anne Frank

“…even to an enlightened Freudian…the whole thing is an unsure cross between hideous reality and improbable fantasy... I recommend that it be buried under a stone for a thousand years.
A Lolita
B The Fountainhead
C American Psycho

“I haven’t really the foggiest idea about what the man is trying to say. Apparently the author intends to be funny — possibly even satire — but it is really not funny on any intellectual level.”
A The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
B Catch 22
C Green Eggs and Ham

BCAB (answers)

FAQ

2011-10-14T12:37:00.001-04:00

Writers all need a one sentence summary of their book to hook a publisher. What was your elevator pitch for Shiva’s Arms?
Will the power struggle between a Brahmin matriarch and her American daughter-in-law grind the man in the middle into chutney?

What if the elevator stops between floors?
I’d add this: when Alice marries Ramesh, she is plunged into a battle of wills with her mother-in-law. Namesake of a god, Amma reigns over Alice's household until a family secret is revealed that costs the old woman everything. It is up to Alice to heal the rift, as Shiva’s Arms opens into an exploration on cultural identity, the power of reconciliation, and the meaning of home.

How do you negotiate with those in your real life when portions of them appear in your work?
Deny, deny, deny. After all, everyone knows an Amma, an Alice, a Ram, so if a person thinks they see a bit of themselves floating around my pages I chalk it up to a guilty conscience.

What's something your readers might not know about you?
Let's see. Do they know that I’ve played the piano with a symphony orchestra? A law in physics bears my family name? That a boat was named after me?

Describe yourself in three words
Fluent in subtext.

The imagery you create of India is amazing! How many times have you been there?
India came to me in the form of my husband, his friends and relations. I did plenty of research however –read the books, cooked the cuisine, learned a bit of the language, celebrated the feasts, fasts, and festivals.

Any advice for aspiring writers?
"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better." (Samuel Beckett)

What is your true subject?
In my work, the past is present, and the future is, too. Outside or within the mortal there is always the immortal. That conflation is my true subject.

Karwa Chauth

2011-10-12T11:21:00.004-04:00

AmBo Karwa Chauth Scene by Favidoes

Nine days before Diwali, married women in the north observe Karwa Chauth. It is a day of fasting, moonrise to moonrise, to ensure the health and longeivity of their husbands. The women dress in their bridal saris, worship Pavarti and Shiva with ten earthen vessels full of sweets. When a wife glimpses the moon through a seive, the fast is broken, the husband feeds his wife, and the mood is set for the Festival of Lights. Above is a cinematic treatment of the occasion.

Five Pianists play Chopin Etude Op. 25 #6

2011-10-11T10:51:00.000-04:00

How I Fell in Love...with my novel

2011-10-09T15:50:00.001-04:00

attraction You’ve always had it in the back of your mind, this idea to write a novel “someday,” but that’s one elastic time frame. How to make the first move? As with all relationships, the action starts with a spark. For me, it was a TV show documenting an Indian’s decision to leave his family and renounce the world according to ancient principles of sanyasi. “Do they really still do that? “ I asked my husband. Suddenly I had a thousand questions, and I needed to explore them through writing.”I never know what I think about a subject until I’ve written on it,” Faulkner said.

romance I drafted a few poems on the subject, then tried it as a story. I flirted with the possibility that my project could develop into a novel. I entertained ideas for a protagonist who had to deal with more than Sanyasi man’s yoke of tradition and conflicting familial expectations. I began to wonder how his wife felt. What was she like, anyway? A portrait of my fierce matriarch Amma emerged from under my pen. I set her in a milieu, got her into trouble. The conflict appeared as the character of Alice, the American “unsuitable bride” to a favorite son.

passion I became absorbed by Indian myths, customs, and philosophy that would flesh out my characters. My research took me on a wild ride: I learned to cook my characters’ favorite dishes, played the music they listened to, learned to speak a few words of Tamil. The overarching theme of divided loyalties in the work took shape as my characters ran amok in interesting ways, startling me. They invaded my dreams. I slept with a notepad ready to receive unconscious insights, and spent my waking hours focused on my story.

intimacy At a certain point, you’ve gained entry into the characters’ heads and they begin to sound distinct from one another. Would Amma really respond that way to a stewardess? Did that subversive vibe suit Alice better than Nela? The mystery of creating takes the writer over, and the creations become palpable, even more insistent on their own agenda. Listening to my characters' desires is similar to listening to my own intuition, the same small voice that can so easily be drowned out.

commitment During this stage, you can count on a test of endurance. You are tired. You have compassion-fatigue for your characters. You wish they would shut up. The blandishments of the real world you were so recently able to resist, are irresistible now. You pick up a fashion magazine for the first time in ages. The phrase I’ll write tomorrow pops into your mind, and it seems ok to cheat on today’s session. All right. So take a break. The work continues underground and seeps through in dreams, if you're lucky -- and finally, out of desperation, disgust, deadlines or something more positive, you'll feel a surge of energy one fine day. What are they doing? you'll wonder about your people. You'll pick up your pen. You'll find out.

Dusshera

2011-10-08T12:15:00.000-04:00

Dusshera (Dasara or Dussera or Dusharah) occurs on the tenth day of the Navaratri. It's primarily celebrated in the North, but the triumph of good over evil as shown by the defeat of the demon king Ravana is still the point. Huge effigies of Ravana, Kumbakarna, and Meghnath are burnt to the accompaniment of firecrackers, and Ramlila (or Rama- Drama, scenes from the Rama-Ravana battle) are performed.

The Dusshera celebration in southern India revolves around Chamundi, the family deity of the Maharaja of Mysore. Similar to the Durga Puja myth in east India, this story says that Lord Rama performed chandi puja to invoke the blessings of Goddess Durga for slaying Ravana, so the gratified Goddess Chamundeswari (same goddess) told him how to slay Ravana.
A parade of decorated elephants is led to the Maharaja's illuminated palace as part of the spectacular festivity.

Twenty days after Dusshera, Diwali arrives--the Festival of Lights. I'm just sayin'.

Five Pianists play Schubert

2011-10-06T18:10:00.000-04:00

Red Booth Review, part deux

2011-10-06T15:07:00.004-04:00

Another painting/poem by my sister & me is up at Red Booth Review
Have a look/see!

Rama vs Ravana

2011-10-05T07:15:00.004-04:00

coming soon...

Saraswati Vandana

2011-10-04T17:28:00.000-04:00

Navaratri:Saraswati puja

2011-10-04T13:18:00.001-04:00

An especially sweet part of Navaratri is the Saraswati puja. The goddess of learning is worshipped during the last few days of the festival. Books and musical instruments are placed on a wooden plank covered in red silk—-perhaps the family ledger, one of the children’s math books, copies of the Ramayana or Bhagavad Gita. Sometimes a tool or small machine is added.

“When you were five, I remember your father helping you to form the sacred letter Shri on your first Saraswati puja. We had chosen the books for the altar and I added a harmonium. The Goddess of Learning loves music! Your aunties and I wore yellow saris and made coconut koyakattai. I was so proud when you were old enough to read at the altar beside your father. But very soon, you would whisper to him, as if the Goddess might overhear, “Is that enough, Appa?” It was the same way Ram always asked Samba.” (from Shiva's Arms)

Sanskrit slokas like this one are recited: Shrii Saraswatii Namahstubhyam Varade Kaama Ruupini/Twaam Aham Praarthane Devii Vidyaadaanam Cha Dehi Me(I bow to Goddess Saraswati, who fulfills the wishes of the devotees. I pray her to enlighten me with knowledge.)

On this day, Vidyarambham, Hindu children are taught to write their first word. The women, in yellow saris, decorate with palash flowers or marigolds, and distribute coconut koyakkatai as prasad for the worshippers. Initiation into the world of alphabets usually begins with the writing of the mantra Om hari sri ganapataye namah" Hari refers to the Lord, sri to prosperity.

The mantra is written first on sand, denoting practice; then in a tray of rice grains, representing the acquisition of knowledge, which leads to prosperity. Finally, the priest writes the mantra on the child's tongue with gold, symbolic of the wealth of true knowledge.

Flower Child by Sheila Deeth

2011-09-30T20:29:00.015-04:00

It's my pleasure to bring you a guest post by Sheila Deeth today. She is on blog tour with her third speculative Christian novella, the ebook Flower Child, published by Gypsy Shadow Publishing, and will share with us how a John Denver tune helped her craft her book.

About Flower Child: When Megan miscarries her first pregnancy it feels like the end of everything; instead it’s the start of a curious relationship between the grieving mother and an unborn child who hovers somewhere between ghost and angel. Angela, Megan’s “little angel,” has character and dreams all her own, friends who may or may not be real angels, and a little brother who brings hope to her mother’s world. But Angela’s dream-world has a secret and one day Angela might learn how to be real.

About the author: Sheila Deeth grew up in the UK and has a Bachelors and Masters in mathematics from Cambridge University, England. Now living in the States with her husband and sons, she enjoys reading, writing, drawing, telling stories, running a local writers' group, and meeting her neighbors’ dogs on the green.

Sheila describes herself as a Mongrel Christian Mathematician. Her short stories, book reviews and articles can be found in VoiceCatcher 4, Murder on the Wind, Poetic Monthly, Nights and Weekends, the Shine Journal and Joyful Online. Besides her Gypsy Shadow ebooks, Sheila has several self-published works available from Amazon and Lulu, and a full-length novel under contract to come out next year.

Find her on her website: http://www.sheiladeeth.com

or find her books at: http://sheiladeeth.weebly.com

Musical Muse

Write something inspired by music—that’s what our local writers’ group prompt said for their monthly competition. Which would be fine, except I don’t listen to music when I’m writing; there wouldn’t be any point. I start writing and the voices take over in my head and the rest of the world might as well not exist. My husband finds it most annoying. My son just throws things at me. But I really wanted to enter the competition—it would spoil my record of never missing one if I didn’t.

Perhaps I could think of some favorite music, except you might as well ask me about my favorite novel; I like so many different ones, I don’t have favorites. According to my kids, I don’t have taste either since I enjoy so many genres, of novels and of music. So what could I do?

Eventually I decided I’d write something based on whatever the first piece of music (with words) to come into my head was. I drove home from the meeting, sun shining, all’s right with the world, and began to sing “The children and the flowers are my sisters and my brothers.” I had to search the internet to find what the music was called—John Denver’s Rhymes and Reasons. But starting a story from those words couldn’t be too hard, could it?

Children and flowers—I always like to have at least two prompts. A friend of mine says that’s because it engages the connections in the brain; wondering how to connect the prompts inspires creativity. Perhaps she’s right. Anyway, I found myself remembering when I was a small child and asked that familiar question, “Where do babies come from?” My mother, ever honest, gave a beautifully well-thought-out answer that involved the word seed. I didn’t get any further—remember what I said about the voices in my head—I was a pretty scatterbrained kid. I stopped listening and imagined a heavenly garden where angels guarded seeds as they grew into children. It made perfect sense, to me anyway. And the line from John Denver’s song brought the image back to mind.

I started writing with no idea where the story would go. An imaginary character was telling how she’d made the same childhood mistake as me. But now, as an adult, she thought perhaps she’d been right. How could that be?

Dead to the world, not listening to music or anything my husband and son cared to say to me, I continued to type. Poor Megan, living inside my head, explained how her first pregnancy ended in disaster and miscarriage, and then something happened… Somehow she came to believe again in that celestial garden, and the rest is Flower Child.

I’m not sure the story was really inspired by music, but I guess the words of the song played the part of a muse as I began to type. Song, words, memory and random connections…

What sort of things inspire you?

I’m really grateful to Cheryl for welcoming me to her blog, and for giving Flower Child such a lovely review!

Where to find Flower Child: http://gypsyshadow.com/SheilaDeeth.html#Flower

On Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Flower-Child-ebook/dp/B005PGMT4O/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1317398482&sr=8-1

and on Smashwords

Thanks so much for visiting Shiva's Arms today, Sheila! Good luck on the rest of your tour.

Priya Sisters, sri Chakra raja

2011-09-30T19:13:00.000-04:00

The Festival of Dolls in Navaratri

2011-09-27T15:33:00.009-04:00

Navaratri marks the beginning of a semi-annual festival celebrating female divinity. Nava means nine and Ratri means nights. During these nine nights and ten days, women visit one another in their homes, decorated with lights and Golu displays of dolls.Dolls for Golu often represent major deities recreating mythological events, but the quotidian is also well-represented, often by Barbies dressed in native outfits ,as I describe in my novel Shiva's Arms. A doll-couple is often included --no,not like Barbie-and-Ken. My husband remembers a particular pair of wooden Marapachi dolls his mother used in the ceremony, carefully put away after Dusshera, for the next time.

The golu display stand is made up of an odd number of tiers, ideally nine, and the dolls are arranged like this --
Tiers 1-3: (Kalasam) Durga, Lakshmi, Saraswati, Shiva, Vishnu, Brahma and all other gods and goddesses are set here.
Tiers 4-6: Saints and national leaders like Mahatma Gandhi, Ramakrishna Paramahamsar, and Swami Vivekananda occupy this level.
Tiers 7-9: Scenes depicting family, marriage,nature, and festivals go here, with the ornamented Marapachi dolls last.

In my novel, Shiva's Arms, I use this celebration of female friendship as a way to get my warring women to come together.

"It was late when Alice wandered downstairs. She expected that Amma would have gone to bed, but she was still at her task, busy with the display. She motioned to Alice to help her set up the rest of the dolls. There were brass and sandalwood gods and Malibu Barbies, an American bride doll and Japanese geishas collected one at a time, each one with a history.
“We will make kolam on the porch tomorrow,” Amma said. “You have colored chalks. My son is keeping big lamp in Christmas trees?”
“In the box of Christmas decorations, yes.”
By two in the morning the display was finished, Sam’s toy trucks and metal sport cars tucked among the stuffed Santa, Russian stacking dolls and Marapachi dolls. The suitcase and Christmas box were hollowed out at last. “Very multi-culti,” Alice said. She stood back from the creation and looked at it critically, squared off the crèche with both palms. She had somehow made Amma understand that sand made of lentils was no replacement for cotton-ball snow. She turned tiny white blinking lights on, and the sequins on the cotton glittered. Amma clasped her hands to her heart.
“Just a sec. One more thing,” Alice said. She ran upstairs and returned with an angel from the back of her closet, the one relic from her childhood. She handed it carefully to Amma, blue felt skirt first. The wax face with the wistful smile, blonde curls and gold wire halo were miraculously untouched by time.
Amma reached up and put the little cherub right in the center of the top tier. The women stood in front of the rows of dolls, mesmerized for a long minute. Alice broke the spell first, yawned and stretched her tight lower back. She turned away, shuffled into the kitchen and warmed some milk, enough for two, on the stove. Amma followed her on bare feet, cut a banana in half and handed one part to Alice. “Take,” she said. “Eat some.” Alice received the fruit like a gift."

Red Booth Review

2011-09-27T08:47:00.001-04:00

Look what came out in Red Booth Review today! Thanks, W.T. Pfefferle.

Sviatoslav Richter: Schubert Sonata A major 3rd mvt.

2011-09-25T18:09:00.000-04:00

Sviatoslav Richter: Schubert Sonata A major 2nd mvt.

2011-09-25T18:07:00.000-04:00

Sviatoslav Richter: Schubert Sonata A major 1st mvt. 1/2

2011-09-25T18:05:00.000-04:00

This was my jam at 19.

Satin Doll in Scissors and Spackle

2011-09-23T10:15:00.002-04:00

I'm happy to have my short story "Satin Doll" in the debut issue of Scissors and Spackle today. I hope you'll take a look.

Mercedes Sosa & Martha Argerich - Allá lejos y hace tiempo.

2011-09-21T18:29:00.000-04:00

Varalakshmi Vratam

2011-09-21T09:27:00.004-04:00

The photo was just sent to me by my sister-in-law and shows the goodies that typically accompany the celebration of Varalakshmi Vratam, when married women ask the goddess of wealth for boons for the family. his ritual can be traced back to the kingdom of Magadha, where there lived a Brahmin woman called Charumathii, who so devotedly served her husband and parents-in-law. that the Goddess Mahalakshmi appeared in her dream and asked her to worship Vara-Lakshmi. The goddess of wealth would fulfill her wishes. Soon, other women of the town joined her in performing the pooja, They prayed with deep devotion: Padmaasane Padmakare sarva lokaika poojithe Narayana priyadevi supreethaa bhava sarvada and as they made offerings, jewelry is said to have appeared on the devotees and their houses filled with riches. The pooja caught on. Done with devotion, it is said that favors will be granted and wishes realized.

MacArthur

2011-09-20T09:21:00.002-04:00

Kay Ryan and A.E.Stallings, kudos!

from Scattered Light Library

2011-09-18T08:56:00.002-04:00

hard copies

Check, please!

2011-09-17T17:30:00.001-04:00

You’ve spent hours, days, weeks, perhaps months, crafting your story. You’ve shaped a narrative of plot, setting, conflict, point of view, character, and theme, and taken it through three or more revisions. You’ve received critical feedback from at least one trusted reader, and read your story aloud, at least to yourself in the mirror.
You tell yourself, “All systems GO!” Not so fast. Before you send the freshly printed out, spell-checked and proofread story to the literary magazine you’ve carefully researched for type of content and style, and whose submission guidelines you’ve followed to the letter, check it against this list of basics:
• Have you “opened strong?” The first sentence should draw the reader in and contain the germ of the story.
• Did you use more dialogue than narration? Beware the long and the windy.
• Did you use descriptive nouns and verbs? Eliminate the vague and imprecise.
• Edit out as many adjectives and adverbs as possible. Words ending in …ly weaken the work.
• Did you choose past tense over past participle whenever possible? It provides immediacy, much like first person and present tense.
• Language that calls attention to itself wakes the reader from his fictional dream. Don’t show off.
• Did you involve all five senses when imagining your story? If you did, your reader will experience it with all of his.
• Use natural speech when writing dialogue, even when you’re (sparingly) using dialect.
• Cut it back or cut it out. Think Hemingway, not Proust.

After this final go-through, notice if it feels like the top of your head has been taken off. If so, lick that stamp, Emily!

Janet Baker: "Automne" by Gabriel Fauré

2011-09-15T18:33:00.000-04:00

2011-09-12T16:07:00.001-04:00

Color

Aliveni Enthu Cheyvu, Part 2

2011-09-10T09:37:00.001-04:00

for more on the composer, click THIS

Aliveni Enthu Cheyvu - Swathi Thirunal Krithi

2011-09-10T09:32:00.000-04:00

Review of THAT FEEL

2011-09-09T16:32:00.005-04:00

The Blend of Visual and Written Art

THAT FEEL is one of the finest collaborative books published by the sisters Snell. Cheryl Snell is a fine poet and her sister Janet Snell is a fine expressionist artist. In their previous books there was often the question of whether Janet was illustrating Cheryl's poetry or if perhaps each artist made her art and then combined it in the most suitable manner.

Now it is obvious that the art that spreads across both sides of an open book is unified and equally involved in the nidus of expression. The poems and art of THAT FEEL seem to be more visceral than those that came before them - these are poems from the gut, art about alienation and longing and rapturous moments that fade too quickly (or were they even there?). For example in the combined expression of the following, the painting accompanying the poem is that of two faces distorted by reflection in glass or mirror or memory:

REFLECTIONS IN CRACKED GLASS
Each brush stroke had been its own allegory
and could not reconcile the break. I felt for
connection in blind corridors, whispering
Who's there? from within the room's glass
eye.
Maybe I was dreaming. The facts were hard
to parse and sometimes lied. I did, too,
confused by what my reflection showed. The
glass distorted it and the fissure widened from
a thin red line. It splintered our embrace and
again I was alone.

The book may be brief but it is a powerful one. The only criticism about this latest opus is the somewhat disjointed feeling of the varying fonts or typefaces the artists used. Those wide variations of print diminish the tone of the poetry/art like unwanted audience distracters. But that is a minor complaint in a book that further substantiates the excellent collaborative efforts of the sisters Snell. --Grady Harp

Ravi Shankar & Chatur Lal Raga Mishra Piloo...

2011-09-09T10:29:00.000-04:00

Claustrophobic with Orange Cap

2011-09-09T08:15:00.004-04:00

The way somersault
circles us, so long stuck.
We stir the air with a doll’s arm.

Oar, pull away. Breaker, tip us over.
Show the vantage point of the submerged
clouds wrong side up

Where we go who knows when
the knot gives way. Who, unlaced and dangling,
can almost touch the ground.

(Painting by Janet Snell
Poem by Cheryl Snell)

Happy Onam!

2011-09-08T08:39:00.004-04:00

Tips: Coffea arabica denique solutio est

2011-09-07T21:27:00.003-04:00

Chekhov: "Go back to your story and tear up the first half: the story begins there."

Mother: "Get your hero in trouble and keep him there."

Cicero: "Coffee is the ultimate solution."

Red Room Rocks

2011-09-07T11:31:00.003-04:00

Thanks to the folks at Red Room for mentioning my sister's and my new ebook of art and poetry, That Feel, in their newsletter today.
While looking around the site, I was glad to see that Shiva's Arms is still holding steady at the top of their "popular books" list, Too! Amma would be pleased.

Top Ten

2011-09-06T16:05:00.000-04:00

Cowell - Tiger

2011-09-06T14:32:00.000-04:00

Beautiful Minds

2011-09-04T21:55:00.000-04:00

Writing Raw

2011-09-02T21:14:00.001-04:00

My sister Janet is Artist of the Month at Writing Raw! Cheers, Janet!

Mindfulness

2011-09-02T19:29:00.002-04:00

A definition of memory from http://www.mindandlife.org/pdfs/ml_18_brochure.pdf

"...sustained voluntary attention (samadhi) is closely related to memory,
because in order to deliberately sustain one’s attention upon a chosen object, one
must continue to remember to do so from moment to moment, faithfully returning
back to refocus on that object whenever the mind wanders away from it. Likewise, in
Buddhism, the faculty of “mindfulness” (smrti) refers not only to moment-to-moment
awareness of present events. Instead, the primary connotation of this
Sanskrit term (and its corresponding Pali term sati) is recollection. This includes
long-term, short-term, and working memory, non-forgetful, present-centered
awareness, and also prospective memory, i.e., remembering to be aware of something
or to do something at a designated time in the future. In these ways, from a contemplative
perspective, memory is critically linked to attention, and both of these mental
faculties have important ramifications for the experiential and phenomenological
study of the mind, its training, and potential optimization."

Relax Relate Read Book Bundle Giveaway

2011-09-01T07:24:00.006-04:00

Enter WLB's Book Bundle Giveaway on the Back to the Books Giveaway Hop and win a hardcover copy of Shiva's Arms amomg other goodies. Good luck!

Ganesh Chaturthi

2011-08-31T13:20:00.003-04:00

It's Ganesh Chaturthi, Ganesha's birthday celebration,the time when members of a household worship a clay likeness of him, and then submerge it at an immersion site. Neighborhoods compete with each other in building the biggest murti. There are pujas and other rituals, and delicious kozhakottai, a dumpling made from rice flour with a stuffing of coconut and jaggery, is offered at the temple.

I make use of these details in Rescuing Ranu, when I say about Nela, the ostracized daughter, that "The closest she had ever come to believing was during the Ganesh Chaturthi when she had fallen into a line of devotees with prayers written out on scraps of paper to give to the priests. She had written one, too, a wish more than a prayer. Let Amma live." One of the scenes in Shiva's Arms also incorporates this celebration. Nela has just sacrificed her hair to gods she no longer believes in. Her mother is ill, and she will try anything to help her recover. "On her way back to her room,... Nela spotted a small earthen version of Ganesh... She picked it up and ...waded out waist-deep into the river, the murti in her elbow’s crook. A flotilla of figurines streamed by, with their streaked features half- erased, and their trunks of clay dissolving. She released her icon like a bad debt, like a broken promise."

At the intersection of my fictional world and real life, I keep a soft spot for Lord Ganesh. I like the idea that a gentle elephant god should be Remover of Obstacles. He’s a good problem-solver, too: when charged with circling the universe, he walked around his parents, saying they were all his worlds. One morning, he paid me a visit.

I was opening the first gift my mother-in-law had ever given me. It had been fifteen years since I married her son, and I tore into the package - hope over experience, I guess. I drew out the long gold chain from a carved teak box, and uttered a sound like speech, but wasn’t. My husband said, “Mother melted down her marriage bangles to have this necklace made for you.” Her blessing, hard won but fully given.

For years I had been considered an interloper, taking what did not belong to me. Family members not yet born at the time of the family shame absorbed it, and confronted my husband and me with it years later. “Amma will never accept!” a niece only recently informed me. Memes perpetuate.

My head was suddenly filled with the noise of cultures clashing, and the gold links weighted with family history began to slide from my hand. It was then that I saw the tiny vermilion Ganesh emerge from the metal. A mantra moved through my brain: Vakrathunda Mahaakaaya Suryakoti Samaprabha Nirvignam Gurumaydeva Sarvakaryeshu Sarvada.

Obstacles removed, I slipped the necklace over my head and kissed it like a Catholic.

That Feel

2011-08-29T15:32:00.002-04:00

Our new collection of art & poems is free to read at issuu and to purchase from Amazon

Krishna Jayanthi

2011-08-21T09:03:00.006-04:00

It's the birthday of Lord Krishna, who was born in a prison. In paintings, we see the baby carried by his father across a swollen stream protected by a seven-headed serpent.

Devotees ask one another kannan onga veetukku vandacha? That's "has Kannan come to your house?" to you, and if the grandmother of the house has dipped the youngest child's feet in flour to make footprints in the hall leading from the front door to the shrine, the answer is a qualified yes. We can imagine that Krishna has come to celebrate with us. Otherwise, there are little silver cutouts of feet you can get at the store.

To observe the day, offerings of butter and yogurt are made in Krishna's image,and there are sweets made from jaggery called vella cheedai. Delicious as this treat is, there is no competition with murukku, a crispy snack made with rice and dal, flavored with cumin, sesame, and chili powder. That's an old favorite at our house. I'm going to make you hungry now, fair warning:

Gopalkala is an interesting part of Janmashtami celerbrations. A Dahi Handi, the pot of milk, curd, butter, fruit juices and Gopalkala (Soak beaten rice for fifteen minutes. Melt some ghee in another pan, toss in cumin seeds. Add finely chopped chilies and ginger. Add rice and salt it. Sprinkle it with sugar and grated coconut)is hanged with a rope at a height, and a pyramid of celebrants try to break it. The winner is showered with colored water.

About that human pyramid and pinata: my husband remembers a passer-by turning a hose on the boy at the top just to make it more difficult for him to strike the pinata. Nobody sued! If you want to know more about all this, Jennifer Kumar will enlighten you here.

I wrote a poem inspired by the idea of Krishna, and offer it in the spirit of celebration through Western eyes:

Avatar

The boy sits astride the dagger of land,
watching jesus lizards skip toward the bottom
of the world. From his left hand, the moon rises.
In his right, he catches the setting sun.

Pilgrims come to witness the phenomenon.
With cones of bhel-poori in their hands, they watch
blue shadows lengthen in the boy’s brain.
A shiver ascends the knuckles of his father’s spine.

In the temple, the father sits with back bowed.
His head is in his hands. Quarter-tones float past
like speech obscured by a trick of air.

From the sanctuary of carved white pillars,
priests with sun-bleached eyes chant slokas.
Against a cycle of relentless beginning,
they believe that nothing ever dies,
though the world is made of tears and sweat.
The sea.

Torn Kiss

2011-08-20T08:18:00.001-04:00

at the lips
a weak current
and a captive behind the teeth.

to wake with your heart in my mouth --
I must have tracked it in my sleep,
night falling like limbs all around us

Red Fez

2011-08-19T13:05:00.002-04:00

My digital poem Inspiration is up at Red Fez. I used a character called Failed Child Actress from the Xtra Normal site. I think she looks a little like me. :)

openings (for Janet)

2011-08-18T12:44:00.005-04:00

It's my pleasure to present to you a poem by Tim Buck about my sister Janet's art:

Her selection of pigments glistens on a palette,

pigments vibrating in rhythms of probability --

stochastic atoms of colors matching synapses.

The canvas seems infinite, a white ground bass.

And music will complement her morning brushes --

Scriabin or Miles? Chopin or Tom's 3/4 cadence?

Ah...Debussy will spread his elusive prismatics!

What will emerge?

It's not for me to know how she opens the portals of dream and vision.

But phantoms come, and forms of feeling

become masses hanging in strange balance.

Deep fall the eyes into that opening rendered.

Wild is the way that spirits clothe themselves

in chromatic meaning, then aesthetically whisper

into the pensive Moment haunting brushed fabric --

melancholia and suspense, death and wan Eros.

It's not for me to call this magic or miracle of color between now and numinous.

Or...a muted drama of black ink and charcoal

performing metamorphosis in titanium white.

Objects without name are apparitions

made of what this painters is feeling,

in hues wrought from mineral silence

to uncover modes of arcane space.

A slow grinding of intuitions into image opiums.

A grinding of elements into immanent powders,

releasing powers of shaman, seer, oracle.

Sienna, umber, ocher, madder.

Cobalt, chrome, cadmium, copper.

And the blues! -- brilliant or nocturnal.

All for alchemy transmuting incantations

that sigh in violet or simmer in alizarin.

A spellbound mixing of slow ecstatic oils

into inspiration, dark-gleaned discovery,

bringing affective texture to presence.

But sometimes I do wonder...

just what is happening underneath

this paint and these ghostly forms?

If I stared too long, if eyes fell too deeply,

I might see too much, go mad inside layers.

F.A.K.E.

2011-08-18T09:21:00.000-04:00

4 Interpretations of Webern's Variations for Piano Op 27 Variation 1 (Go...

2011-08-16T17:09:00.000-04:00

Sviatoslav Richter plays Bach Fantasia & Fugue in A Minor

2011-08-16T16:41:00.000-04:00

Up the Staircase

2011-08-14T12:25:00.002-04:00

Have a look at the new Up the Staircase Quarterly. It's an all poetry issue, and I'm pleased to have a piece in it.

Digital Poem in IMP

2011-08-13T14:59:00.004-04:00

I have a digital poem featuring my sister Janet's paintings in the debut issue of IMPpress. Our piece is on page 42. Thanks, Jay Arr!

Raksha Bandan

2011-08-11T19:41:00.007-04:00

Raksha Bandhan, or Rakhi, is the festival for siblings. The custom is for a sister to tie a rakhi (a silk thread) around the wrist of her brother, in symbolic exchange for his protection. The festival gets a mention in my novel Rescuing Ranu:

The baby was dressed in a white undershirt, and she wore a small handmade rakhi on her wrist. Nela had forgotten that it was the festival of siblings, Raksha Bhandan. The ornament, symbolic of the love of siblings for one another, bothered the tiny girl. She kept tugging at it, and Nela thought of her brother Ram, and the way he would patiently hold his arm out so that she could fasten her bracelet around it.

The baby managed to stay on Ranu’s hip as she went about her tasks, but just barely. It was a new environment and the baby wanted to explore. Every few minutes, she reached out one or both arms out for some shiny thing, prompting a soft string of cajoling words from Ranu.
Meanwhile, Ranu tried to avoid Nela, ducking whenever she got within speaking distance, but got caught as she was escaping onto the back veranda. “Who have we here? Where did she come from? We didn’t see her at the shack. Is she a cousin? Baby sister? Who is her mother? Why are you hiding from me? “

Anxiety flickered across Ranu’s face. After a long confused explanation, Nela gleaned that when the girls’ mother had died, or been driven away, it had fallen to Ranu to find a way to make sure the baby survived. “Uncle has no more food for her,” she said. “I give her to you. If you will not take, I give her to Mami.”

“You must not do any such thing,” Nela said. “You must take her back home. She cannot possibly eat too much for Uncle!” Ranu did take her back, but did not return to Nela’s sleeping porch that night.

Nela paced back and forth along the veranda for hours, watching and waiting. She knew all about men like Uncle. “Now the old man thinks you are the answer to all problems,” she complained to Jackson, as the hours ground on. “Some god with resources. More demands will come in! And we still have no answers about either child.”

When she was emptied of complaint, Nela stretched out beside him on the pallet, although she did not think she could sleep. He reached for her hand, and Nela rolled away. She kept her back turned until the sun rose.

To make a simple rakhi, use red or yellow silk, a piece about 30" long. Fold in half. Tie a tight knot with a piece of cotton thread about a quarter down the length of the strand. Cut the loops of the folded thread and fluff the open ends.

Divide the longer part of the thread into half, and twist them. Tie the ends with another bit of cotton thread and puff up the ends. Decorate with sequins or beads.

Shobhan Bantwal and The Full Moon Bride

2011-08-09T12:00:00.012-04:00

Today we have a special treat, a guest post on ethnic fiction by Shobhan Bantwal, author of the new novel, The Full Moon Bride.
About Shobhan Bantwal
Award-winning author Shobhan Bantwal calls her writing “Bollywood in a Book”—romantic, colorful, action-packed tales, rich with elements of Indian culture—stories that entertain and educate. Shobhan has five published novels by Kensington Publishing, with a sixth slated for 2012. Shobhan can be contacted through her website or Facebook, where you can get much more information about the author and her book, and you can order your own copy here.

About Full Moon Bride
What makes a marriage—love or compatibility? Passion or pragmatism? THE FULL MOON BRIDE is a compelling story that explores the fascinating subject of arranged marriage, as young Indian-American attorney Soorya Giri navigates the gulf between desire and tradition.

In choosing between two very different men, Soorya must reconcile her burgeoning independence and conservative background. And she must decide what matters most to her—not just in a husband, but in a family, a culture, and a life.

Ethnic Fiction - Bouquets & Brickbats
By Shobhan Bantwal - author of The Full Moon Bride

For years I had been complaining about the dearth of romantic Indian fiction. Most every South Asian author writes literary novels, serious slice-of-life stories that are beautiful works of prose, but are lacking in plot and drama. So when I took up creative writing I decided to try my hand at romantic stories with a distinctly Indian twist. Besides, I was convinced that the large commercial fiction audience was an untapped market for Indian novels.

I was treading unknown waters with my unusual brand of ethnic women’s books, and it was a serious risk. There was no guarantee that a literary agent or publisher would like this type of literature. And yet I wanted to write about my culture in all its multi-hued beauty as well as its dark side. I wanted to tell stories that were realistic and yet dramatic enough to make page-turning fiction. As a result, I created a subgenre, what I call “Bollywood in a Book.”

My Indian culture, with its arranged marriages, spicy cuisine, quaint customs like dowry, obsessive desire for male children, and a religion that has many gods and goddesses, offers great fodder for interesting and unusual stories.

I was lucky that my publisher loved my brand of fiction. Nonetheless the branding has its positive and negative sides. Readers who love a rare cultural experience while enjoying a good storyline appreciate my novels. On the other hand, conservative readers who have no interest in going beyond their comfort zone, stay away from them. My book covers portray women in saris, bindis, henna-painted hands, and ethnic jewelry, making them easy to spot, and easy to avoid.

Social and political repercussions are part and parcel of writing ethnic fiction. Recent acts of terrorism have made Americans wary of dark-skinned people and their varied ethnicities. My books could easily be mistaken for stories from a terrorist culture, creating hostility on the part of certain readers. Religion also plays a role in readers' decisions to read a book. Books separated by ethnicity can easily hurt sales for an author like me. Nonetheless I have many happy readers who are devout Christians, Jews, and Muslims who enjoy a good story for its entertainment and educational value.

Additionally, I have introduced controversial subjects like female-fetus abortion and dowry abuse in India in my books, leading some South Asian readers to chastise me for bringing awareness to the darker side of Indian culture. Fictional characters live amidst families, towns, and working environments, therefore a fiction writer cannot avoid portraying social and political issues. These elements add a layer of intrigue and conflict to spice up a story.

I have come to view the challenges of an ethnic writer's life as an interesting rollercoaster ride.

Readers can find my books, events, contests, photos, recipes, and contact information on my website or visit my facebook page:

Thank you, Shobhan, for visiting Shiva's Arms. We wish you much luck on the rest of your tour!

Arranged Marriage

2011-08-09T10:13:00.004-04:00

Like so many westerners, I'm fascinated by this subject. The idea that parents should choose their child's mate because they are the ones who know the child best and know what's best for the child has endured for centuries. In practice, it may fall far from the ideal, as when one of our young friends recently revealed his feelings for an entirely "suitable bride" (of his own choosing) to his family. His parents were surprisingly OK with it, until the boy's grandmother raised her objection: the bride was TOO vegetarian. Her inability to stomach fish made her entirely "unsuitable."

This is how I portrayed marriage negotiations in a draft of Shiva's Arms:

“Hush,” said Varun. “Amma is trying to marry you off to someone in the parlor.” There was a rumor that child-marriage was about to be outlawed, the legal age raised to thirteen. He twitched his new mustache, a growth Shiva had nicknamed Bandicoot after a legendary rat that lived on the property and could not be caught...

Shiva nodded; she didn’t give the matchmaking in the parlor another thought.
It was only when the defeated look on her parents’ faces began to seem permanent did Shiva fear for her freedom. A suitable match would provide the parents with momentary happiness, but after the wedding they would only see their daughter when her husband’s family allowed it. “Taking pains with a daughter is like watering another family’s garden,” she overheard one family’s representative say as she was ushered out of the house.

Some minor disgrace might render Shiva unmarriageable and put an end to this parade of grasping, fortune-hunting crones. She had to come up with a plan to save herself...

Wizened female relatives of possible suitors finagled their way into the parlor of the old stone house. With cunning eyes, they calculated the immense wealth all around them. Each one imagined that Shiva’s mother would drop to her knees in gratitude that her ruffian daughter could have a future with a respectable family. But Shiva’s mother was a good negotiator and would not be swayed by the trickery of some old abacus- counter. “Your nephew is quite dark, quite rugged-looking, I see,” she might say, holding the suitor’s photograph in her fingers as if it offended her.

“It was taken on a cloudy day only,” the marriage-brokering aunt would sniff, clattering her bone china cup on the saucer. “The boy is quite fair under sunlight, perhaps fairer than your daughter. Her skin must be toughened from her times on horseback, isn’t it?”

Shiva’s mother kept her voice low, so that the old woman had to bend forward to catch all the words. “It is so surprising what some people will criticize! Some people have nothing better to do than limit a child’s abilities, and measure her value in gold and jewels only. My Shiva has great wealth beyond beauty, and I must be careful who I give her to! On the occasion of her baby-naming ceremony, the priest saw that she loved all the objects set before her to determine her future. He pronounced her capable in all areas.”

Peeking out from her hiding place behind the damask curtain, Shiva silently cheered her mother on as she exposed one old woman after another for the greedy viper she was.

But as time wore on, Shiva’s mother became more anxious, more fretful, not so indulgent of Shiva’s childishness. She became less critical of the women, more eager to establish a fruitful rapport. Shiva, standing behind the heavy curtain, hand over mouth, was terrorized by the thought of a new life in which she would be captive. What would she hide behind, which curtain, whose family? Her throat seized up. I can’t breathe! Throwing off the damask, she’d hurl herself into her mother’s arms, sure she was about to die...

All the coughing fits in the universe could not have changed Shiva’s fate, and deep down she knew it. At each unveiling, she would do her best to discourage the bride-seeker. Her rude answers to prying questions, inexplicable memory lapses in the middle of her singing performances, the sudden physical awkwardness in her dance movements did not change the fact that she was the daughter of a wealthy man with a large dowry to give. Her parents became stricter and more unyielding to her resistance, which came to nothing in the end. Her parents didn’t really want her, it was clear, so Shiva consented to be married to a stranger called Trichur Venatesan Sambashivan, Iyer. She was fifteen years old.

Examining Ophelia

2011-08-07T21:55:00.007-04:00

[painting by Janet Snell]

How the Chipmunk Got Its Stripes

2011-08-07T18:58:00.001-04:00

One interpretation of the Indian myth.

Separation Anxiety

2011-08-05T20:40:00.001-04:00

She dreams he is coming home. A flicker of light upon a spine, he is floating toward her over food courts and luggage carousels, through time zones pocked with stoplights and the bulge of alternate lives. They never travel together, in case one doesn’t make it back. Like the royals, they say. They argue "heir" and "spare" loudly enough to wake the neighbors. On the other hand, they flirt with the idea of suicide pacts, but in whispers, and only at dusk just before the streetlights come on.

The woman gets out of bed now, still dreaming, and stands in front of the refrigerator on one foot. She does not move, but waits there with nerves vibrating like colors on a map, one stumble away from whitewashed walls and worst case scenarios, disasters involving dynamite and ski-masks.

Upstairs in their bed, her sleeping man looks deeper into his mind’s eye, searching out his oncoming train. The tracks beneath it are unmoving and soundless. The man stirs. The train fulfills its destiny.

Blood Lotus: An Online Literary Journal: BL #21

2011-08-05T11:41:00.000-04:00

Thank you! Blood Lotus: An Online Literary Journal: BL #21: "In This Issue… Isaac James Baker Jason Bradford Rachel Bunting Thomas Michael Duncan C.B. Forrest Jennifer Givhan Scott Horn Monica Koeni..."

Kabir

2011-08-04T13:31:00.005-04:00

Some friends of ours made us a gift of an excellent translation of the Songs of Kabir recently (without the "thees" and "thines") and I thought I'd share, virtually.

The mystic poet Kabir is said to have been born six hundred years ago. He died at the age of 120, and upon his death, his body turned into flowers. He's known for his couplets, but here is a longer piece:

The bhakti path winds in a delicate way.
On this path there is no asking and no not asking.
The ego simply disappears the moment you touch him.
The joy of looking for him is so immense that you just dive in,
and coast around like a fish in the water.
If anyone needs a head, the lover leaps up to offer
his.

Info and reviews about the book can be had here.

James Kreger and Garrick Ohlsson Play Rachmaninoff Sonata: 4th Mov't

2011-08-02T17:20:00.000-04:00

SRIRANGAPURA VIHARA

2011-07-31T23:05:00.000-04:00