I'm a reader. SERIOUSLY!

Being a student of Literature often means people expect you to read only that which is considered 'literary.' You know, things like Dostoevsky and Leon Uris and Dickens. These guys make you a 'serious' reader. Ok, so I read these guys. Like them a lot in most part. Maybe not Dostoevsky or Tolstoy...Russian writers are compulsively depressing and I guess you can't blame them. But I like the old-timey classics.

My grandfather would take me book-shopping on the condition that I bought only classics. And not just any classics, the REAL stuff. Catcher in the Rye didn't count. Jules Verne did. Luckily, so did P. G. Wodehouse.

The trouble is that when you're a reader and a Literature student, people assume you read ONLY the 'serious' stuff. Otherwise, you're not a REAL reader.

Now, I don't fit this mould at all. I love Meg Cabot. I squealed and jumped when the last book in the Princess Diaries series came out. I have read Twilight with bated breath and cried at the end of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince because Dumbledore had died and nothing would ever be the same again.

Once every two weeks or so, you'll find me squatting on the floor at Tanna Book Depot in Hong Kong Lane, snuffling my way through stacks of dusty Mills & Boon. My favourite pastime is to sit with a bunch of romance novels and a big bag of chips. And I'm very much a REAL reader, thank you!

A world without Dickens and Alcott and the Brontes would have been at a loss. A world without Austen would have been depressing indeed! But a world without impossible love stories and magic?! Not my kind of place either.

Poetry...

that's what I've been reading, both online and in books. I found this little piece of absolute, raging gorgeousness that I wanted to share.

From Inkslinger

You Bring Out the UP- walli in me *

You bring out the UP-walli in me,

The zari, gota, sitaraa,
The sweet, sweet bataasha,
The lilt of my (m)other tongue,
simmering under these words in me.

I play for you. For the twinkle in your eyes
when I rant in Hindi.
Kya hai.

You bring out the UP-walli in me,
The toe rings and the nose pin in me,
The glitter and the large earrings in me,
The kohl around my eyes in me,
The love of wearing bangles in me,
The folklore and the folk music in me,
The jigar and the beedee in me,
The loud weddings in me,
The raunchy numbers in me,
The beats of dholak, the songs of naughty grannies in me.

You bring out the UP-walli in me.
The love of the epic in me,
The Mahabharat and the Ramayan in me,
The chastity vows and the infinite appetite in me,
The warrior-sage ancestor in me,
The meek minions and the mighty queens in me,
The banished one, the vengeful one, the dark one who rebelled in me,
The woman who had five husbands but loved only one in me.

They say my name means Seeta, daughter of the earth.
You bring out my name in me.

You bring out the UP-walli in me.
The blue neel in me,
the pink mahaawar in me,
the crimson gulmohur in me,
the yellow amaltash in me,
the cactus in me, the crotons in me,
the redolence of Eucalyptus, the scent of henna in me.

For you I’d mulch the mehendi leaves that hedged
our government bungalow in Jhansi.
For you I’d paint my palms and
I won’t complain.

Wild roses in Ranikhet,
Empty fireplaces in Benaras,
The smell-less smell of a desolate Noida fog,
The fragrance of raat ki raani in Karbi.
Like all these, I long for you.

Come sit on the floor beside me.
Eat kaddoo curry with soft kachauris
laid out on plates made of dried leaves.
Dip your finger in the yogurt to stir the boora,
Make love to me with our fingers sticky sweet,
Say hum when you mean I,
I’d raise my skirts and let you in,
caress you with fumes from the dhoop batti
that used to be lit every dusk
in my Nani’s house,
and pat you to sleep.

Come. Call me jaan, or raaje.

You bring out the UP-walli in me,
The surprise of heeng in hot daal in me,
The shock of ghee sizzling with whole, red chillies in me,
The bite of raw ginger sprinkled on aloo-gobhi in me.
The sepia dust storms in me,
The mango orchards in me,
The tales of dacoits and bandits in me,
The bhaiyya complex in me,
its self-deprecatory humour
but the hidden pride in me.

I play for you. For your gritted teeth and
shut eyes when I move over you.

You’re the only one I’d allow to call me Raani,
You're the only one I'd let overtake the kitchen,
Bring me breakfast in bed,
And sometimes wine.

You bring out the UP-walli in me.
The proud grandfather and the generous parents in me,
The love of literature in me,
the scholar in me, the nerd in me,
the wannabe Anthropology intellectual in me,
the show-off-I-got-100-out-of-100 in me,

You’re the one I spin these yarns for,
At 4 am,
Overworked and sleep deprived.
Let me show off to you.

You bring out the UP-walli in me.
Hand pump water with a tang of metal in me,
Sugarcanes eaten on terraces
In dusty villages in me,
(hard teeth around firm flesh bursting with sweet in me),
Sugarcane juice running down my elbow in me,
The sexual innuendo in me.

The hot-white glare of the Taj Mahal,
The thick walls of the Jhansi fort,
The withered wooden door of my gaon house
Complete with iron knockers in me,
All nestled in me, marinating and
Roasting in me, always torturing me,
Never letting go of me.

Of naked feet on hard,
Cool, stone floors,
Of air coolers, of khus-khus
In summers,
Of peeling walls that smelt of wet earth
When sprayed with a hose,
Of blistering boulders with a whiff
Of heat.

You remind me of all these.
The forgotten, pushed away,
Hidden parts of me,
The lekin and the agar in me,
The abey and the oye in me,
The ab to ho gaya in me.

You bring out the UP-walli in me.
Let me love you.
(You do.)
Let me show you.
(Kyunki)
You do. Yes. You do.

* Gauche but earnest attempt, inspired by Sandra Cisnero's lovely, lovely 'You Bring Out the Mexican in Me'...and you.

It's Weed's budday!

Dear Weed,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

We love you and despite everything, we think you're pretty great.

Now, where's the party?????