Listen, you fuckers, you screwheads,whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick, venal. Someday a real rain will come and wash all you scum off the streets.
Ryan stood taut amidst the angry crowd of kings and generals. He was laughing out aloud, as the world began falling apart. His revenge was final.
This is the first fairy tale I ever read. Way back when I was in second grade KV-CLRI,Adyar, Chennai we had this mobile library that would come to our colony on the weekends. So on my first visit to this ‘house of books on wheels’ (as put by dad) this was the first book I picked up. After much recollecting and googling I was able to find it here.
This section is from the book “Edmund Dulac’s Fairy Book”, by Edmund Dulac.
In a far land where they pay people to keep its name a profound secret, there lived an old man who brought up his three sons just exactly in the way they should go. He taught them the three R’s, and also showed them what books to read and how to read them. He was particularly careful about their education, for he had learned that to know things was to be able to do things.
At last, when he came to die, he gathered his three sons round his deathbed and cautioned them.
‘Do not forget,’ he said – ‘do not forget to come and read the prayers over my grave.’
‘We will not forget, father,’ they replied.
The two elder brothers were great big, strapping fellows, but the youngest one, Ivan, was a mere stripling. As they all stood around the bed of their dying father, he looked a mere reed compared to his proud, stout, elder brothers. But his eyes were full of fire and spirit, and the firm expression of his mouth showed great determination. And, when the father had breathed his last, and his two elder brothers wept without restraint, Ivan stood silent, his pale face set and his eyes full of the bright wonder of tears that would not melt.
On the day that they buried their father, Ivan returned to the grave in the evening to read prayers over it. He had done so, and was making his way homeward, when there was a great clatter of hoofs behind him; then, as he reached the village square, the horseman pulled up and dismounted quite near to him.
After blowing a loud blast on his silver trumpet – for he was the King’s messenger – he cried in a loud voice:
‘All and every man, woman and child, take notice, in the name of the King. It is the King’s will that this proclamation be cried abroad in every town and village where his subjects dwell. The King’s daughter, Princess Helena the Fair, has caused to be built for herself a shrine having twelve pillars and twelve rows of beams. And she sits there upon a high throne till the time when the bridegroom of her choice rides by. And this is how she shall know him: with one leap of his steed he reaches the height of the tower, and, in passing, his lips press those of the Princess as she bends from her throne. Wherefore the King has ordered this to be proclaimed throughout the length and breadth of the land, for if any deems himself able so to reach the lips of the Princess and win her, let him try. In the name of the King I have said it!’
The blood of the youth of the nation, wherever this proclamation was issued, took flame and leapt to touch the lips of Princess Helena the Fair. All wondered to whose lot this lucky fate would fall. Some said it would be to the most daring, others contended that it was a matter of the leaping powers of the steed, and yet others that it depended not only on the steed but on the daring skill of the rider also.
When the three brothers had listened to the words of the King’s messenger they looked at one another; at least the elder two did, for it was apparent to them that Ivan, the youngest, was quite out of the competition, whereas they, two splendid handsome fellows, were distinctly in it.
‘Brothers,’ said Ivan at last, ‘our first thought must be to fulfil our father’s dying wish. But, if you prefer it, we could take it in turns to read the prayers over our father’s grave. Let it be the duty of one of us each day to fulfil the duty, morning and evening.’
The elder brothers agreed readily to this, but, when Ivan asked whose turn it should be on the morrow, they both began to make excuses.
‘As for me,’ said the eldest, ‘I must go and order the work of the farm my father left me, and that will take seven days.’
‘And for me,’ said the younger, ‘I must see to the estate which is my part of the inheritance, and that also will take seven days.’
‘Then,’ replied Ivan, ‘if I perform the duty for seven days, you will each do your share afterwards?’
His brothers agreed still more readily than before. Then they went their ways, Ivan full of thoughts of his father, and the other two to train their jumping horses, the one on his farm and the other on his estate. And both laughed to themselves, for neither knew the purpose of the other.
How they curled their hair and cleaned their teeth, and practised ‘prunes and prisms’ with their mouths close to the looking-glass! – so that when, at one bound of their magnificent steeds, they reached the level of the Princess’s lips, to aim the kiss that was to win the prize, they would make a brave show, and a conquering one. As for their little brother, they each thought he could go on praying over their father’s grave as long as he liked, – it would be the best thing he could do, and it would not interfere with their secret plans, so carefully concealed from each other and from him.
So, for seven days, in their separate districts, they raced about on their horses by day and dreamed of the greatest leaping feats by night. And at the end of the seven days the youngest brother summoned them to keep their agreement, and asked which of them would read the prayers, morning and evening, for the second seven days.
‘I have done my part,’ he said; ‘now it is for you to arrange between you which one shall continue the sacred duty.’
The two elder brothers looked at each other and then at Ivan.
‘As for me,’ said one, ‘I care little who does it, so long as I am free to get on with my business, which is more important.’
‘And as for me,’ said the other, ‘I am in no mind to watch each blade of grass growing on the grave. I cannot really afford the time, I am so busy. You, Ivan, – you are different: you are not a man of affairs; how could you spend your time better than reading prayers over our father’s grave?’
‘So be it,’ replied Ivan. ‘You get back to your work and I will attend to the sacred duty for another seven days.’
The two elder brothers went their separate ways, and for seven more days devoted their entire attention to training their horses for the flying leap at the Princess’s lips. How they tore like mad about the fields! How they jumped the hedges and ditches! How they curled their hair and dyed their moustaches and practised their lips, not only to ‘prunes and prisms,’ but to ‘peaches of passion’ and ‘pomegranates,’ and ‘peripatetic perambulation’ and everything they could think of! In fact, they paid so much attention to the lips which were to meet those of the Princess at the top of the flying leap, that they began to neglect their own and their horses’ meals. In other words, they were beginning to show signs of over-training.
At the end of the second seven days Ivan again summoned them to a family council, and asked them if either of them could now take up the sacred duty. But no; thinking heavily on horses and lips, and high jumps and kisses, they spoke lightly of fields to be tilled, seed to be sown, and all such things that must be done at once. Their view was – and they got quite friendly over it – that Ivan should be more than delighted to bear this pleasurable burden of reading prayers over his father’s grave. Indeed, nothing but the stern call of immediate duty would prevail upon them to relinquish a task so pleasant.
‘So be it,’ said Ivan; ‘I will perform the sacred duty for another seven days.’ But as he spoke, he noted his brothers’ curled hair and dyed moustaches, and gleaned from this, and from the look of sudden suspicion and jealousy exchanged between them, that they were both in love with the same fair one. But he kept this to himself, and left them to their own concerns.
Again, at the end of seven days, when Ivan had read the prayers devoutly, he summoned his brothers. But they did not come. Both sent messages saying that they were frightfully busy, and would he be so good as to go on with the sacred duty until they could be spared to do their share later on. Ivan accepted their messages, and went on reading the prayers over the father’s grave.
Meanwhile each of his brothers prepared for the great flying leap; and each said to himself: ‘What about Ivan? He would like to see this great exploit. It might make a man of him. He is altogether lacking in ambition, and to see a great deed done might stir him to try to be a great hero himself. But yet – I fear it would never do. He is so weedy, so insignificant. I feel I should lose by having a brother like that anywhere about. No; he is far better reading prayers over our father’s grave.’
So each in his own way resolved to go in alone – apart from the other and apart from Ivan.
The morning of the great day came. The eldest brother had chosen from his horses a magnificent black one with arched neck and flowing mane and tail. The second brother had selected a bay equally splendid. And now, at sunrise, they were, each unknown to the other, combing their well-curled hair, re-dyeing their moustaches, and booting and trapping themselves for the wonderful display of prowess the day was to bring forth. And they did not forget to make sure that their lips were as fit as they were anxious for the ‘high kiss.’
At the appointed time they rode into the lists and drew their lots, and neither was altogether surprised at seeing his brother among the host of competitors for the hand of Helena the Fair. Their surprise came later, when Ivan arrived on the scene.
It so happened in this way: that, towards evening, when his two brothers had each had their last try to leap up to the Princess’s lips and failed, like every one else, Ivan himself was reading the prayers over his father’s grave. Suddenly a great emotion came over him, and he stopped in his reading. He was filled with a longing to look just for once upon the face of Helena the Fair, for whose favour he knew that the most splendid in the land were competing with their wonderful steeds. So strong was this longing that he broke down and, bending over his father’s grave, wept bitterly.
And then a strange thing happened. His father heard him in his coffin, and shook himself free from the damp earth, and came out and stood before him.
‘Do not weep, Ivan, my son,’ he said. And Ivan looked up and was terrified at the sight of him.
‘Nay, my son, do not fear me,’ his father went on. ‘You have fulfilled my dying wish, and I will help you in your trouble. You wish to look upon the face of Helena the Fair, and so it shall be.’
With this he drew himself up, and his aspect was commanding. Then he called in a loud voice, and, as the echoes of his tones began to die away, Ivan heard them change into the far-distant beat of a horse’s hoofs. After listening for a while his father called again, and this time the echo was a horse’s neigh and galloping hoofs. It seemed beyond the hillside, and Ivan looked up and wondered. A third time his father called, and nearer and nearer came the galloping sound, until at last, with a thundering snort and a ringing neigh, a beautiful chestnut horse appeared, circled round them thrice, and then came to a halt before them, its two forefeet close together and its eyes, ears, and nostrils shooting flames of fire.
Then came a voice, and Ivan knew it was the voice of the chestnut horse with the proudly arched neck and flowing mane:
‘What is your will? Command me and I obey!’
The father took Ivan by the hand and led him to the horse’s head.
‘Enter here at the right ear,’ he said, ‘and pass through, and make your way out at the left ear. By so doing you will be able to command the horse, and he will do whatever you may wish that a horse should do.’
So Ivan, nothing doubting, passed in at the right ear of the chestnut horse and came out at the left; and immediately there wasa wonderful change in him. He was no longer a dreamy youth: he was at once a man of affairs, and the light of a high ambition shone in his eyes.
‘Mount! Go, win the Princess Helena the Fair!’ said his father, and immediately vanished.
With one spring Ivan was astride the chestnut horse, and, in another moment, they were speeding like lightning towards the shrine of Helena the Fair.
The sun was setting, and the two elder brothers, disconsolate, were about to withdraw from the field, when, startled by the cries of the people, they saw a steed come galloping on, well ridden, and at a terrific pace. They turned to look and they marked how Helena the Fair, disappointed of all others, leaned out to watch the oncoming horseman. And the whole concourse turned and stood to await the possible event.
On came the chestnut horse, his nostrils snorting fire, his hoofs shaking the earth. He neared the shrine, and, to a masterful rein, rose at a flying leap. The daring rider looked up and the Princess leaned down, but he could not reach her lips, ready as they were.
The whole field now stood at gaze as the chestnut horse with its rider circled round and came up again. And this time, with a splendid leap, the brave steed bore its rider aloft so that the fragrant breath of the Princess seemed to meet his nostrils, and yet his lips did not meet hers.
Again they circled round while all stood still and tense. Again the chestnut steed rose to the leap, and, this time, the lips of Ivan met those of the Princess in a long sweet kiss, for the chestnut horse seemed to linger in the air at the top of its leap while that kiss endured.
Then, while the Princess looked after, horse and rider reached the ground and disappeared like lightning.
Instantly the host of onlookers swarmed in.
‘Who is he? Where is he?’ was the cry on every hand. ‘He kissed her on the lips, and she kissed him. Look at her! Is it not true?’
It was true, for Princess Helena the Fair, with a love light in her eyes, was leaning down and searching, with all her soul, even for the very dust spurned from the heels of her lover’s horse. But she could see nothing, and sank back within her shrine, treasuring the kiss upon her lips; while the people, dissatisfied, but wondering greatly, melted away. Among them went the splendid brothers, seeking how they could sell their well-trained horses to advantage, for they had both been frantically near to the Princess’s lips.
Whither had Ivan flown on the chestnut horse? Loosing the reins – he cared for nothing but the kiss – he let his steed go, and presently it came to a standstill before his father’s grave. There he dismounted and turned the horse adrift. As if its errand was completed, it galloped off; a rainbow came down to meet it, and, closing in, seemed to snatch it up in its folds. Ivan was alone before his father’s grave.
Once more he bowed himself in prayer. Once more his father appeared before him.
‘Thou hast done well, O my son,’ he said. ‘Thou hast fulfilled my dying wish, but my living wish is yet to be fulfilled. To-morrow Helena the Fair will summon the people and demand her bridegroom. Be thou there, but say nothing.’
With this Ivan found himself alone.
On the following day there was a great gathering at the palace, and, in the midst of it, sat Princess Helena the Fair demanding her bridegroom – the one who had leapt to her lips and won her from all others. Her heart and soul and body were his. The half of her kingdom to come was his. She, herself, was his; – where was he?
Search was made among the highest in the land, but, fearing a demand for the repetition of the leap and the kiss, none came forward. Ivan sat at the back, a humble spectator.
‘She is thinking of that leap and that kiss,’ said he to himself. ‘When she sees me as I am, then let her judge.’
But love, though blind, has eyes. The Princess rose from her seat and swept a glance over the people. She saw the two handsome elder brothers and passed them by as so much dirt. Then, by the light of love, she descried, sitting in a corner, where the lights were low, the hero of the chestnut horse, – the one who had leapt high and reached her lips in the first sweet kiss of love.
She knew him at once, and, as all looked on in wonder, she made her way to that dim corner, took him by the hand without a word, and led him up, past the throne of honour, to an ante-chamber, where, with the joyous cries of the people ringing in their ears, their lips met a second time, – at the summit of a leap of joy.
At that moment the King entered, knowing all.
‘What is this?’ said he.
Then he smiled, for he understood his daughter, and knew that she had not only chosen her lover, but had won her choice.
‘My son,’ he added, without waiting for an answer, ‘you and yours will reign after me. Look to it! Now let us go to supper.’
Link of interest : The Art of Edmund Dulac
every time i keep hitting the blues (more often these days) I turn to this blog to vent it out. Sometimes the blues hues are so dark and trippy I feel like pulling the plug on these narcissistic pieces I polish off as a blog. But again, I get this rare comment/off-line/mail at least once an year by some person I’ve never met or will ever meet, as to how while reading some arbit stuff I wrote brightened up their gloomy day or made them think and they quote some lines from my muse/rant which even I don’t remember having written. The ability to put acts, thoughts, feelings, emotions in to words is a gift for me or I inherited this bit from my ancestral genetic pool. Yes, I have met people who read a lot, talk a lot but when i ask them do you write, they draw a blank. They tell me writing was never their forte, like poetry is my bête noir. Poems, I tried writing many times but always end with crumpled bits of paper with strange voodoo like figurines scribbled on them.
And there was this one time in during my masters, the topper of the class,a fair skinned,thick moustache totting, tam-bramh and me were slotted in the same project group. All the complex stuff involving design,calculations and all I leave it to the brainiac because at the very start I throw in the towel and tell him “ I can’t do half the analytical reasoning stuff you can. You’re a genius with a high mensa rating or woteva. So if you need my contributions in any other area like time-pass and all, I am game. And yes, I need a A grade in this course to renew my scholarship.” He looks at me amused (I guess it is an over achievers thing, this quizzical smile) and says “ dude! chill. I got this covered. (let’s hug it out bro) from my point of view you are far superior to me in ways I can hardly fathom. You are creative man. You can write. I can’t write for shit. All the answers that I scribble on my tests they are ditto from the text books.I can’t re-write in my own language. In the long run you will be more successful than the many of us dorks that sit here mugging page after page formula after formula. Just hang in there and continue to be innovatively creative.” (needless to say I had an nerdgasm of sorts hearing those words from him)
The way-back machine: (henceforth all references to my shady past shall be termed thus)
p.s. The WBM posts tend to be pretty long and wordy as I become overtly nostalgic when recounting past events.
yet another p.s. According to recent advances in neurological sciences it as been determined that the average adult mind can read a lengthy blog posts for 3 minutes maximum before attention deficiency kicks in. Just letting you know. Unless you are my biographer or something I wouldn’t mind if you give up here, throw your arms in the air and yell hallelujah. But if you are my future spouse who has landed here despite me trying to hide all traces of my nefarious online activity, read on but don’t bring this stuff up during our fights. And if you are my kid; god save you son, this is how your old man rolled.
9th grade.Hyderabad. So I was the new kid who had transferred to school. Everyone was giving me these strange looks. I blamed it on me being extra brown than the rest of them. A few weeks into the start of session we had those damn unit tests. So when the graded answer sheets were being given out the English teacher Ms.kalpana asks the class monitor point out any one who’s talking while she’s passing out the booklets. Being the over talkative person I am I was the first to be called out for some brutal canning on the knuckles. Ms.kalpana: “ What’s you name? You are the new kid aren’t you?” (meekly) “siddarth mam.” “oh! Siddarth. That’s you??” (silence) “I was going through you answers and was actually taken back, because none of your answers conform to the ordinary literary standards I expect from this class. Class clap for this guy, he has scored the highest marks in my class of all my students till date.” I was the hero of the day (I pictured myself as my, then/even now, hero, Tom Sawyer) only to be brought down to my knees an hour latter when the maths marks were announced, but that’s a different story.
8th grade.Vizag. So again I was the new kid who joined mid term in a new school. My dad took up a new job in Hyderabad rather abruptly abandoning the scenic Port Blair(Andaman Nicobar Islands) He dint want me to face problems adjusting to Hyderabad so he placed me in a school in Vizag. My bro was in the same school and fml he was the most popular/cool kid. Being the brother of the cool kid, people presume you are either more cool or at least half cool,because both of share the same dad seed and all. But sadly, I was way far from cool, I was pathetic. And the day I landed in that school the half yearly exams were going on and it was the bleedy english exam that day. So the kind principal asks me do you wanna to go to your room and beat off or do you wanna give the paper a try. I gave one glance at the paper and started writing it. All it had were questions on grammar and chapters from Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry finn. Are you kidding me ? My library teacher at carmel high school, Portblair had made sure I read the acclaimed mark Twain’s works thoroughly inside and out. I looked up at the false ceiling and offered her a silent thank you, taking back all the abuses I had hurled at her. I began writing. Even though I knew my marks for this exam wouldn’t be counted I wrote a min-novel. I was in a zone. The principal was shocked by my enthusiasm and told me to sit for the maths exam the next day. I balked.
6th grade.Port Blair, Andaman Nicobar Islands. These basis for this story is rooted in my fifth grade so will have to recount that first.
5th grade.Carmel High School,Port Blair, Andaman Nicobar Islands. and Yet again I was one of the many new non descript kids whose dad’s had transferred from Chennai to Port Blair. I was no hot shot in class and all the teachers knew me well because I always sat on the last bench and had the worst caveman like handwriting. A teacher once even slapped me right across the cheek frustrated at not understanding my scribbles. But one kindred soul Ms.Shanta, my western music teacher took a special interest in me. She saw my hand writing and told me that my words though perfect dint make any sense when written in a tightly woven, flower garland like fashion. So for the entire 5th grade, daily after school I used to spend and hour under her guidance in cursive writing classes. She gave me tons of writing assignments and pored over every turned in work of mine with a fine toothed comb. She taught me to cross my t’s and dot my i’s. As I improved daily she gave me a B- or a B at the max,never the elusive A+ I always looked for. And at the end of the term she finally gave me an A++ on my writing. I owe this blog to her.
So back to 6th grade. As always English exam papers were being handed out. And our teacher Ms.Gayatri was making all the usual toppers stand so that the rest of us unworthy folk could gawk at them and feel sorry for our limited comprehension skills. She suddenly said “aha! we have a new addition to our list of snobs. Siddarth please stand up. You’ve made the cut.” I stood up to quizzical stares from my last bench brethren. This had never happened before, a guy from the last bench getting up for the right reasons. Latter Ms.Gayatri called me aside and told me that since my writing had improved a hundred fold I could try out for the school news letter. I was on cloud nine.
Logging out of the way-back machine, memory overload.
So where was I ? Yes,writing is gratifying. As gratifying as finding a nice clean restroom to pee after holding a bursting bladder for two hours.
A panda walks into a café. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and proceeds to fire it at the other patrons.
'Why?' asks the confused, surviving waiter amidst the carnage, as the panda makes towards the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder.
'Well, I'm a panda,' he says, at the door. 'Look it up.'
The waiter turns to the relevant entry in the manual and, sure enough, finds an explanation. 'Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots, and leaves.'
- Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynne Truss
Have a nice day :)
India is a country of the NO. That “no” is your test.You have to get past it. It is India’s great wall; it keeps out foreign invaders. Pursuing it energetically and vanquishing it is your challenge. In the guru-shishya tradition,the novice is always rebuffed multiple times when he first approaches the guru. then the guru stops saying no but doesn’t say yes either; he suffers the presence of the student. when he starts acknowledging him,he assigns a series of menial tasks, meant to drive him away. only if the disciple sticks it out through all these stages of rejection and ill treatment is he considered worthy of the sublime knowledge. India is not a tourist friendly country. it will reveal itself to you only if you stay on,against all odds.the “no” might never become a “yes.” But you will stop asking questions.
---
Long before the millennium, Indians such as the late prime minister,Rajiv Gandhi, were talking about taking the country into the 21st century, as if the 20th century could just be leapfrogged. India desires modernity; it desires computers, information technology,neural networks,video on demand. But there is no guarantee if a constant supply of electricity in most places in the country . in this as in every other area, the country is convinced it can pole vault over the basics: develop world-class computer and management institutes without achieving basic literacy; provide advanced cardiac surgery and diagnostic imaging facilities while the most easily avoidable childhood diseases run rampant;sell washing machines that depend on a nonexistent water supply from shops that are dark most hours of the day because of power cuts;support a dozen private and public companies offering mobile phone services, while the basic land and telephone network is in terrible shape;drive scores of new cars that go from 0 to 60 in ten seconds without any roads where they might do this without killing everything inside and out, man and beast.
it is an optimistic view of technological progress – that if you reach for the moon, you will somehow, automatically, span the the inconvenient steps in between. India has the 3rd largest pool of technical labor in the world, but a third of its 1 billion people can’t read or write. An Indian scientist can design a supercomputer, but it won’t work because the junior technician cannot maintain it properly. the country graduates the best technical brains in the world but neglects to teach my plumber how to fix a toilet so it stays fixed. it is still a bramhin oriented system of education; those who work with their hands have to learn for themselves. education has to do with reading and writing, with abstractions, with higher thought.
as a result, in the country of NO nothing is fixed the first time around. you don’t call a repairman, you begin a relationship with him. you can’t bring to his attention too aggressively the fact that he is incompetent or crooked, because you’ll need him to set right what he has broken the first time around. Indians are craftsmen of genius, but mass production, with its attendant standardization, is not for us. all things modern in Bombay fail regularly : plumbing, telephones, the movement of huge blocks of traffic. Bombay is not the ancient Indian idea of a city. it is an imitation of a western city, maybe Chicago in the twenties. and, like all other imitations of the west here-the hindi pop songs,the appliances, the accents people put on, the parties the rich throw – this imitation, too, is neither here nor there.
i can start off by telling how it’s pissing me off when people claim the only reason they like NYC is because they want to sound cool and all or with the incessant walking exercises I've been doing of late or the usual jazz, narcissistic whining rants or how I am trying to stay sane by blanking out my mind watching white walls. Yea nothing much to say. Or that short story that’s been brewing at the back of my mind for the last 3 months or how i dread Mondays or so and so forth. So many false starts. But Ryan nailed it for me, he says: “ You could do so much with what you have right at this instant, rather than hold out for some hypothetical special idea that you think is going to be beamed down from the heavens right into your head.” This guy Ryan always gets me, with his words and ideas knowing what to say at the right time. Of course he also my voiciest critic. When all the world gives me a particular opinion he gives me the counter view; sorta devil’s advocate he is.
Like he once said “ you know beneath all this facade of humor, do-gooder, happy go lucky guy is a cynical evil guy. You just don’t bring out the superbad cuz like many others you are a conformist and a sell out. You’ll keep doing the same shit over and over again if it pleases a small section of people. You’re the comedian who is too afraid to laugh at his own jokes. And for as long as you try to avoid this dual nature of yours you’ll be trapped in a no man’s land. Making others happy but incapable of making yourself happy. be selfish man. put your priorities over others, don’t let them use you as a pedestal for their success. it is acceptable to be vulnerable and a care giver but insinuate some caution into your system rather putting it all out.”
