tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27537843742647136822024-02-15T02:23:42.339+05:30anuradha roynurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-34616838946424791042023-08-30T12:39:00.000+05:302023-08-30T12:39:22.050+05:30Begum Anees Khan<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2lPDsQwTJ1B-BHWtnlM9JSh705LpaMrleVN3m0Dm-X4vdUGNflKbx3I-vI4JY6xQxRxMpc-7o_J4yzRPncByjQ6URBNBjjx15f24GmYbuLpZqs8s5de50qUcOAEjOSpjYllXsl3fogwLYwk1MmPQWuFRtpUqcFRQbCay9qdlt3vhoiLAo5aRdESwvQme/s442/366967606_676317521186548_4673857614241620725_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="353" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2lPDsQwTJ1B-BHWtnlM9JSh705LpaMrleVN3m0Dm-X4vdUGNflKbx3I-vI4JY6xQxRxMpc-7o_J4yzRPncByjQ6URBNBjjx15f24GmYbuLpZqs8s5de50qUcOAEjOSpjYllXsl3fogwLYwk1MmPQWuFRtpUqcFRQbCay9qdlt3vhoiLAo5aRdESwvQme/s320/366967606_676317521186548_4673857614241620725_n.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>Once a week around midday, Maulvi Sah’b would come in through the
gates of our school in Hyderabad and class would divide briskly into two
and troop off to different parts of the building. Those who were Muslim
would be at religious instruction classes with him for the next half
hour while the others trudged through moral science lessons. Something
similar happened during language classes. We would hear a singsong
chorus of “A-salaam-aleikum, Aunty”, from the Urdu classroom as we sat
at our Sanskrit or Telugu lessons. <p></p><p>Through my nomadic childhood,
I’ve been at many schools. None exemplified the idea of secular India as
intensely as this Muslim school in Hyderabad. Begum Anees Khan, who
made it so, died in Hyderabad on August 16. Her passing feels symbolic,
as if it signifies the death of a quixotic idea. </p><p>Anees Khan was not given to seeking the limelight or making speeches.
She never spelled out her secularism. It was instinctive: instead of
words, there was action. Students of different faiths did their namaz or
prayers separately, everything else together. Religion was not denied,
but it was shown its rightful place. </p><p>When we were at Nasr School,
we took all of it for granted, never suspecting goals or visions or
manifestoes. It seemed natural for us that school should have both namaz
and Diwali melas, that our classmates would fast during Ramzan and
feast at Christmas. Maybe this is the reason for my rage and
incomprehension when people around me casually describe neighbourhoods
and towns as having “too many Muslims” in the way people might say “too
many mosquitoes”. </p><p>It was not an easy act to pull off in the
Hyderabad of the 1980s. Communal riots began on the flimsiest of
pretexts and fear would ripple through the school. I remember
panic-stricken phone calls to car-owning parents, who arrived and
carried away groups of girls to drop them home before the riot came too
close. The next day, we would return to school as if nothing had
happened. </p><p>The school was identifiably Muslim: there was a
signboard over the main gate with the name of the school, which means
“Victory” in Arabic, inscribed below with a line in Arabic from the
Koran, that means, “With God’s help victory is near.” Though murderous
vigilantes didn’t roam the streets then, as they do now in certain parts
of India, it was still a city divided down religious lines. Creating a
school like Nasr was an act of wild courage and imagination. </p><p> (You can read the rest of the article here in <i>Scroll</i>)<br /></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-87294032998777994792023-06-18T19:39:00.004+05:302023-06-18T19:42:20.680+05:30The Earthspinner is travelling<p style="text-align: center;">There is exciting news to share.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i> The Earthspinner</i> is now out in two more languages, finding new readers in countries where English is not the first language. Translations make me very grateful -- such immense dedication from the publishers and especially the translator, in whose words an author's work finds new worlds. I've always wondered whether readers far away, unfamiliar with India, reading in a different language, read almost a different book from the one I've written. I'll never know. I read many books from other languages too and at a recent discussion on translation at the <a href="https://www.oxbelly.com/writers-retreat">Oxbelly Writer's Retreat</a> from which I am just back, a panel consisting of Fiammetta Rocco, Yukiko Duke, and Chigozie Obioma tackled precisely this question. Their response, and that of the audience, was unanimous: even when translations lose something of the original, they also gain a great deal too, and the book in the new language is a new entity. <br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">In Romanian it is published by <a href="https://humanitas.ro/humanitas-fiction/carte/calul-de-lut">Humanitas</a> and is translated by Cristina Nicolae. Humanitas has previously published translations of all my other books, except for <i>Sleeping on Jupiter</i>. Today in Cluj, Romania, there was a book discussion featuring the book. Unfortunately, I could only be there as a video recording. One of the organisers and speakers, Mihaela Gligor, a Romanian scholar specializing in Indian literature, sent the following report: </p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9DVil7pKtbZD0iK3Dmulg68pSFwU01odh7D5yVVPzq62sUU94Rm4hDK7eYK8M_g_TrW78RnpIoLOHxGau0y6D9lqi3Kr_jhVCw6LrYfr-ulrkZrRqCvjaEDQdoQh6EH1EM6olBH9ejWPBu5nMxEZZNlrScLAFGkhYWADy51pLGonvd7zWTUy3eJRIg/s946/ANURADHA%20ROY-Calul%20de%20lut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="946" data-original-width="615" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9DVil7pKtbZD0iK3Dmulg68pSFwU01odh7D5yVVPzq62sUU94Rm4hDK7eYK8M_g_TrW78RnpIoLOHxGau0y6D9lqi3Kr_jhVCw6LrYfr-ulrkZrRqCvjaEDQdoQh6EH1EM6olBH9ejWPBu5nMxEZZNlrScLAFGkhYWADy51pLGonvd7zWTUy3eJRIg/w260-h400/ANURADHA%20ROY-Calul%20de%20lut.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>"The Bookstore posted some pictures: <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.facebook.com/humanitascj&source=gmail&ust=1687180198671000&usg=AOvVaw1AwtcQ8ILiEZdrNRwR8Jlb" href="https://www.facebook.com/humanitascj" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/<wbr></wbr>humanitascj</a> </div><div>It was so wonderful!</div><div>Some ladies, in their 60s, have a
book club and two of them read your novel. So they came prepared and
they told us their thoughts.</div><div>It was great to see such
enthusiasm and the joy of knowing new things about India, and Kumartuli,
and small things that bring the two cultures together. They were
impressed by your characters, and said that they found something
personal in each of them. Doina Borgovan, the other lady
that presented the book along with me, works for Radio Cluj and she was
impressed to see (in the short movie) that you do pottery and she said
that reading your novel she had a feeling that you know what is all
about from a very personal perspective :-) And seeing you, she had the
confirmation ...</div><div>They all loved your message.</div><div>Thank you!<br /></div>It was a great evening" <p></p><p>The book has also been published this week in German by <span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto">From <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.de/Buch/Ton-fuer-die-Goetter/Anuradha-Roy/Luchterhand-Literaturverlag/e602820.rhd">Luchterhand Verlag</a>, which previously published <i>All the Lives We Never Lived
</i>under the title <i>Der Garten meiner Mutter</i>. Both books are translated by
Werner Löcher-Lawrence.</span></p><p><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKyaEKOWIA4TswYApUyPdYVcpJb2fBPXI99po_F0Nwi_2sDpjgT9DItMaO2KnoB7H_hZCE8mFo_b93dKR5_k4P3h9fUvTbsN7VW2gQ-5xzOad97BBGC1Fglb5fUHXzkJfTQT3ITPjemwgk9vXY3nUy1z9rR7Rick4pO31Tx6woqMvcqGf-5jP-LWLOMA/s541/German%20Earthspinner.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="539" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKyaEKOWIA4TswYApUyPdYVcpJb2fBPXI99po_F0Nwi_2sDpjgT9DItMaO2KnoB7H_hZCE8mFo_b93dKR5_k4P3h9fUvTbsN7VW2gQ-5xzOad97BBGC1Fglb5fUHXzkJfTQT3ITPjemwgk9vXY3nUy1z9rR7Rick4pO31Tx6woqMvcqGf-5jP-LWLOMA/w399-h400/German%20Earthspinner.png" width="399" /></a></div><br /> <br /> <p></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-18652479490717557502022-12-25T12:21:00.002+05:302022-12-25T12:24:16.028+05:30All the Lives We Never Lived wins the Sahitya Akademi Award 2022<p style="text-align: center;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCyhl51UOTOdN-o-epaynjboeEyScg4r3qFBakRRio3_ENfa9XHDMmcXH4me2YkZLZV3znJ4lp7c2uCYmwUVy87UA8VBD1KIrveIIzub-0gu2gZ0iJWfYEHXYyGBixWpqoxuyESfSPKVDjwJFau-C2zP9Z72DR4830-TqEBFCCB4v-7AIpB5_rJYgrQ/s814/sahityaprize.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="814" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxCyhl51UOTOdN-o-epaynjboeEyScg4r3qFBakRRio3_ENfa9XHDMmcXH4me2YkZLZV3znJ4lp7c2uCYmwUVy87UA8VBD1KIrveIIzub-0gu2gZ0iJWfYEHXYyGBixWpqoxuyESfSPKVDjwJFau-C2zP9Z72DR4830-TqEBFCCB4v-7AIpB5_rJYgrQ/s320/sahityaprize.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Anuradha Roy bags coveted Sahitya
Akademi Award, 22 others feted </span></div><p style="text-align: center;"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Anuradha Roy bagged the coveted Sahitya
Akademi Award on Thursday. The author of 'All The Lives We Never Lived ' was
felicitated along with 22 other authors for their exemplary contribution in the
field of literature. This is the fourth book penned by the 40-something Roy.
This book also won the prestigious Tata Book of the Year Award for Fiction in
2018. The book revolves around the life and times of a horticulturalist
Myshkin, who narrates his life story, and his unending wait for letters
from etters from the mother who abandoned him, for greener pastures in
another country. <br />
<br />
Roy, who lives in Ranikhet, has previously written 'An Atlas of Impossible
Longing', 'The Folded Earth' and 'Sleeping on Jupiter' which won the DSC Prize
for Fiction 2016. It was also longlisted for the Man Booker Prize in the year
2015. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Read more at:<br />
<a href="https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/magazines/panache/anuradha-roy-bags-coveted-sahitya-akademi-award/articleshow/96450519.cms?utm_source=contentofinterest&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=cppst"><span style="color: blue;">https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/magazines/panache/anuradha-roy-bags-coveted-sahitya-akademi-award/articleshow/96450519.cms?utm_source=contentofinterest&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=cppst</span></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="color: black;">The list of previous winners in English include R.K. Narayan, Anita Desai, A. K. Ramanujan, Vikram Seth, and Amitav Ghosh and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Sahitya_Akademi_Award_winners_for_English">can be accessed in its entirety here</a>.</span> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: blue;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: blue;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: blue;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTftrXf5-NWdbruBhyZyHLkxNoqRLwejDHLAAgt__VmgQHUcqAe1tqlffdzDK9CTHj0TxKrbeaMOYFHJBChomeGOih-gzwtiGDtKAEV3xDr_v6PZ3QHVZSlq8DU_f0bjWkW1IUiqShLwhZR8W9V2GOW0OUB3AB6AhKhajag4pBLwx2BO1EF-k0zYA6g/s622/sahityahindu.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="426" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTftrXf5-NWdbruBhyZyHLkxNoqRLwejDHLAAgt__VmgQHUcqAe1tqlffdzDK9CTHj0TxKrbeaMOYFHJBChomeGOih-gzwtiGDtKAEV3xDr_v6PZ3QHVZSlq8DU_f0bjWkW1IUiqShLwhZR8W9V2GOW0OUB3AB6AhKhajag4pBLwx2BO1EF-k0zYA6g/w438-h640/sahityahindu.png" width="438" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.thehindu.com/books/sahitya-akademi-awards-announced-anuradha-roy-among-23-winners/article66293975.ece">From The Hindu</a><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p><style>@font-face
{font-family:Arial;
panose-1:2 11 6 4 2 2 2 2 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}@font-face
{font-family:Times;
panose-1:2 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-unhide:no;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0cm;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}.MsoChpDefault
{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}</style></p><div style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); left: -99999px; position: fixed; top: 0px;">Anuradha
Roy bagged the coveted Sahitya Akademi Award on Thursday. The author of
'All The Lives We Never Lived ' was felicitated along with 22 other
authors for their exemplary contribution in the field of literature.
This is the fourth book penned by the 40-something Roy. This book also
won the prestigious Tata Book of the Year Award for Fiction in 2018. The
book revolves around the life and times of a horticulturalist Myshkin,
who narrates his life story, and his unending wait for letters from .. <br /><br /><div style="font-family: arial; font-siae: 12px;">Read more at:<br /><a href="https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/magazines/panache/anuradha-roy-bags-coveted-sahitya-akademi-award/articleshow/96450519.cms?utm_source=contentofinterest&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=cppst">https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/magazines/panache/anuradha-roy-bags-coveted-sahitya-akademi-award/articleshow/96450519.cms?utm_source=contentofinterest&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=cppst</a></div></div><div style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); left: -99999px; position: fixed; top: 0px;">Anuradha
Roy bagged the coveted Sahitya Akademi Award on Thursday. The author of
'All The Lives We Never Lived ' was felicitated along with 22 other
authors for their exemplary contribution in the field of literature.
This is the fourth book penned by the 40-something Roy. This book also
won the prestigious Tata Book of the Year Award for Fiction in 2018. The
book revolves around the life and times of a horticulturalist Myshkin,
who narrates his life story, and his unending wait for letters from .. <br /><br /><div style="font-family: arial; font-siae: 12px;">Read more at:<br /><a href="https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/magazines/panache/anuradha-roy-bags-coveted-sahitya-akademi-award/articleshow/96450519.cms?utm_source=contentofinterest&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=cppst">https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/magazines/panache/anuradha-roy-bags-coveted-sahitya-akademi-award/articleshow/96450519.cms?utm_source=contentofinterest&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=cppst</a></div></div>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-43994637248772859612022-11-20T15:37:00.002+05:302022-11-20T15:37:19.810+05:30Language, Lost and Found<p><i>In France for a long spell earlier this year, everyone around me speaking in a language I didn’t speak or read, I began to think about the many streams of language I've swum in. My mother tongue, Bengali, was the language of home and of intimacy. Yet somewhere along those years, with a sigh drowned out by babel, the language had left me. I tried to find my way back to it through writers like Leela Majumdar and Bibhutibhushan. In "Language, Lost and Found" out now in Noema Magazine, I write of how I found it again, and of language in alien contexts. I'm not sure if this essay is travelogue or memoir or a bunch of stories. But here it is, and I hope you will read it. </i></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4rbGBs3AeXzdQPd3t8VK4aZYBGJFb8Cg7oFEIsU-4udVdBsIfUrykK2hyGluG7Vr5rV8fjT0-lWQ6pXlqnhBVU0jazogOQuXnDDdRQg7h4J20wuJsR9j0QWZpk_dAhbyflHlrgaebihHSL8Uux5zVr-jpzHbJyxLGDUeorc0DE3RPUoQXTJ4IeGj8jw/s633/NOEMA.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="632" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4rbGBs3AeXzdQPd3t8VK4aZYBGJFb8Cg7oFEIsU-4udVdBsIfUrykK2hyGluG7Vr5rV8fjT0-lWQ6pXlqnhBVU0jazogOQuXnDDdRQg7h4J20wuJsR9j0QWZpk_dAhbyflHlrgaebihHSL8Uux5zVr-jpzHbJyxLGDUeorc0DE3RPUoQXTJ4IeGj8jw/s320/NOEMA.png" width="319" /></a></i></div>It was a red paperback with a green, winking cat spread across its large front. Just a few taps pulls it up on my screen now, and I wonder if my mental image of the day my father came with it as a gift for my brother and me is the work of memory or imagination. <br /><br />He walks in as if he has a happy secret and lounges against the headboard of the big double bed, my brother on one side, me on the other. My mother leans over, looking at the page from behind him. And then he begins to read aloud. My father isn’t much of a talker, but reading poetry aloud is a kind of music for him. His record collection includes Kazi Nazrul Islam’s poetry in the declamatory style of recitation called “Abritti,” popular among Bengalis. But today my father is not performing for an audience; he is reading in the intimate, rhythmic tones he keeps for us, and he has to keep stopping because he is laughing too much for words. <br /><br />Partly because his laugh has always been incurably infectious and partly because the poems he is reading out are so bizarre and funny, my brother and I crack up, too. There are strange beings in this book, violent oddballs, creatures with two tails, vicious monsters with incongruously sentimental thoughts and poignant problems. There are the offspring of Ramgorur, who are forbidden to laugh, and large round pumpkin-like beasts called Kumropotash, whose every sneeze or whimper leads to dire consequences for humans. One of our favorites is the office clerk who thinks his mustache has been stolen. <br /><br /><br />He sat up with a vicious start and thrashed his limbs about<br /><br />And rolled his eyes and cried, “Be quick! I think I’m passing out.”<br /><br />So some call for an ambulance and some for the police,<br /><br />And someone warns, “He’ll try to bite, so gently if you please.”<br /><br />In the midst of this, with thund’ring voice and features grim and swollen,<br /><br />The Baboo roars, “Confound you all! My whiskers have been stolen!”<p></p><p><i>Translated by Sukanta Chaudhuri, “The Select Nonsense of Sukumar Ray,” Calcutta, Oxford University Press, 1987. </i><br /><br />What we knew as “the big red book with the green cat” was “Samagra Shishu Sahitya” (Collected Children’s Writing), which gathered together rhymes, plays and stories written and illustrated by the early twentieth century writer, Sukumar Ray. The collection includes his book of nonsense verse, “Abol Tabol,” which literally means “nonsense,” and which appeared in print just days after the author died of a fever called kala-azar (visceral leishmaniasis). He was 35. Outside eastern India, he is known (if at all) as the father of India’s best-known film-maker Satyajit Ray, but in Bengal he is a part of the region’s collective consciousness. <br /><br />“All my singing ends in sleep.” The last poem in the book, seeming to prefigure death, farewells and parting, has a melancholic tinge despite its sparkle. “Abol Tabol” was published on Sept. 19, 1923 and on the 64th anniversary of its publication, my father died. He was 57. At that time, it was small consolation to me that he had planted Ray’s book and its language, Bengali, in my head before his voice was stilled, but now I see how much it mattered. All that nonsense was a seed which, flowering out, shaped me in ways impossible for me to pinpoint. It spills out as new words that take me by surprise when they appear in my head. My father was a geologist who dealt in rocks, minerals, fossils, the forces that shaped the earth as we know it. But he had himself been shaped by the music of words, and it would not have surprised him to see the seismic effects on me of those days reading idly on a double bed....</p><p><a href="https://www.noemamag.com/language-lost-and-found/?fbclid=IwAR2REi9y-Z4zZGeRz_m45BblgNVad-JjXin_HqnT6y2MRS4lrD9qwQAPQHY" target="_blank">READ THE REST OF THIS ESSAY HERE AT NOĒMA </a><br /></p><p><i> </i></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-35978468328653393062022-11-20T15:28:00.003+05:302022-11-20T15:28:45.113+05:30The Goa Heritage Festival<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHe0nQzza1qzLq-pu1hyX0ayTV5s-wg329RxEgo3m08NgtTzdMCGw7cidJtzTZtCljfxyjVNybLYyrSgtREiSEv0Bw6dwQrC2GabrQ1Y2Us8yhGPciC9TcwMC1gtJdRtduxdAsOmApmqvI5G4gUvcs2cg__z0_789r-CaKPOZma4GToTNgj5It_bAq1Q/s1600/IMG-20221120-WA0000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Anuradha Roy with Laila Tyabji" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="739" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHe0nQzza1qzLq-pu1hyX0ayTV5s-wg329RxEgo3m08NgtTzdMCGw7cidJtzTZtCljfxyjVNybLYyrSgtREiSEv0Bw6dwQrC2GabrQ1Y2Us8yhGPciC9TcwMC1gtJdRtduxdAsOmApmqvI5G4gUvcs2cg__z0_789r-CaKPOZma4GToTNgj5It_bAq1Q/w296-h640/IMG-20221120-WA0000.jpg" title="Photograph by Vivek Menezes" width="296" /></a></div>It must have been my lucky week. Laila Tyabji, who is somehow puckish, formidable, and beautiful all at the same time, was my housemate at the <span><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/goaheritagefestival?__cft__[0]=AZUEGCdiSzIzMA5ucHlIOf2jgWDAhymMaUBWUnwrJr0Y4oO5Dlw0kn9UGoi44q8xSWfHzn5T7fvQ5MIuNmPcNEytjQ1z4l5O2-fBR78vtWmT7PTzNihEeqYfn8Q0HwYVRuL999RKdxEm-FCe2d146hsy&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2"><span>Goa Heritage Festival</span></span></a></span>.<p></p><p>I went to the festival with my mother, she with her daughter Urvashi. Our foursome began each morning with plans for the day and ended with a gossipy, raucous dinnertime postmortem. </p><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="x1iorvi4 x1pi30zi x1l90r2v x1swvt13" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_1w"><div class="x78zum5 xdt5ytf xz62fqu x16ldp7u"><div class="xu06os2 x1ok221b"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto"><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xdj266r x126k92a"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">In between we went to the many fascinating talks and discussions. I came away with wisdom and gentleness from Damodar Mauzo, Gnanpith-awarded Konkani writer, who was the third occupant of the Surya Kiran Heritage Hotel bungalow, which was the venue of the events as well as our warm and pleasant temporary home. Laila gave an illustrated talk on saris and that evening there was a playful sari catwalk, showcasing Kunbi saris, at the enormous, carnivalesque mela spread across the park opposite the hotel, where there was food, drink, music, local produce every day. I was in conversation with <span><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=611708960&__cft__[0]=AZUEGCdiSzIzMA5ucHlIOf2jgWDAhymMaUBWUnwrJr0Y4oO5Dlw0kn9UGoi44q8xSWfHzn5T7fvQ5MIuNmPcNEytjQ1z4l5O2-fBR78vtWmT7PTzNihEeqYfn8Q0HwYVRuL999RKdxEm-FCe2d146hsy&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2"><span>Vivek Menezes</span></span></a></span>, who was curating and conducting our bit of the festival, a chapter in the "Suitable Conversations" series run by <span><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/asuitableagency?__cft__[0]=AZUEGCdiSzIzMA5ucHlIOf2jgWDAhymMaUBWUnwrJr0Y4oO5Dlw0kn9UGoi44q8xSWfHzn5T7fvQ5MIuNmPcNEytjQ1z4l5O2-fBR78vtWmT7PTzNihEeqYfn8Q0HwYVRuL999RKdxEm-FCe2d146hsy&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2"><span>A Suitable Agency</span></span></a></span>. All the talks were at the Heritage Bistro, informal and intimate. The big closing talk, "My Awakening", was by Siddhesh Gautam, Dalit activist and artist.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">The loveliest thing about this festival was how rooted it was in its neighbourhood, Campal, on the Mandovi riverfront. You didn't feel as if you had been airdropped into a festival hothouse and flown out again at the end. My day started with walks -- along the river to the beach, or more often in the neighbourhood, where I loved the morning rhythm: the bread seller would cycle down tooting his bhopu and then pausing to sell his poi. The fish seller would go past next, announced ahead by the smell. The dogs would scamper out for their walks. One dog called Jake Pinto invited me with such enthusiasm, his owners had no choice but to ask me in and show me around their astonishing home, where at the door you are greeted by a colonial era bust of Gandhiji smiling genially at our nonsense. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">I would also encounter daily a stocky black and brown dog in a hurry, too preoccupied to pause and chat with me. I discovered why: he spends his nights with his friend, a 91-year old ex-violin teacher, Antonio, and then goes for the day to his other friend Derek down the road for food and fun with Derek's three dogs, returning for the night to lie vigilantly below his master's bed. One of the festival events was an adoption camp run by the neighbourhood's Dr Charmayne's Pet Clinic, in which 14 pups found homes.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">At the carnival there was young Imli, who wagged her tail nonstop at the ZeroPosro van encouraging people to buy the organic, no-waste produce they sold. Down the road, beyond the van were the brilliant young people of the Amche Mollem movement who are trying to through art to pause a juggernaut: 3 mega infrastructure projects that will cut through and destroy the Bhagwan Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary & Mollem National Park, Goa. I saw how they managed to involve every passer by, inviting them to sit down at a table, colour a part of a picture, listen to them talk about their fight. As I coloured my bit of Goa's wildlife, I sent up a fervent prayer for the survival of the animals, the mangroves, the forests they were trying to shelter, and also for the survival of all that the Goa Heritage Festival was trying to protect. (The photograph is by Vivek Menezes)</div></div></span></div></div></div></div>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-87120196952491483542022-08-24T10:39:00.003+05:302022-08-24T10:39:33.661+05:30Mountains Hidden by Clouds<p>The following article is a conversation with the writer Pankaj Mishra. The interview can be read in full<a href="https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2022/08/16/mountains-hidden-by-clouds-a-conversation-with-anuradha-roy/?mc_cid=b783699bfa"> in <i>Paris Review</i>, where it was published in August 2022.</a></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_8An-jIZ29JRd92602r6cpo_Ock2jD542l8nwnMoopkfkV8O31aw8JVAkmdLPW7kHMTdN5lafWQbl9tAuPYRKkqem5sBPqM3ZaO8aWzCGZOzhXJ4t4ufvt3OgECY9aDzg9_XnmQy_lvH3c6cYgLa1KQ9a4K23MdYFG_t3Y3iV_ScxdMc6SBSoJxndfQ/s822/Screenshot%202022-08-24%20at%2010-34-45%20Mountains%20Hidden%20by%20Clouds%20A%20Conversation%20with%20Anuradha%20Roy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="687" data-original-width="822" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_8An-jIZ29JRd92602r6cpo_Ock2jD542l8nwnMoopkfkV8O31aw8JVAkmdLPW7kHMTdN5lafWQbl9tAuPYRKkqem5sBPqM3ZaO8aWzCGZOzhXJ4t4ufvt3OgECY9aDzg9_XnmQy_lvH3c6cYgLa1KQ9a4K23MdYFG_t3Y3iV_ScxdMc6SBSoJxndfQ/w400-h334/Screenshot%202022-08-24%20at%2010-34-45%20Mountains%20Hidden%20by%20Clouds%20A%20Conversation%20with%20Anuradha%20Roy.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I met the novelist Anuradha Roy in Delhi in the mid-nineties, when
she was an editor at Oxford University Press and I had just published my
first book. Not long after that, she moved to a Himalayan town to set
up Permanent Black, now India’s premier intellectual publisher, with her
husband, Rukun Advani. She also began to write fiction. Her fifth
novel, <em>The Earthspinner</em>, which was released in the United
States this summer, is about the war on reason and on imagination in a
world consumed by political fanaticism.</p>
<p>Though I don’t remember what was said in our first meeting, I can
recall a certain hopefulness in the air—there was a lot of that about,
among publishers and writers, in India in the nineties. Writing in
English was ceasing to be the furtive and poorly paid endeavor it long
had been. There were greater opportunities to publish; new literary
periodicals and networks of promotion seemed to be creating the
infrastructure for more vigorous intellectual and artistic life. Indeed,
the conventional wisdom of that decade, helped by the prominence of
Salman Rushdie, Vikram Seth, and Arundhati Roy abroad, was that Indian
writing in English was “arriving,” no less resoundingly than was India’s
embrace of consumer capitalism at the end of history. One measure of
this apparent progress was the respectful international attention such
work elicited. <em>Granta</em> and <em>The</em> <em>New Yorker</em> devoted issues to Indian writing in 1997, the fiftieth year of India’s independence from British colonialism.</p>
<p>In 2022, there is something very forlorn about the seventy-fifth
anniversary of India’s independence. Murderous Hindu supremacists rule
the country, and lynch mobs—physical and digital—police its cultural and
intellectual life. Educated Indians spend much of their time and energy
trying to emigrate. Literature remains, for a tiny minority, the means
to cognition in the darkness, and literary festivals project, briefly,
the illusion of a community. But every writer seems terribly alone with
herself. The sense of a meaningful shared space and a common language,
the possibility of a broad literary flourishing—many of those fragile
shoots of the nineties have been trampled into the ground by the
ferocious invaders of private as well as public spheres.</p>
<p>Over twenty-five years of radical transformations, Anuradha and I
have kept intermittently in touch. While emailing in recent months, I
began to wonder if other readers should be invited to reflect on the
fate of writers in India today. What follows is a conversation that
explores some of the historical uniqueness of this fate.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span id="more-161081"></span></p>
<p><em>Dear Anuradha, </em></p>
<p><em>There is a line in your wonderful new novel about how ordinary
days can explode in places like India, leaving us to collect the
shattered pieces for the rest of our lives (I am paraphrasing; I don’t
have my copy with me at present). I was struck by it, partly because not
enough has been said about the writer or artist in India who has to
work amidst these shocks—of history, I was going to add, but the
destruction of human lives and of possibilities in India is often too
commonplace and routine to rise to the status of history. In recent
years, I have become more curious about writers who worked under such
extraordinary pressures—the Russians after their revolution, Germans
during the early years of Nazism, Spanish artists during and after the
civil war, South African writers under apartheid. What was experienced
in these cases is something that has never been experienced to the same
degree by writers and artists in the UK or the U.S.—the marginalization
of art as well as dissent; the abrupt shrinking or loss of audiences and
local patronage; threats of expulsion and exile, if not assassination.
How do you calibrate your own relationship with a ruined public sphere
as a writer (and citizen)? I remember J. M. Coetzee complaining about
the obligation to address political themes in his fiction while he was
living in South Africa. Do you feel any such imperative? I ask also
because your new novel, though set largely in the eighties, is alert to
the multiple transformations of India in the last three decades.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>You’re right—we open the newspaper every day to some fresh horror.
Terrible acts of violence are not even reported any longer, and if they
are, they are forgotten the next day, or replaced by some other
appalling public crime. I say “public crime” because these are now
outdoor performances uploaded for general viewing by vigilante groups
supposedly working for a Hindu cause: protecting “their” cows, caste,
women, and so on.</p>
<p>Not only is the destruction of human lives and possibilities in India
commonplace and routine, it is now well recognized as being sanctioned
by the state—which does not so much turn a blind eye to vigilante
violence as actively encourage it, and which ices the hatred cake by
punishing the victims instead of the perpetrators. We have long been
used to mobs that melt away into the shadows. The new development is
that they no longer melt away; on the contrary, they become internet
stars for especially vicious hate speech.</p>
<p>In this situation, the kind of books we publish at Permanent Black
and the kind of books I write seem to me like faint shouts in an
aggressive cacophony that drowns out reasoned debate and dissent. We are
completely marginal to the mainstream discourse, which is clamorous,
angry, and often abusive. In Germany, a hundred years ago, this was the
initial stage of a fascist process. India is far more diverse, populous,
and difficult to control centrally, so there is some hope.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>I am relieved that you can see hope. I am less optimistic,
perhaps because I am not as exposed to everyday Indian realities as you
are. I worry that unlike Germany, which plunged into vicious
philistinism after a century of unprecedented achievement in the arts
and philosophy, India has moved straight from a pre-Gutenberg culture to
the garish modernity of smartphone screens. The divide between a
minority of writers and artists dedicated to a slow culture of
reflection and creation and a majority prone to hectic consumption of
politics as well as entertainment feels much starker.</em></p><p>Read the rest of the article <a href="https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2022/08/16/mountains-hidden-by-clouds-a-conversation-with-anuradha-roy/?mc_cid=b783699bfa">here</a>. <em><br /></em></p>
<p> </p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-77503387755166574172022-07-05T19:30:00.003+05:302022-07-05T19:30:17.896+05:30Escaping the Solitude of the Writing Life Through Letters <p> <span itemprop="articleBody"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5l_ZBBTrcgM0Mb3vwZioSUGl0b2PJUlgsCxlvwpqIxW0sqI-e5PP0Es3N5UxBBAB3m9lPIAGPc_aOio0bUsJ8zYBrVol4b9JcHZTB1PCz01QWdThKwD1G7lwzzNXZ48p0rTTtTAyAsKoR3hqzOGvXETadNRV9p1IGRu4tn1uh2as57OjzGJSnroSnA/s800/empty-desk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="800" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5l_ZBBTrcgM0Mb3vwZioSUGl0b2PJUlgsCxlvwpqIxW0sqI-e5PP0Es3N5UxBBAB3m9lPIAGPc_aOio0bUsJ8zYBrVol4b9JcHZTB1PCz01QWdThKwD1G7lwzzNXZ48p0rTTtTAyAsKoR3hqzOGvXETadNRV9p1IGRu4tn1uh2as57OjzGJSnroSnA/w400-h210/empty-desk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />In April this year, I turned the key in
the door of an apartment on the tenth floor of a grey building and
walked into an ocean of light and sky. A bare, enormous room with white
floors and walls, a few pieces of furniture including a brown couch in
an advanced state of infirmity. The eastern wall was entirely
glass—sliding doors from floor to ceiling, leading out into a balcony
overlooking an endless stretch of water where the Loire met the
Atlantic. Seagulls swooped past the window to the lighthouse nearby. The
apartment felt like a ship—nothing but water on every side. Holding on
to the balcony’s banister and looking at the sheer drop downward, I saw
Icarus tumbling through the burning sky.<p></p><span itemprop="articleBody">
<p>The manager of my first-ever writing residency handed me a single
sheet of paper before she left. “Dear Anuradha Roy,” it began, “I am
writing you these words to wish you a warm welcome in Saint-Nazaire. I
hope you will find inspiration in the contrasting sceneries of this port
city with the peaceful surroundings of your house in, as I picture it, a
snowy Himalayan village.”</p>
<p>The letter was from a woman who did not know me, as I did not know
her. In the tradition of this residency, the writer whose term preceded
mine had written to welcome me. “I truly hope you will find in this city
as much inspiration as I did myself,” she ended. “Please accept this
letter as a token of our literary friendship.”</p>
<p>For the first fortnight of the seven-week-long residency, my husband
was with me. We discovered the flat together. He found remnants of olive
oil and balsamic vinegar in the kitchen, I found an unopened packet of
coffee. Salt, pepper, honey, rice. Aspirin. If you were stranded on a
desert island, what could be more fundamental to survival? These had
been left on the shelves, maybe by the writer before me, or perhaps she
had inherited some of it from her predecessor. On the shelves were books
in many languages, and a <em>Complete French Grammar</em> in which some
previous resident had made a valiant attempt to grapple (in meticulous
penciled exercises) with infinitive verbs, before giving up, around
about page 7.</p><p><span itemprop="articleBody"></span></p><p>Two weeks later, alone in the flat for
the first time after my husband had gone back to our dogs and publishing
house, it seemed cavernous and deathly quiet. My voice bounced off the
walls and uncarpeted floors when I talked on the phone. At night the
ocean was dark, the streets empty, the blinds grated and rustled as if
mice lived in the flaps, the wind sighed and sometimes screamed, and the
bridge to Saint-Brevin-les-Pins on the south bank of the river was a
moving stream of headlights flowing into infinity. What was I doing
here, I wondered, so far from home, in the middle of nowhere? When I had
finished five novels in my chaotic little cottage which fitted in four
dogs and our publishing house, what need had I to be on this ship that
went nowhere? As I tried to push back my panic at the thought of the
next few weeks, I reached out for a sheaf of old letters on the shelf
from resident writers to their successors.</p>
<p><em>“When you have lost count of the passing ships, you can always restart</em>,<em>”</em> suggested a Chinese writer....</p></span> <br /><p></p><p><a href="https://lithub.com/escaping-the-solitude-of-the-writing-life-through-letters/" target="_blank"> Read the rest of the article here, in LitHub.</a><br /></p><br /><p></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-73008434008204297632022-06-17T19:39:00.003+05:302022-06-17T19:39:25.588+05:30AN ANAGRAM OF GOD<p class="MsoNormal"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.biblio-india.org&source=gmail&ust=1655560025905000&usg=AOvVaw3mLlDjFqwF572fEfPx6GhK" href="http://www.biblio-india.org" target="_blank"></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I wrote a book review after ages, but then this was a special kind of book. The review is just out in </span></i><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Biblio</span><i><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">, and will be up soon at </span><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://www.biblio-india.org&source=gmail&ust=1655560025905000&usg=AOvVaw3mLlDjFqwF572fEfPx6GhK" href="http://www.biblio-india.org" target="_blank">www.biblio-india.org</a>.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">THE BOOK OF DOG</span><i><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> is edited
by Hemali Sodhi</span></i><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><i> is a beautiful hardback of 311 pages and is priced Rs 699. It is published by HarperCollins India.</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">___ </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Dogs
read the world through their noses and write their history in urine”, wrote J.
R. Ackerley, and in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Book of Dog</i>,
Simba, Rufus, Laika, Pali, Buggy, Siddhi, and dozens of others gambol <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">en pack</i>, reading the world, writing
their histories, leaving a trail of pawmarks in your mind. It is as if, all of
a sudden, the room is joyously crowded with a wagging, panting, licking,
drooling, nipping bunch. As they flop down in various corners having tousled
the cushions, raided the bin, showered everything with fur, and spread anarchy,
their people beam adoringly. And then start telling stories of their lives
together, in which it is clear that the dog, by virtue of being dog, has
enslaved the human into a life of helpless devotion. There is a reason why the
word is an anagram of God.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">This
collection is a printed version of the hours people spend absorbed in talking
of their dogs, never noticing the cat person going catatonic with boredom in
the corner. Yet a cat person too might be converted by some of the mutts in
this book. Take the charming Tingmo for example, who spins haikus to while away
the hours between biscuit and sushi: </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4Y09-ZZ2iUZU5q0gGlItoFRA7CraW-3Vo1bb8GuyyiNyguiAcDI_EdfbDRKha162waZC9och4JQDn6lR5tMZshYgd8rk2-R30mfOmp_YfKnAcXvMH77DGcCGF-0idA9z6-yqa9r3FXYBHJS3PK7Ewy6RqgUFgLHtLGmAN7JSCDf8dAPMZf8tX-Sl5jQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="515" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4Y09-ZZ2iUZU5q0gGlItoFRA7CraW-3Vo1bb8GuyyiNyguiAcDI_EdfbDRKha162waZC9och4JQDn6lR5tMZshYgd8rk2-R30mfOmp_YfKnAcXvMH77DGcCGF-0idA9z6-yqa9r3FXYBHJS3PK7Ewy6RqgUFgLHtLGmAN7JSCDf8dAPMZf8tX-Sl5jQ=w432-h640" width="432" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Must.
Inspect. Tyres</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Hmmm
these treads smell really good</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Let
me like this post.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">A
poem about piss, but then with dogs there can be no squeamishness. Their own
interest in matters faecal and urinary is so frank and detailed that their
humans cannot but lose their inhibitions too. The most sublime passage on dog excretion
occurs in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Dog Tulip</i>, Ackerley’s
1956 masterpiece about an Alsatian he adopted. He divides dog urination into
two categories, “Necessity and Social”, the latter often accomplished with just
a single drop bestowed “businesslike, as though she were writing a cheque.” Ackerley’s
several bravura pages on the topic are incomparably witty, but at the heart of
his observations is one central conundrum: when the dog understands, inhabits
and experiences the world in such a radically different way from humans, what
creates the bond between them?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">The Book of Dogs</span></i><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> has essays by forty-five
contributors, literary writers as well as animal activists, a photographer, a
chef. There are dogs in the book who will eat nothing but the best meat money
can buy and maggot-ridden strays who are poisoned merely for existing. There
are many more dogs than writers, including some from fiction, as is only
fitting. Jools, Soni, Scooby-Doo, Editor, Doginder, EeVee, Shikari and others
saunter, romp, sniff and amble their way through these pages, dispensing licks,
chaos, and cosmic lessons as they pass. How does love at first sight work? How
do you keep a tail wagging through starvation and cruelty? What does it really
mean to be with someone through sickness and health till death tears you apart?
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvGDC7rcWoc1zNXDDyybr5xFxiBCvMYkiAbUEcVJcwqQbZ-Bnup-2sGc3SV6h0c8jHXKeeMwc1iDSIUkwXA7lIJsyz4Fdq1F0KolwQsO6YkMOCt9U8Wn0j_z1XY6l3tVij4C5apQuQUjkEMFMkGQ2cov7PKC3jf0G0ffAfi-Chj2nSPO3l85MHv64sw/s697/piku.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="582" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvGDC7rcWoc1zNXDDyybr5xFxiBCvMYkiAbUEcVJcwqQbZ-Bnup-2sGc3SV6h0c8jHXKeeMwc1iDSIUkwXA7lIJsyz4Fdq1F0KolwQsO6YkMOCt9U8Wn0j_z1XY6l3tVij4C5apQuQUjkEMFMkGQ2cov7PKC3jf0G0ffAfi-Chj2nSPO3l85MHv64sw/s320/piku.png" width="267" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">One
dog, Piku, teaches a cat person all about dog love by doing the Piku Dance, a
“hip-waggling, tail-thumping samba of pure joyousness”. I know this dance well,
for Piku is my dog. Encountering her unexpectedly in this book was its biggest
surprise for me. That she had loved a friend of ours as she loved us, that she
had done the same happy things with my friend, who had come to our house to be
with her for the week we had to be away, made me rethink an early passage from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Dog Tulip</i>:</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Tulip
was incorruptible. She was constant. It mattered not who fed, flattered or
befriended her, or for how long, her allegiance never wavered; she had given
her heart to me in the beginning, and mine and mine only, it was to remain.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Perhaps
Ackerley was wrong to measure dog love on a monogamous human scale. Perhaps
dogs have a miraculous capacity to love intensely and promiscuously and still remain
true to each beloved. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Or
maybe some dogs do give their hearts only to one person. Consider Lasse
Hallström’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hachi</i>, the remake of a
Japanese film based on a true story. It tells of a dog who sees his human off
to work at the station every morning and waits there to meet him each evening –
until one day the man doesn’t return. Yet the dog still comes to the station to
wait for the man at the same time for the rest of his life, through rain and
snow. You are pulverized with grief when you watch this film. It makes you understand
it is the human notion of species hierarchy which prevents us recognising that
yearning and love as absolute and pure can only emanate from the world of dogs.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">What
makes such superior beings accept humans as their friends, and give of their
love with world-altering generosity? Sarah Bakewell’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At the Existentialist Café</i> contains an incident from the life of
the philosopher Levinas, who returned to his experiences in a German
concentration camp during the second world war to explain why the foundation of
his whole philosophy was the relationship of Self with Other:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">“Like
the other prisoners, he had got used to the guards treating them without
respect as they worked, as if they were inhuman objects unworthy of fellow
feeling. But each evening, as they were marched back behind the barbed wire
fence again, his work group would be greeted by a stray dog who had somehow
found its way inside the camp. The dog would bark and fling itself around with
delight at seeing them, as dogs do. Through the dog’s adoring eyes, the men
were reminded each day of what it meant to be acknowledged by another being –
to receive the basic recognition that living creature grants to another.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Several
of the essays in this book mention the changed relations with dogs during the
long months of Covid isolation when “streeties” starved without shops and
restaurants to scrounge at, even as dogs with homes really did have their day –
people stopped going out; there was constant company. The Scottish tennis
commentator Andrew Cotter, closeted with his Labradors Olive and Mabel, turned
them into overnight stars, recording their daily antics with a deadpan background
commentary that could have been for Wimbledon. Only, the trophy handed out at
the end of each film, was a treat and an approving pat with the words “Good
Dog”.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Which
reminds me of the duty that every curmudgeonly reviewer of anthologies considers
sacred: namely, listing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that which has
been left out</i>. Where, for a start, is the Bad Dog? Or the Sniffer Dog who upholds
law and order? The Driving You Crazy During Heat Season Dog who comes back
bloodied and lust-crazed? Where is the dog who cuddles cats? Why does nobody
discuss the gymnastics of sharing beds with dogs? Where is the unfortunate dog
who, in certain places, ends up as chunks of meat in a soup bowl? And where is
the crucial essay on why pigs are always dinner although they are as
intelligent and affectionate as dogs? I once met a pig in Australia who
answered to the name Clementine and sprinted as fast as a spherical object on
trotters could sprint when she heard her owner call. She grunted in a low
warble as she leaned into the fence of her sty, a contented swine lathered in
dung, lovingly petted by the farmer. Soon after, he turned her into ham.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Many
people don’t like reading books with dogs in them because they dread its death.
The entry on Sigrid Nunez’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Friend</i>
on Goodreads begins with a reader’s question, “Does the dog die? (I can't deal
with dog deaths, even if they die of old age).” There are at least a dozen
replies agreeing fervently with this view though everyone knows that in their
earthly incarnations, dogs are on tight schedules.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Several
of the essays in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Book of Dog</i>
describe the entire life cycle of a beloved pet from adoption to old age and
death. And though these are painful to read, they are a celebration of a bond
that is full of fun, and moments comic or poignant. A relationship with a beloved
dog is among the most passionate, intimate and powerful that any human being
experiences, and in describing it these essayists delve into the deepest parts
of themselves. Their pieces are snapshots of their homes, families, private
lives, and show how the dog’s enchanting insanity is firmly at the centre in
any sane arrangement of the world. One of the refugees fleeing Ukraine last
month, who had to trek through snow and ice for many kilometres, had this to
say of taking her old dogs along:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“My
dog is 12 and a half and she struggled to walk and fell down every kilometre or
so and couldn’t stand up again. I stopped cars and asked for help but everyone
refused; they advised us to leave the dogs. But our dogs are part of our
family. My dog has experienced all the happy and sad moments with us… So my
husband, at times, carried our dog on his shoulders.”</span><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">I
have a feeling each of the contributors to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Book of Dog</i> would have done the same. Of course they would, and so would I.
Reading this book I felt I was in the company of friends who were Labradors and
Retrievers, Road Asians and Bhimtailians, all of whom were making me smile for
no reason other than their infectious instinct for happiness.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Adobe Garamond Pro"; font-size: 14.0pt;">__ <br /></span></p><p></p><br /><p></p><p><style>@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}@font-face
{font-family:"Cambria Math";
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:1;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:0 0 0 0 0 0;}@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:-536870145 1073743103 0 0 415 0;}@font-face
{font-family:"Adobe Garamond Pro";
panose-1:2 2 5 2 6 5 6 2 4 3;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-unhide:no;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0cm;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}.MsoChpDefault
{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-56576746006026754832022-04-14T13:42:00.001+05:302022-04-14T13:42:10.700+05:30Inhabiting the world: Ranikhet, Abu Dhabi and London/ Paris Book Fair, 22 April 2022<p> </p><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_f7"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnTmgKHPOqxBxk5LCalZwpmwSbnQopDw8CD-XdgJ1LIwlyJRXmIx8h_BKx0XUbwzhCHCHM9envL42CMiS1BywgdrG5MWSO_bUOx1K25vZ68EJGoOJRjBxQbAaDEvtb6su2ku10WdQPcPYUoYg96n1P4b55mXILynH5UOtoIh6DeV9FE9oqzTnLsZ2DA/s1291/Screenshot%202022-04-14%20at%2010-10-50%20Programmation%20-%20Festival%20du%20Livre%20de%20Paris.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="1291" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnTmgKHPOqxBxk5LCalZwpmwSbnQopDw8CD-XdgJ1LIwlyJRXmIx8h_BKx0XUbwzhCHCHM9envL42CMiS1BywgdrG5MWSO_bUOx1K25vZ68EJGoOJRjBxQbAaDEvtb6su2ku10WdQPcPYUoYg96n1P4b55mXILynH5UOtoIh6DeV9FE9oqzTnLsZ2DA/w640-h328/Screenshot%202022-04-14%20at%2010-10-50%20Programmation%20-%20Festival%20du%20Livre%20de%20Paris.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />It feels like emerging from a hibernation. An actual book event after three years! I will be signing books that evening from 6 to 7 at the Actes Sud stall and am so looking forward to seeing old friends and making new friends after these long years away.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">22 April 2022 at 17:00</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Grand Palais Éphémère, Café Habiter</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Inhabiting the world: Ranikhet, Abu Dhabi and London</div></div></span></div></div></div></div>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-76520940208238864362022-03-21T11:04:00.001+05:302022-03-21T11:05:15.817+05:30Daughter of India<p> </p><div dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_d6"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgt6kmgRFKvmxGh-0j9IYbAQpq7CHVkejrQnUSgLBfYZFeQ-auAMFs4dgbnSLV48sSfHtLylFy5y3mGMNyU7CV39S6J6DQvYT0hKV3AzcH3OKyUr9i47e1MgRmzToEq6svYA-Fx5qWzhCSEgP9XiZ1vDGsr_bTUppNDh1FYy77l5JN3R_vyavYbLXW7kw=s568" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="373" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgt6kmgRFKvmxGh-0j9IYbAQpq7CHVkejrQnUSgLBfYZFeQ-auAMFs4dgbnSLV48sSfHtLylFy5y3mGMNyU7CV39S6J6DQvYT0hKV3AzcH3OKyUr9i47e1MgRmzToEq6svYA-Fx5qWzhCSEgP9XiZ1vDGsr_bTUppNDh1FYy77l5JN3R_vyavYbLXW7kw=s320" width="210" /></a></div>Thanks to my wonderful publishers in Romanian, Humanitas, most of my books are read there in translation. Recently, Romanian philosopher Mihaela Gligor, who is the director of the Cluj Centre for Indian Studies in Transylvania, wrote to say: "I edited a volume of essays dedicated to some remarkable Indian women, called "Daughters of India". It just appeared... One chapter is about you and your novels..." <span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto">The author of this chapter, Anda-Irina Sturza, has written a detailed analysis of my books, having read some of them in Romanian and some in English. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"> </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">This unusual book features essays on the life and work of an eclectic group of women, including mystics, dancers, artists. Amrita Pritam, Maitreyi Devi, Kamala Das, Anita Desai, Kiran Desai, Chitrita Devi are the other writers included here. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div></div></span></div></div></div></div>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-80675866445396841092022-03-06T11:32:00.003+05:302022-03-06T11:32:42.338+05:30In Conversation with Ameena Hussein at the Jaipur Literature Festival, March 8th, 2022<p> </p><div class="" dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_ib"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhW56O4bUiHR_nkCyz4pMTb4UZWFjJgjOHAD-vFduqwurygFnMEvzQ6GiwExBUvWshOts7EGienkjmssKD3zHkbSfwxdtNXVIa2LrbODKfbest4T2kjcyibhuwptt5Nn4I9ofefsppjym2glEbI5nxrqoUDqivLhnZR30yCW9fso-QFhYgl499hCbjRAg=s525" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="525" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhW56O4bUiHR_nkCyz4pMTb4UZWFjJgjOHAD-vFduqwurygFnMEvzQ6GiwExBUvWshOts7EGienkjmssKD3zHkbSfwxdtNXVIa2LrbODKfbest4T2kjcyibhuwptt5Nn4I9ofefsppjym2glEbI5nxrqoUDqivLhnZR30yCW9fso-QFhYgl499hCbjRAg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />I have the huge privilege of being in conversation about the Earthspinner with the brilliant Sri Lankan writer and publisher <span><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl gpro0wi8 q66pz984 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/ameena.hussein.39?__cft__[0]=AZWcAR-z_W0qlMbWzcJTD2SRdGtK4BLz4sfe9AwTp3Uo5uKsusiddsBxyqIbzbrA8q23vfOk9LHtLEHv6OB8twgoXdg5toCnKxqFQNMeyemlcWErS7ZyqY_2-21b7eZjMKo&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" tabindex="0"><span class="nc684nl6"><span>Ameena Hussein</span></span></a></span> at the <span><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl gpro0wi8 q66pz984 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/JaipurLitFest/?__cft__[0]=AZWcAR-z_W0qlMbWzcJTD2SRdGtK4BLz4sfe9AwTp3Uo5uKsusiddsBxyqIbzbrA8q23vfOk9LHtLEHv6OB8twgoXdg5toCnKxqFQNMeyemlcWErS7ZyqY_2-21b7eZjMKo&__tn__=kK-R" role="link" tabindex="0"><span class="nc684nl6"><span>Jaipur Literature Festival</span></span></a></span>. The session is on 8th March, at 1230 pm IST, at the Mughal Tent, available online.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">It's fabulous to be talking to each other again about a new book. We were in conversation in 2016 too, in Galle, Sri Lanka, where we met. I found her one of the most interesting and lively conversationalists about literature I've encountered. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">I loved Ameena's own new book, IBN BATTUTA IN SRI LANKA. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3lI9dBBJKd4bym2_45dF1K3FRbTs2pQrIgkMbHYcdq7ifSbmsqXpRdP2jRpqEozhODY_-wDaLDIq63GihGusKfOAXP3406Fqs0rTRr3Rg_hjSmuDsp9hotL4i663RedN4Co8Z3BcTHKHdUnXjBV2ThaAbw4cHwnoufIgpsfZ94AoOaXn0kxw2L5aQNw=s1000" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3lI9dBBJKd4bym2_45dF1K3FRbTs2pQrIgkMbHYcdq7ifSbmsqXpRdP2jRpqEozhODY_-wDaLDIq63GihGusKfOAXP3406Fqs0rTRr3Rg_hjSmuDsp9hotL4i663RedN4Co8Z3BcTHKHdUnXjBV2ThaAbw4cHwnoufIgpsfZ94AoOaXn0kxw2L5aQNw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">It is an effortless intertwining of history, family memoir, travelogue. The spread of Islam in the second century meant hospitable networks worldwide, enabling Ibn Battuta to travel far and wide, including to SL. With a blend of very engaging detective work, map reading and travel, Ameena reconstructs Ibn Battuta’s journeys in her country. Tongue-in-cheek vignettes place modern day Sri Lanka against the past: where places rich with ebony, cinnamon, pearl fishing, and ship-building have become towns of “used car dealers and good looking tuition masters. young men with winsome smiles and names like Jagath Sir or Dushy Master”. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">One particular passage made me think how THE EARTHSPINNER and her book were in some way connected: “We passed Kudirimalai Point, which today is reduced to a narrow headland overlooking the sea. We made a short stop to investigate the ruins of the reportedly massive equine sculpture that had stood on the headland and is now in the vicinity of a navy camp. Remains of a large hoof, covered with shrubs and thorn bushes, the only sign that a huge horse sculpture ever existed, looked out over an expanse of sea.”</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">I hope very much you will tune in to our conversation.</div></div></span></div></div></div></div>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-91356828884674121672021-09-04T12:52:00.028+05:302021-09-04T14:22:26.742+05:30A POTTER'S TALE, by RAMU VELAR<p>Can books have something telepathic between them? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebWpCsBzlSob7mVmrXY3h1OkoEqVbF_esDa_Gv6-LmfL2OWbgz6P2qIp0Vut0x3A6gbPHR_ZmHT0zOrWufRYp6FEj5FsL8K-gHoCglGTn0obzZkeLuM-eitFjZEEIbDMnw39AsuSoL1mx/s2048/20210904_112117.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebWpCsBzlSob7mVmrXY3h1OkoEqVbF_esDa_Gv6-LmfL2OWbgz6P2qIp0Vut0x3A6gbPHR_ZmHT0zOrWufRYp6FEj5FsL8K-gHoCglGTn0obzZkeLuM-eitFjZEEIbDMnw39AsuSoL1mx/w225-h400/20210904_112117.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>It certainly felt that way to hold Ramu Velar's book in my hands and to read it in one greedy sitting last night. How miraculous it should be published in the same week as my new novel, <i>The Earthspinner</i>. As I turned the pages of <i>A Potter's Tale</i> it felt many times as though the potter in my book, Elango, had sprung from Ramu Velar. <p></p><p>Ramu Velar describes the way he excavates clay from a pond, how "my grandfather was a potter and so was my father". </p><p>Exactly like the potter in my book, Elango. </p><p>A few pages later, Ramu Velar tells us how as a child, "each of us would bring a handful of grain from home, pluck drumstick leaves from a nearby tree, throw everything together into a pot and cook until we had a mess of rice and leaves..." </p><p>Here is Elango, describing the moringa (drumstick) tree in his courtyard: </p><p><span style="color: #38761d;">"Elango came back from the pond that afternoon and settle down to smoke and draw, leaning against the trunk of the moringa tree in the centre of their courtyard. In some seasons, hundreds of caterpillars came and took up residence on the tree for weeks, invading their rooms, getting into their clothes, leaving fiery trails of itches in their wake. Eventually, caterpillars covered the entire moringa trunk so that the tree wore a live hairy carpet, and when they saw that, the two brothers started a fire below its trunk and watched the smoke and flames lick at the caterpillars until they peeled off the tree and fell into the fire in slow-writhing clumps. The air smelled of burning flesh. Caterpillars gone, the flowers turned into green sticklike fruit that was their food for many days."</span></p><p>This beautiful book about a master potter, now in his eighties, is gorgeously illustrated, and written with brevity and poetry. It evokes a vanished life, when whole communities of potters created objects for use in the home, as decorative objects, and for worship, from clay they dug locally. How the families came together to create giant terracotta horses for their village.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirpFPbJU1jYf_41hMAtAC_s_io4n8CaW6M6owjpMOuSkvys8rqz40gCJtQQOHLuQuxmtVfrhsq0C74d-u2faazxW5YrUgFSv043hcC_a53FTIQPlUQ_Gy4e8Nw807H0t6WeGMQi1fV338b/s1417/ramu.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="1417" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirpFPbJU1jYf_41hMAtAC_s_io4n8CaW6M6owjpMOuSkvys8rqz40gCJtQQOHLuQuxmtVfrhsq0C74d-u2faazxW5YrUgFSv043hcC_a53FTIQPlUQ_Gy4e8Nw807H0t6WeGMQi1fV338b/w640-h448/ramu.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>In my book, a horse comes to Elango in a dream, and he knows he must make one, of the kind his ancestors made. Over time, the making of this horse takes on a terrible urgency in his mind, as though the course of his life depended on it.<br /></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;">"Every year his grandfather and the other potters of their village had made a giant clay horse, modelling them here, next to the pond, close to the clay it would be made with and far from houses. That was when Kummarapet was still a village largely peopled with families who were potters by caste, still following their ancestral vocation. ... Remnants of those long-ago horses stood in the compound of one of the old temples even today, worn down by wind and rain. The potters who had made them were dead or gone and those that came after did not know how to make them."</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZmWbE-s7FeZxPl0X43Nwc8yz9gPgzeV7mpbiWXhaKL8gDk2te7Hjx5AEhJ3-_mvK4YmJb7QDNvSJGDXhx-Fh6pnn2Iz3vlPHwWzOX1M4UEaTro7LN2xUsQ947-1OqcJ0r33Y4yWyScgRM/s2048/20210904_114653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZmWbE-s7FeZxPl0X43Nwc8yz9gPgzeV7mpbiWXhaKL8gDk2te7Hjx5AEhJ3-_mvK4YmJb7QDNvSJGDXhx-Fh6pnn2Iz3vlPHwWzOX1M4UEaTro7LN2xUsQ947-1OqcJ0r33Y4yWyScgRM/w640-h640/20210904_114653.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><p></p><p>I wish I had known of or met Ramu Velar before I wrote my book. Listening to his stories would have added depth to mine. Or perhaps it would have crippled me, knowing how close my fictional potter was, to a real one. Like Elango, Ramu Velar has his own, distinct view of the divine: </p><p>"I am not religious in an everyday sense. I don't visit temples, never have. And I do not observe customs or rituals... I tell myself, 'If God is not inside you, how does it matter?'"</p><p>There are many pages of this book I know I will return to again and again, especially when I am looking for direction in the pots I make.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfVb3b9sAUDNzAsEow0Gsj4eG8r7_e-9Y-5tRRl3ziLUwVvUcLZ5wy1orIb07Qkcx5zUVe4t9Dotpkzdh49Ri5qcnC4wU6Sy8Vjyef1TjPOpO3AmEUsBBV51BUn2utVP7Lifqh5I43X75/s2048/20210904_111730.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfVb3b9sAUDNzAsEow0Gsj4eG8r7_e-9Y-5tRRl3ziLUwVvUcLZ5wy1orIb07Qkcx5zUVe4t9Dotpkzdh49Ri5qcnC4wU6Sy8Vjyef1TjPOpO3AmEUsBBV51BUn2utVP7Lifqh5I43X75/w400-h400/20210904_111730.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>"To get this basic shape of things, you need to know it deep inside of you. A whale, a plane, you can do what you want, but you need to get the basic form right. I think there is a camera within me which captures and stores many forms and that's where I get my sense of a beast or bird or fish."<br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45vps9RXyzhjHyGPpF8WEw84o6GIsQdonwU9NTvH40Hwmk1o3rgkYOHiQo5YmUu1ZMGXJYXjtrM5ZQFcPjwIb1kp68WoELxY4CGQdDvdy9X31tENGelGlzKzyXAmJOYM2ikgkQ42ogNwc/s2048/20210903_210549.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45vps9RXyzhjHyGPpF8WEw84o6GIsQdonwU9NTvH40Hwmk1o3rgkYOHiQo5YmUu1ZMGXJYXjtrM5ZQFcPjwIb1kp68WoELxY4CGQdDvdy9X31tENGelGlzKzyXAmJOYM2ikgkQ42ogNwc/s320/20210903_210549.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i> A Potter's Tale</i> is published by <a href="https://tarabooks.com/about/" target="_blank">Tara Books, Chennai</a> and you can order it <a href="https://tarabooks.com/?s=a+potter%27s+tale">here</a>. My copy came with a beautiful poster I will put up in my small work room, right in front of my muddy potter's wheel, and I'll look at it for inspiration when I make things.<br /><p></p><p><br /></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br />nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-71959332785730700702021-09-04T12:51:00.005+05:302021-09-04T12:51:59.809+05:30MEET THE WRITERS: CHRISTOPHER MACLEHOSE AND ANURADHA ROY WITH GEORGINA GODWIN<p><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyuldty7ZqLAIzpPHPQHCdJUf4MpGLRywy0Y1y8u7u45K5IghVRbnsCsbBxrkT1Bm8T4PtY-4hghQP-bVrMKKx_ElhaZwp9f10DC9gBIRg-E13F53v_E18y1DUwilVvHUpYbYdXAf5VywK/s670/IMG-20170716-WA0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="670" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyuldty7ZqLAIzpPHPQHCdJUf4MpGLRywy0Y1y8u7u45K5IghVRbnsCsbBxrkT1Bm8T4PtY-4hghQP-bVrMKKx_ElhaZwp9f10DC9gBIRg-E13F53v_E18y1DUwilVvHUpYbYdXAf5VywK/w640-h408/IMG-20170716-WA0007.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto">Christopher
Maclehose and I talked together to Georgina Godwin about the brand new
Mountain Leopard Press and the <i>Earthspinner</i>, his brilliant career
spanning Murakami, Umberto and Steig Larsson, how Rukun Advani helped
him choose the name for his press, how he discovered my first book in
2007 and went on to publish all the books I've written. The "impossibly
glamorous" Christopher (as Georgina describes him) is wonderful to
listen to, and while dogs feature a great deal in this conversation, so
does a motorbike. And the singer Marianne Faithfull. <a href="https://monocle.com/radio/shows/meet-the-writers/monocle-reads-120/?fbclid=IwAR1FqeaLyAaM9MB4mcUEnxoubf35u9i4ddcBywdi05G9d2jLlhwV0lzA76g">You can listen to the interview here.</a><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TJGapTBNW1MLEiIgLIvFJBR9WI9NeklntVp64L91DkhyacDAFSyvoTPOIWy0CJlPgvbiBCV09OUIkTUV9aewEE4sqU77o5RndWQChTsDa-shzQOYxioJPFOAbQhyphenhypheneUsac1dXylWTxTQP/s1194/godwinn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="658" data-original-width="1194" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TJGapTBNW1MLEiIgLIvFJBR9WI9NeklntVp64L91DkhyacDAFSyvoTPOIWy0CJlPgvbiBCV09OUIkTUV9aewEE4sqU77o5RndWQChTsDa-shzQOYxioJPFOAbQhyphenhypheneUsac1dXylWTxTQP/w640-h352/godwinn.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-48398682657012649202021-09-01T19:40:00.009+05:302021-09-01T19:40:53.373+05:30OUT SOON!<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The Earthspinner</i> will be published in India on 3 September and in the UK on 9 September.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJd67NCH8iR5MXhJxUcw4Mk0a4nvOxnO4EyEqZGnhZs-6NWKVzdvUy0ItZ_-9leHqgx87cY2y9-OY7NFbvo-hkDc0She6HdcgQ2pusLOWO9pdLNGBoK-lJ-wsPQX_M5891QQ8-0pLBe8h/s1417/launchins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1417" data-original-width="1417" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJd67NCH8iR5MXhJxUcw4Mk0a4nvOxnO4EyEqZGnhZs-6NWKVzdvUy0ItZ_-9leHqgx87cY2y9-OY7NFbvo-hkDc0She6HdcgQ2pusLOWO9pdLNGBoK-lJ-wsPQX_M5891QQ8-0pLBe8h/w640-h640/launchins.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-26040540395552747902021-06-10T14:34:00.001+05:302021-06-10T14:34:38.429+05:30Singing in the Rain<p style="text-align: center;">The postman brought bound proofs of THE EARTHSPINNER today despite the pouring rain. </p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwrQrVVmRD6g6FeNE30xCpJ2cBdTm5UKmd0h2r2kbUag3NnbXk_waX0W7jOuujONU_wgHdK8u6NlvbYg5dDJ-30z_9daHV_8I3GclmCIA0A5VkGuuqKunnnPt56bTx5TZYlbozTVszvNE/s2048/20210610_124823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1970" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwrQrVVmRD6g6FeNE30xCpJ2cBdTm5UKmd0h2r2kbUag3NnbXk_waX0W7jOuujONU_wgHdK8u6NlvbYg5dDJ-30z_9daHV_8I3GclmCIA0A5VkGuuqKunnnPt56bTx5TZYlbozTVszvNE/w616-h640/20210610_124823.jpg" width="616" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">From images and ideas - to notes in a notebook - to drafts on a laptop -
to a thing you can hold and turn the pages of -- it feels like an
impossible journey every single time. But here it is. And will be out in
September from Mountain Leopard Press London and Hachette India.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzPVASu3u2EU1fIvdOZWkhu51xL3RkVsVqzutL2B74JMY7WAZhCLqCV4vF5MorVq4rj05xhDgbQi6YTgCsdOHwKcqy7zwgylQ-LiuvISjIUJx7YYjVtjkLb4iTXjwpvwt3vaBeidFIHkf/s2048/20210610_125000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2013" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzPVASu3u2EU1fIvdOZWkhu51xL3RkVsVqzutL2B74JMY7WAZhCLqCV4vF5MorVq4rj05xhDgbQi6YTgCsdOHwKcqy7zwgylQ-LiuvISjIUJx7YYjVtjkLb4iTXjwpvwt3vaBeidFIHkf/w394-h400/20210610_125000.jpg" width="394" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-49373971661823145652021-05-28T14:05:00.004+05:302021-05-28T14:17:29.080+05:30THE VIRUS IN THE VILLAGE <p><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEzCh0ZXwVKKjR_3zM8BBWqn6CkGcuBS1w_2WiZuLnqgkm_2cjbY-xD3S_1YNWhuZKnb-_JInkKPnnvNL722QW8EKyJRa_Oz1JYBF0-EOADFFLF-6sRTK9DGlyvqfdNa1LkTWcvUiLBe6d/w640-h360/20170217_152621.jpg" /></a><br /><br />(Public art at the entrance to Ranikhet; photo by Anuradha Roy)<br /> <br /><br />This article was first published in <a href="https://scroll.in/article/995239/a-novelist-gets-covid-19-up-in-a-himalayan-town-this-is-what-her-her-life-turns-into?fbclid=IwAR3IkywBok6JOc3ad_ELSZKn33SV29LZXyD7ub7J_pEEdMP1TAZEwfe2vLM">Scroll, 20 May 2021</a>; translated into Spanish by Daniel Gascón for <a href="https://www.letraslibres.com/espana-mexico/literatura/una-novelista-contra-la-covid-19-en-un-pueblo-del-himalaya?fbclid=IwAR0SHJJCSwKjXzqsc_Jpu2P1WdA0mf2bgUDm2Ijf_x9D8WJtYs414JHVJWs">Letras Libres</a>)<br /></p><p>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sound carries long distances in the clear air of the Himalaya. These last weeks, as I lay awake much of the night in knots of anxiety about friends and relatives in the big cities, I could hear hoarse coughs – pausing, coughing again – in the house down the hill. The oldest son had insisted on going to a wedding in Haldwani, 80 kilometres away. He came back and within days his extended family of ten had fever. They kept the coughs as quiet as possible. Nobody stepped outside other than two of the children who were seen every day struggling back from the market with groceries. </p><p><style>@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-unhide:no;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0cm;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}.MsoChpDefault
{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}div.WordSection1
{page:WordSectio</style>Two weeks later, after dodging the virus for a whole year, I started showing symptoms. It began with an inexplicable stomach upset, developed into fever, sore throat, body ache. I had never seriously thought anyone in my family would become infected. We live an isolated life in Ranikhet, seeing few people. Our house is surrounded by forest, and the sense of solitude is intense. On the horizon, we can see the Trishul and Panchachuli. The first feverish night, unable to sleep from the body ache, I remembered the Mahabharata story of the Panchachuli: the five peaks represent the “chulhas” at which the Pandava brothers cooked their last meals before going on to the other world. This proximity to heaven’s doorway began seeming ominous rather than scenic. <br /><br />Given the lack of health facilities, if you are very ill in Ranikhet you have one foot firmly wedged in heaven’s door. There is a very basic public hospital here and a military hospital which is too superior to allow ordinary folk. The army was kind enough to put up a notice at its hospital allowing ill civilians to “register” themselves there; the guaranteed absence of beds was implicit. What would we do if we were infected and critical? Through the past year we had repeatedly pushed this worry away. <br /><br /> <br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHa2zJWCKwKJMG2xNOcyLU4-83nuuL5QwKtAKSuCLA8g6IJBfabZd5ZMVu4-VXdEHt0lzWjg1qYy7_Gvu5-KGIOhky9gzmizsvRv4VIkI9JMGZUqal0NW3kLk8kwhPeWHzVXJCk_Bmo-iG/w568-h640/IMG-20210526-WA0013+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a><br /><br />(View from inside a dispensary on the main street, Ranikhet market. Photo by Anuradha Roy) <br /><br />Like most of the middle class, the thought that we might ever be desperate enough to need a government hospital had not crossed our minds. As the Columbia public health scholar Kavita Sivaramakrishnan pointed out in a recent <a href="https://radioopensource.org/covid-in-india/">interview</a>, India has, right from the liberalizing 1990s, neglected the unglamorous drudgery of public health. Being middle-class Indian has been synonymous with access to elite healthcare, and public hospitals were hellholes meant for the poor. It took a pandemic to turn the middle classes into the marginalized, scrambling for medicines, beds, oxygen. Would the outrage against Mr Modi have been as vehement if his actions had not resulted in the affluent feeling as hapless as those they have always been able to keep at a distance? <br /><br />Next door to me is Nina, an ASHA, a frontline healthworker. For Rs 5000 a month, which often remains unpaid for long stretches, her job is to keep track of pregnant women and infants. With hardly any doctors here, Nina and her colleagues are now fielding crisis calls and shepherding people through vaccinations at the Civil Hospital. Her phone rings all the time. One night a woman called to say her husband could not breathe. What should she do? Unequipped for such eventualities, Nina told the woman to call 108 (an ambulance service) and get to the nearest covid hospital in Almora, about 45 km distant. That meant two hours on winding hill roads for the critically ill man. The hospital reported his death the next day. His family were not allowed to see his body. <br /><br />Deaths have multiplied in Ranikhet, a town so tiny it is almost a village, where everyone knows everyone else. There is a mysterious rise in the number of people who have been told they have “typhoid” – an illness all but unknown here until recently. It causes high fever, vomiting, lasting weakness. Few actually get tested for Covid, but if you do test positive you are given a Covid Kit. It looks like a cruel reshaping of long-gone school picnic packs, each with its soggy samosa and gooey cake. You get a ziplock bag filled with pills: Azithromycin, Ivermectin, Crocin, Zinc, Vitamin C and D, surgical masks. It is touching how heroic the tiny local health service is, like the Dutch boy who sought to stop a flood by plugging a leak in a dyke with his fingers. <br /><br />When the Covid Kit doesn’t do the job, the local hospital sends patients to Almora. The reason my coughing neighbours downslope are keeping their illness secret is that they fear being carted off too. Few return from there. <br /><br />You might think people in Ranikhet would by now be furious with the state. That they would ask why regions such as ours have hardly any undismal hospitals. That they would blame the government for religious festivals and electioneering during a pandemic. But they don’t, in part because the young seeking jobs here see the state as their avenue to a lifelong sinecure, and in part because they see no alternative to Mr Modi. Their response is stoicism, fatalism, and superstition. Abandoned by governments since living memory, most have no expectations of it. Catastrophe of some variety is the everyday norm, this one is merely surprisingly severe. They understand that the underlying virus is the criminal Indian state: it will provide neither education nor public health. We all now know we must find our own resources. In cities these might be Whatsapp and Twitter networks for oxygen and plasma; in villages still sunk in large-scale illiteracy and poverty, people rely on herbal teas and prayers. <br /><br />Prayers especially. And at the apex of the Himalayan Olympus is Mr Modi. Like many gods, he is two-headed, seen as both divine and human. His immense and implacable power, combined with his finger-wagging injunctions about yoga and children’s examinations, make him the family patriarch who is also the nation’s saviour, a god too big to fail. With his new, bountiful hirsuteness, gleaming skin, flowing robes, and yoga-toned body, he cultivates the swag of the sages in the Mahabharata. He is Dara Singh as Hindu godman. And yet since Mr Modi speaks the crude Hindi of the streets and his much-publicized background is humble, the impoverished population here can relate to him. He gives them hope – that in India’s unshakeably caste-ridden and unequal society one of their number broke away to become god despite his lack of English and formal education. That he is building himself a palace in the midst of death and devastation is not surprising. It is what godmen and emperors do. <br /><br />Within a day of my infection one friend had sent over an oximeter and lunch. “You aren’t alone, things will be fine,” she messaged, “we are all here… we will get through this.” Another let herself in quietly one afternoon and left a box of home-baked cake on our table. Prescriptions, breathing exercises, monitoring calls poured in from friends and relatives. Throughout the pandemic it is people who have helped each other – strangers, friends – giant networks have formed overnight to deal with complex crises. Citizens have stepped in for the absent state. We have kept each other afloat. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjds-tUYCduiIWfk5PJx3AsI1tPZGAdeMXmRZvgcUZAmxH02AJQDGw3mn2ghh-ufBOIpZ_CsPlJ2CxVFlufHhjhTMMoS7jArdoAknbbYyiXwBLBWwmU9VlE8gNaIu8g8uVkhPmp9ASMGZhk/s475/74462.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="315" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjds-tUYCduiIWfk5PJx3AsI1tPZGAdeMXmRZvgcUZAmxH02AJQDGw3mn2ghh-ufBOIpZ_CsPlJ2CxVFlufHhjhTMMoS7jArdoAknbbYyiXwBLBWwmU9VlE8gNaIu8g8uVkhPmp9ASMGZhk/w265-h400/74462.jpg" width="265" /></a></p>In the hours I could stay awake I read again Carol Shields’ wise and
reflective novel, Unless. “It happens that I am going through a period
of great unhappiness and loss just now,” the novel opens. And as the
narrator tries to make sense of her grief, she wonders if it isn’t
possible “to think that goodness, or virtue if you like, could be a wave
or particle of energy?” <br /><br />If it were not a tangible particle of
energy animating vast numbers of people, how would we have survived what
we are going through? Not one of us has been left untouched. From
Delhi, reports are coming in of winds bearing wood ash – it is in the
air now, because of the thousands of cremations. They are breathing the
dead. The furnaces burn without stopping, rivers are flowing with
corpses. Trees in foliage-deficient cities are being felled for funeral
pyres. I scroll down my contacts list and phone people to find out if
they are still alive. I dread reading the news. <br /><br />In Ranikhet, the
cremation ground is a steep walk down a slope. You reach a hump with a
temple and a couple of benches. The man who runs the place is, oddly, a
Bengali like me who came to these mountains from Kolkata long ago. He
has the air of a wild recluse and performs cremations on the bank of the
tiny stream that runs past the temple. The narrow bank by the stream
accommodates only one pyre at a time. That has always sufficed. It’s a
peaceful spot, idyllic despite its grim purpose. There is blue sky
above, clean air, pine forest all around. No shortage: miles of resinous
wood for people to burn. <br /><br />nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-29153300736935372282020-12-17T11:10:00.007+05:302020-12-17T11:10:54.980+05:30What We Need: Animals and Touch in Lockdown <p> <span style="font-size: large;">"The longer we are denied what we took for granted, the more intensely we yearn for it."</span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: large;">(<a href="https://lithub.com/what-we-need-anuradha-roy-on-animals-and-touch-in-lockdown/?fbclid=IwAR0WHhdoMTAFfd2FAvjDSBUKRg7AvzHbc1ClhIs9l8CyZEVED_ca4F-XqAI">Published in </a></span></i><a href="https://lithub.com/what-we-need-anuradha-roy-on-animals-and-touch-in-lockdown/?fbclid=IwAR0WHhdoMTAFfd2FAvjDSBUKRg7AvzHbc1ClhIs9l8CyZEVED_ca4F-XqAI"><span style="font-size: large;">Lit Hub</span><i><span style="font-size: large;"> and</span></i><span style="font-size: large;"> Indian Quarterly</span></a><i><span style="font-size: large;">) </span><br /></i><br /> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwZo33DSC4YUMfqpRu0h3TbLfUliiSvbNmbwFKYsQ_Wmpm5h53zQfzf3fORnGiYoW8dxmA_TaUxigHbwfy37NiGU-hJZOy30J_gfO3a3l-nFXUswBg5vWuxMePLtts5Vq6id4meMN8Bt4D/s1145/foxes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="1145" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwZo33DSC4YUMfqpRu0h3TbLfUliiSvbNmbwFKYsQ_Wmpm5h53zQfzf3fORnGiYoW8dxmA_TaUxigHbwfy37NiGU-hJZOy30J_gfO3a3l-nFXUswBg5vWuxMePLtts5Vq6id4meMN8Bt4D/w640-h294/foxes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At the hour when, in pandemic times, sleep tends to thin or spin into nightmares, I felt one of my dogs climb into my bed last night. She placed herself against me so that she found the curve of my neck where she knows she can rest her head. This dog has trained me for five years, and not for nothing: although I was half-asleep, my hand reached out as if it had a life independent of my drowsiness, and my fingers began to run through her fur. With each movement of my fingers, her breathing deepened. So did mine. The nightmares receded, and we fell asleep together. </span><br /></span><br />Not long ago, we used to hug, kiss, stroke. We touched the feet of the elderly to show respect. They blessed us by resting their hands on our heads. Today, scenes in films that show people flying into each other’s arms at airports or sharing the same spoon at a café bring about a deep, desperate sense of nostalgia. We used to live in that world. We may never live there again. And the longer we are denied what we took for granted, the more intensely we yearn for it. <br /><br />It is almost a year since the meaning of touch contracted and then changed. When you say “let’s stay in touch,” you now mean “over a touch screen.” At times I find my fingers reaching out as if the smooth plastic of the phone’s screen were a curtain I could push aside, or water into which I could plunge and emerge at the other end to actually smell and feel what I am seeing during a video call. The screen remains unmoved. You can run your fingers over it all you like, but it won’t change pixellating images into real people with skin that is warm or cool or sticky with sweat. You can see on-screen that your friend’s hair has grown wild and long through the barberless lockdown but you can’t bunch it in your hand and tug it.<br /> <br />The more distant the familiar human world becomes, the more I retreat for comfort to the earth. My hands are soil-stained from the garden or from making pots. Though they are fundamentally the same substance, the earth in the garden has a very different feel from the clay with which pots get made. Far removed from the dense silkiness of clay, garden soil is friable and unpredictable. It has pebbles, pine needles, insects, old roots. It is not always kind. As my fingers try and avoid sharp stones while seeking out the round shapes of the flower bulbs my wrist brushes against a nettle that is just poking its way up, so green and new and soft that I pay it no attention. But nettles are born to be hardy survivors: even as infants they have their armour on and daggers out. For at least a whole day my wrist will tingle, red and inflamed from its brush with the nettle.<br /><br />The clay with which I make pots harbours no such malevolence. To pick a ball of it out from the bucket and wedge it is to feel the world slow down and settle into place. Midway through the lockdown I started running out of clay and one of my potter friends wrote anxiously, “Can’t you get some from your hillside? Being without clay is like being without food or water.”<br /> <br />Only those who work with clay will understand that this is no exaggeration nor a figure of speech, not really. If you are a potter you remember and need the touch of clay with your whole body—your fingers, shoulders, skin. When I open out a ball of clay on the wheel and it moves between my fingers to grow into a tall vase or a wide, shallow bowl, it does not feel as if there is lifeless matter in my hands, spinning on a dead metal wheel. Clay is not inert like the screen of a phone. It’s alive. It is soft and firm and changeable and volatile. Some days it rebels and I can’t make anything; on others it falls into shapes I hadn’t thought my fingers could persuade it into. It almost breathes. <br /><br />** <br /><br />In far-off wealthy worlds, the start of the pandemic did not bring worries of the kind we had—there were few anxieties about food or shelter. In their already isolated lives in big cities, it was companionship that people in the West knew they would be starved of. Especially if they were single, the loneliness could seem as vast and eternal as the sky. After a phone call one evening with a friend in San Francisco, I woke up to a message the next morning saying, “You’re the only person I spoke to all of yesterday.” <br /><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">A spurt in dog adoptions followed lockdowns in
the West. But should you really look to dogs for physical affection? Is a dog’s
lick a sign of love?</span>
<style>@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-unhide:no;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0cm;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}.MsoChpDefault
{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}</style>Some dog trainers and animal behaviourists say it is bad to hold or cuddle your dog. It suppresses the dog’s natural instinct to run from danger and the confinement brought about by your loving arms might scare it enough to bite you. Nobody discussed the possible scientific veracity of these strictures with our three big dogs. Oblivious of their bulk and weight, they climb all over me and my husband, demanding absolute physical dissolution of their Self into our Other. Every morning they rumple our bed and us, a glorious heap of furry limbs, as if they are still puppies who love to sleep somehow simultaneously on top of and under the other. When they see each other after even brief absences, they—unless guarding food or territory—touch noses, wag tails, lick, roll over and nuzzle each other. They do this to us as well, seeing us as strangely unfurry, half-limbed dogs who smell odd and seem handicapped in not possessing that most expressive of appendages, a tail.<br /><br />A few weeks into the pandemic there were reports of dolphins showing up in search of humans. Workers at the Barnacles Café and Feeding Centre at Tin Can Bay, Queensland said that a 29-year-old male humpbacked dolphin named Mystique has begun to bring corals and shells on his rostrum or beak and “carefully” presents it to them. The workers give him a fish in return. This exchange was not a trick, they said. “We haven’t trained him, but he has trained us to do this.” Our dogs are not alone in working out how to train humans. <br /><br />All kinds of animals appear to seek out human contact and affection. Walking around a farm in Australia once, I saw how the farmer’s barrel-shaped truffle-hunting pig waddled to him as fast as her absurdly disproportionate legs could carry her when he called out: “Clementine!” She reached the fence, buried her head in his shirt as he held her and cooed her name, a different endearment prefixed each time. Here in the hills, our neighbour had a billy goat named Michael who came when called and regarded us with a calm, professorial gaze. He was not the only one. Each of my neighbour’s goats have names and bleat with touching longing when she calls, ignorant of the fact that their affectionate goatherd is feeding them to help the butcher feed others. Michael long ago turned into mutton stew. <br /><br />** <br /><br />Touch. The word unfurls like a flower bud as soon as it is uttered, evoking images of sensuality. The tenderness of parents caressing for the first time their new baby’s miraculously soft, unworn feet. Lovers, their forbidden limbs. The way certain mimosas fold into themselves when stroked.<br /><br />Still, even as we yearn for lost and longed-for touch we know there are other kinds. To alter the shape and texture of the word, you only have to turn it over and look at it again, from other angles. I remember the way one of my aunts used to drop food from a slight height onto the plate of the woman who cleaned the house. The woman had a demarcated aluminium plate, the kind that no scrubbing can improve, and after eating she washed it at the outside tap and put it back along with her glass into a niche in the veranda. Her plate and glass became untouchable the moment she had touched them, a practice routine enough in India for my aunt never to think of herself as perpetrator and the woman as victim. <br /><br />I think of yesterday, when an arm-thick, three-foot-long snake slithered across the road, or another time when a lizard plopped down from the ceiling onto the floor next to me. Neither snake nor lizard were within touching distance, and yet I had felt my skin crawl. I have a friend who loves reptiles. She goes to the zoo to be closer to pythons and crocodiles. I think of her locked up in her apartment in Brooklyn, longing for the rubbery chill of a lizard.<br /><br />I think how nauseous I used to be for hours after journeys in packed city buses on which anonymous men used an immobilising crowd to press their erections into the backs of young girls. Every girl who has used Indian public transport understands with an immediacy that has registered not only in her brain but on her body why some men are absolute pricks.<br />When memories of this kind return, it seems to me that plagues may have upsides. Although there may be no plague on God’s earth that will ever stop a man in an Indian bus, maybe no man would dare come close just yet. Perhaps a new kind of untouchability has taken root: a powerful blend of fear and disgust that will not easily leave us. <br /><br />** <br /><br />In the third volume of <a href="https://bookshop.org/books/the-ropewalker-between-three-plagues-volume-i/9781784299781?aid=132">Between Three Plagues</a>, an Estonian masterpiece by Jaan Kross set in the 16th century (forthcoming, translated by Merike L Beecher), a housewife surrounded by dying friends and neighbours daydreams of the day she was first touched by her husband. In her mind she contrasts the bliss of that touch with the ferocity of another—the touch of bubonic plague: <br /><br />“And even now, worn out though she is with the day’s tasks and the ache in her head from the heat, Elsbet feels her heart quicken and her knees go weak at the memory, recalling the intensity of the encounter . . . And afterwards, having recovered, she found herself in a state of sweetly sinful, blissful excitement, harbouring a longing for it to occur again, and God knows what else . . . And then she is the wife of this strange man who makes her knees feel weak . . . Her sense of how different, unfamiliar, and strange her husband is diminished and soon vanishes—a feeling of distance, of bleakness. And all around her now, only the plague . . .”<br /><br />Shortly after this scene, the plague infects Elsbet and her children. With her last drops of energy, as she feels the fever and pain overcome her, she goes around her house searching for things to destroy: <br /><br />“That’s the rule—everything I have touched must be quickly buried . . . She feels, as if from a great distance and with a sense of unreality, a kind of horror that she herself is doing this.” Her husband arrives, presses his face against hers. “Lord God,” she thinks feverishly, “if only he would keep his distance—so as not to catch this disease…” <br /><br />The only comfort possible from this account is that, despite the horror of Elsbet’s death, what remains is the tenderness and beauty of her memory of that first touch. <br /><a href="https://lithub.com/what-we-need-anuradha-roy-on-animals-and-touch-in-lockdown/?fbclid=IwAR0WHhdoMTAFfd2FAvjDSBUKRg7AvzHbc1ClhIs9l8CyZEVED_ca4F-XqAI"><br />(Read it here in <i>LitHub)</i></a><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-7936805588586756472020-10-16T11:26:00.000+05:302020-10-16T11:26:09.097+05:30All the Lives We Never Lived in Chinese<p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Rights to the Chinese translation of <i>All the Lives We Never Lived</i> have been acquired by Horizon, one of the most prestigious literary publishers in China. They publish an exceptional list of authors, including Khaled Hosseini, Hermann Hesse, Orhan Pamuk, John Williams, Roberto Bolaño, Sara Gruen, and Sarah Waters. <br /><br />Not many Indian novels are translated into Chinese and it is even more unusual at a time when things are not too warm and loving on the Indo-Chinese border. It's good to see publishers refusing to let a few border disputes get in the way of their need to bring out what they value.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii1cIFdZP-NOYbyJOv5mX1byK5ONm1AKP2JM3CaQ_kxaXsSrpsT_nDi0JRV5JsNkdSGaRCa9Q5TZtThWhU56nhojBUWPOe7ET6KCDONFyCEMnBMFwY81aiBiqkWDnebdeQBo_Qmsp5aobT/s2048/languages+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii1cIFdZP-NOYbyJOv5mX1byK5ONm1AKP2JM3CaQ_kxaXsSrpsT_nDi0JRV5JsNkdSGaRCa9Q5TZtThWhU56nhojBUWPOe7ET6KCDONFyCEMnBMFwY81aiBiqkWDnebdeQBo_Qmsp5aobT/w640-h384/languages+copy.jpg" width="640" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The book has so far been translated into German (Luchterhand/Random
House), French (Actes Sud), Romanian (Humanitas), and Russian (Azbooka
Atticus). Other than UK (Maclehose Press) and India (Hachette India),
other editions of the book have been published in the US (Atria/
Simon&Schuster), Sri Lanka (Perera Hussein), Large Print
(Thorndike), Audiobook (Atria). <br /></div><p></p><p><br /> </p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-18540550531499098642020-09-19T11:06:00.003+05:302020-09-19T11:22:18.092+05:30All the Lives We Never Lived shortlisted for the International Dublin Literary Award<p style="text-align: center;"><i>All the Lives We Never Lived</i> has been shortlisted for the International Dublin Literary Award. </p><p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUCjWimjSVGk9ywBnAFGxsLzhnIB0AM9xnsHrazq7jOW3hGcJi0o31StVMYST9mHV1cgpUSArbo7L3WfrqYJmdbqfRRPt8DGru9XOLs7cvvqha1bSy7by2DaZs3beiIYRP6N8hzYiU9bo/s744/Screenshot_2020-09-19+International+Dublin+Literary+Award+Anna+Burns+among+eight+women+on+shortlist+.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="744" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUCjWimjSVGk9ywBnAFGxsLzhnIB0AM9xnsHrazq7jOW3hGcJi0o31StVMYST9mHV1cgpUSArbo7L3WfrqYJmdbqfRRPt8DGru9XOLs7cvvqha1bSy7by2DaZs3beiIYRP6N8hzYiU9bo/w640-h341/Screenshot_2020-09-19+International+Dublin+Literary+Award+Anna+Burns+among+eight+women+on+shortlist+.png" width="640" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;">The shortlist is drawn from a longlist of 156 novels submitted by library systems in 119 cities in 40 countries.</p><p style="text-align: center;">The statement from the judges said:<br /><br />"Set
in the 1930s, Anuradha Roy’s new novel is like an Indian raga that
continues to resonate long after you have finished the last chapter.
Myshkin is the nine year-old protagonist, and the central event in his
life is revealed in the novel’s opening sentence: “I was known as the
boy whose mother had run off with an Englishman”. The Englishman turned
out to be Walter, a German, who had to leave British India in a hurry,
taking Myshkin’s beloved mother, with him, triggering a memorable saga
of love, memory, kindness, human frailty and the devastating loneliness
of a boy."</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLGy103lxPrFRlF80SKaOam0OfC76Jl_7W&fbclid=IwAR27u2omt9gCFrqaX3W4-Z8Xt-yuTEd-fRcJQTe3VSHG_6Hci6ZGFYdiXBk">Listen here to brilliant actors reading from the shortlisted books</a></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;">Excerpted below is a report by Martin Doyle in <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/international-dublin-literary-award-anna-burns-among-eight-women-on-shortlist-1.4344718">Irish Times</a><br /><br /> </p><h2 style="text-align: center;"> Nobel Prize, Women’s Prize, Giller Prize and US National Book Award winners shortlisted
</h2><p style="text-align: center;">Anna Burns, Olga Tokarczuk and Tayari Jones, winners respectively of the Booker Prize, the Nobel Prize in Literature and the Women’s Prize for Fiction, are among the 10 authors shortlisted for the 2020 International Dublin Literary Award.
</p><div style="text-align: center;"><hgroup>
<h2></h2>
</hgroup></div><p class="no_name selectionShareable" style="text-align: center;">The
€100,000 award, sponsored by Dublin City Council, is the world’s most
valuable annual prize for a single work of fiction published in English.</p>
<p class="no_name selectionShareable" style="text-align: center;">Eight
of the shortlisted writers are women, including Canadian Giller Award
winner Esi Edugyan for Washington Black and US National Book Award
winner Sigrid Nunez for The Friend, and three are novels in translation.</p>
<h4 class="crosshead" style="text-align: center;"><b>The shortlist</b></h4><ul style="text-align: center;"><li class="no_name">The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker (British) <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/the-silence-of-the-girls-by-pat-barker-a-stunning-new-novel-1.3609117"><b>Read our review</b></a></li><li class="no_name">Milkman by Anna Burns (Irish) <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/milkman-by-anna-burns-review-impressive-wordy-and-often-funny-1.3484139"><b>Read our review</b></a></li><li class="no_name">Disoriental by Négar Djavadi (Iranian-French), translated by Tina Kover</li><li class="no_name">Washington Black by Esi Edugyan (Canadian) <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/washington-black-review-epic-slave-tale-overburdened-by-storylines-1.3596150"><b>Read our review</b></a></li><li class="no_name">An American Marriage by Tayari Jones (US) <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/an-american-marriage-review-nuanced-dissection-of-love-race-class-family-and-gender-1.3858633"><b>Read our review</b></a></li><li class="no_name">History of Violence by Édouard Louis (French), translated by Lorin Stein <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/history-of-violence-review-a-captivating-rawly-honest-book-1.3526602"><b>Read our review</b></a></li><li class="no_name">The Friend by Sigrid Nunez (US) <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/the-friend-by-sigrid-nunez-review-barking-brilliant-1.3792611"><b>Read our review</b></a></li><li class="no_name">There There by Tommy Orange (Native American) <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/there-there-powerful-debut-examines-life-as-a-native-american-1.4118055"><b>Read our review</b></a></li><li class="no_name">All the Lives We Never Lived by Anuradha Roy (Indian) <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/all-the-lives-we-never-lived-review-a-paean-to-motherhood-and-loss-in-india-1.3515269"><b>Read our review</b></a></li><li class="no_name">Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk (Polish), translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones <a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/drive-your-plow-over-the-bones-of-the-dead-by-olga-tokarczuk-much-to-admire-1.3623254"><b>Read our review</b></a></li></ul><p class="no_name selectionShareable" style="text-align: center;">As well as Ireland, Poland,
the US and Canada, the shortlist spans Britain, Iran and France. Of the
shortlisted works not already garlanded with awards, perhaps the
standout title is There There by Native American author Tommy Orange.
The judges said of it: “the devastating history of genocide against
Native American people rubs up against the everyday lives of this cast
of contemporary ‘Urban Indians’ with astonishing effectiveness”.</p><p class="no_name selectionShareable" style="text-align: center;"> </p><p class="no_name selectionShareable" style="text-align: center;">Read an interview in <a href="https://www.thehindu.com/books/we-are-great-competition-for-the-tortoise-in-matters-of-change-anuradha-roy/article32579123.ece?fbclid=IwAR3PJrDfE1rggCc3AJ-incHLlZ3zFIf0RzTza9RgGL11RbTWx5VriJXYhOw"><i>Hindu</i></a> here.</p><p class="no_name selectionShareable" style="text-align: center;">Read an article from the <a href="https://tfipost.com/ians-news/anuradha-roy-finds-solitude-in-the-kumaon-himalayas-ians-interview/?fbclid=IwAR2P5yoxwOeJT-BUACP_xJmyR0h43JIfPJdeAWzeBfYl9T9G7iPEL4v9Ar4">India Abroad News Service</a> here</p><p class="no_name selectionShareable" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-36282583310231606642020-05-24T11:41:00.002+05:302020-05-24T11:59:48.534+05:30A Letter from Luxembourg<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">The French translation of <i>All the Lives We Never Lived</i> had a bumpy start. Its release in March 2020 crashed full tilt into worldwide lockdowns. Bookshops were shut, literary festivals cancelled, reading seemed to be the last thing on people's distracted, panic-stricken minds. I thought the book would sink to the bottom of the sea floor and rest quietly there along with other wrecks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But readers are tenacious people. The other day there was an email from one of them, Valérie Voisin, which I am reproducing below unaltered because it so vividly and movingly describes her experience of how she got and read a book by an author unknown to her, during a lockdown. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I am grateful to Valérie for taking the trouble to write to me and for giving me permission to reproduce her message.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6A34EMEBJGLKQW4aP0ITwUMkn0lkGjdVQm4tcmPsyFvebJ19-ZzOyPbFRKDjNjDt2XHn3FEQrw1LOZedmhFZpRnknnDwqFHVcXuyBYUqMFcEZW0Xn7vZcJQljNzSCCe2AigcH18cnl1Ka/s1600/letter+from+Valerie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1093" data-original-width="709" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6A34EMEBJGLKQW4aP0ITwUMkn0lkGjdVQm4tcmPsyFvebJ19-ZzOyPbFRKDjNjDt2XHn3FEQrw1LOZedmhFZpRnknnDwqFHVcXuyBYUqMFcEZW0Xn7vZcJQljNzSCCe2AigcH18cnl1Ka/s640/letter+from+Valerie.jpg" width="414" /></a>
<br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="mso-cellspacing: 1.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;">
<tbody>
<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;">
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="mso-cellspacing: 1.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;">
<tbody>
<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;">
<td style="padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 0cm;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dear Madam, <br />
<br />
I discovered your novel during the lockdown when the bookshop started a on-line shop section and delivered books at home. It was a new process for the book seller and he only provided list of books without more details.<br />
<br />
I selected your novel because of the title which was so intriguing. I looked on the net what it is about and have been convince by the topic, mix of family relationship, art, history and the exoticism of all countries mentioned... all what i generally like. <br />
<br />
I am French and i leave in Luxembourg, I am not used to write author. So please excuse my clumsiness. <br />
<br />
I just finished to read your book 30 min ago, it accompanied me during this strange period and I am so grateful to choose it. <br />
<br />
Being sensitive to art, travel, discovering people, your novel allow me to have all of them when i was just sitting on the sofa with a limited area to move around. I liked the description of human relationship, so complex but not so different from one continent to another. All rules and restrictions imposed on women, the "what will people say". Everywhere it is the same... <br />
<br />
It was fantastic to travel through your words in your country or in Bali. To feel and imagine the nature around. <br />
<br />
Thanks to you, I am discovering this artist what I never heard about before, discovering his production, his sensitivity. I will have nice moments now to read about him and try to discovering his paintings. The art is the 20's/30's was extraordinary and I am delighted to discover something new about this period. <br />
<br />
I am so enthusiast about your book that since 2 weeks, I am recommanding it to my relatives. I don't know what they will do about it, read or not read, but for me it was a fantastic moment. <br />
<br />
Your work must have been massive and the help from so many people is impressive but the result is a beautiful jewellery. <br />
<br />
Many thanks and I will be happy to ready your other books. <br />
<br />
Have a lovely day. <br />
<br />
Valerie Voisin<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5U-rUb53IUsJFBuWlrrRGhLc-Lx_c71dzkLsbJEUq8IST1cuMT0iaUkqPAm7csxNFrh2GDxcqwYI4m_xkod7gPo8OtHVj1k5HIybP7ddtQ8vAtF4KHQZDjabCk3j0yRiSV-Bq4WCn2OX/s1600/41-4IifAr2L._SX195_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="195" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5U-rUb53IUsJFBuWlrrRGhLc-Lx_c71dzkLsbJEUq8IST1cuMT0iaUkqPAm7csxNFrh2GDxcqwYI4m_xkod7gPo8OtHVj1k5HIybP7ddtQ8vAtF4KHQZDjabCk3j0yRiSV-Bq4WCn2OX/s400/41-4IifAr2L._SX195_.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">TRANSLATED BY MYRIAM BELLEHIGUE</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Un beau roman : drames intimes, soubresauts historiques du XX° et<br />
univers fascinant de Bali" -- Marie de Benoist, <i><a href="https://www.culture-tops.fr/critique-evenement/livresbdmangas/toutes-ces-vies-jamais-vecues">Culture Tops</a></i> <br />
<br />
"Un livre dépaysant et émouvant que je vous recommande vivement si vous voulez vous évader" -- <i><a href="http://www.journaldefrancois.fr/-toutes-ces-vies-jamais-vecues-de-anuradha-roy.htm">Journal de François</a></i><br />
<br />
"Une roman tout de poésie et de nostalgie" <i>Madame Figaro</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
"Anuradha Roy maîtrise l’art des récits amples, peuplés de personnages riches, mûris en elle" -- Marianne Meunier, <i>La Croix L'Hebdo</i><br />
<br />
"Ici la grande histoire côtoie l'intime. Un livre poignante sur l'enfance déchirée, l'amour malmené et la trajectoire heurtée d'une femme libre" <i>DNA</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
"Un merveilleux roman, à la fois historique et poétique, sur la
trajectoire heurtée d’une femme libre et sur la douloureuse posture
d’attente adoptée par son fils<i>" <a href="http://madamemaroc.ma/10-livres-lire-livraison-confinement/?fbclid=IwAR3uFdvj3g3Tz_kDP5MIZYwwn6uDeNdePNestNLDRsAG0aNoAdJULbU5SqU">Madame Maroc, </a></i>10 livres à lire absolument (et à se faire livrer)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><a href="https://www.actes-sud.fr/catalogue/litterature/toutes-ces-vies-jamais-vecues">Paperback / ACTES SUD</a></span></div>
<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Times;
panose-1:2 0 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-font-charset:78;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:-536870145 1791491579 18 0 131231 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:"Cambria Math";
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:-536870145 1107305727 0 0 415 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:-536870145 1073743103 0 0 415 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:"Helvetica Neue";
panose-1:2 0 5 3 0 0 0 2 0 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:-452984065 1342208475 16 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-unhide:no;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0cm;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
.MsoChpDefault
{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}size:595.0pt 842.0pt;
margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt;
mso-header-margin:35.4pt;
mso-footer-margin:35.4pt;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}</style></div>
nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-89268041310650703722020-05-13T19:40:00.000+05:302020-05-13T22:36:20.655+05:30Carolyn Reidy 1949 -2020<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At a time when the sky is darkening every day with bad news, it grew even darker today with the news of Carolyn Reidy's sudden death.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdHjHeWeYPmiwc13i0i8OnumwJdq9eNRu-ThROmkmnbxuyE16Veh5cbfYEfGptTks-XCNe98S7PPse41UcXrHTNIUT4lmysgvZ0U8ToqvcttfREsFyHTI2AcL5sHUMyO2MNsDbtyI7fXI/s1600/Screenshot_2020-05-13+New+Book+Releases%252C+Bestsellers%252C+Author+Info+and+more+at+Simon+Schuster.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="221" data-original-width="273" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpdHjHeWeYPmiwc13i0i8OnumwJdq9eNRu-ThROmkmnbxuyE16Veh5cbfYEfGptTks-XCNe98S7PPse41UcXrHTNIUT4lmysgvZ0U8ToqvcttfREsFyHTI2AcL5sHUMyO2MNsDbtyI7fXI/s200/Screenshot_2020-05-13+New+Book+Releases%252C+Bestsellers%252C+Author+Info+and+more+at+Simon+Schuster.png" width="200" /></a></div>
She was publisher at Simon and Schuster, and its President. "She began her career at Random House in 1974, in the subsidiary rights
department. She sat outside the office of Toni Morrison, who was an
editor in the trade book division at the time and who, by Ms. Reidy’s
account, proved to be an inspiration," says the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/12/books/carolyn-reidy-dead.html">New York Times</a>.<br />
<br />
"She also was never afraid to offer a controversial glimpse into her
thinking. At Frankfurt, when asked about Brexit, she made a point of
asserting that the advantage the UK market historically has had with its
exclusive rights in the European market would be over. Already raised
eyebrows shot up even further when she added, 'I still don’t understand
why the British think they have India,'" <a href="https://publishingperspectives.com/2020/05/simon-schuster-announces-that-ceo-carolyn-reidy-has-died-of-a-heart-attack/"><i>Publishing Perspectives</i></a> wrote.<br />
<br />
Among authors she published in a company that had 17 imprints were Frank McCourt, Stephen King, Hillary Clinton, Bruce Springsteen. And yet, S&S CFO Dennis Eulau <a href="https://edition.cnn.com/2020/05/12/media/carolyn-reidy/index.html">notes</a>: "She was equally attentive, on a personal level, to our authors, to whom
she sent handwritten notes when they received awards, made the
bestseller list, or simply to let them know when she finished reading
their books."<br />
<br />
This is true. Each time S&S published one of my books, including the very first, she wrote to me after reading it, and her comments showed she read with depth and intelligence and empathy. In 2011, when the Free Press (then a division of S&S) and its wonderful Martha Levin signed on <i>An Atlas of Impossible Longing</i>, by and by I had an email from Carolyn. I did not know who she was at that time and the email came with no
pompous designation or job title. It was a while before my inquiries led
to an answer about the writer of the email. "I was so captivated that I wanted to write and thank you for giving us a work of such depth and beauty," she wrote. "I was transported to another time and place, felt the oppressive heat and rising waters -- both of nature and of history as time passed."<br />
By the time <i>All the Lives We Never Lived</i> was published, I was not surprised by her detailed and deeply felt reading of it, which followed in due course.<br />
<br />
When we met, I had the sense of someone formidable yet democratic and unstuffy. It feels strange and sad to think I will never see her again and that she will not be there as a rock solid presence supporting my books because she had believed in them and taken them on.<br />
<br /></div>
nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-47381709793635483982020-05-03T11:22:00.003+05:302020-05-03T11:28:16.127+05:30A NATION ON PAUSE: CORONAVIRUS IN INDIA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3swLiOYbh4Si7a5cd3jv-2sUszflxAj98Yj5sFx8vJH0IThot_XDuyZIF1imbPQEZk6PCantXlVU2P-X_DrnWvqWktqLRC91VIawweq5ekZCLPvS4YJZ7lgL26ud1AnlDUJjQnXjk3co/s1600/P1120037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1058" data-original-width="1600" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3swLiOYbh4Si7a5cd3jv-2sUszflxAj98Yj5sFx8vJH0IThot_XDuyZIF1imbPQEZk6PCantXlVU2P-X_DrnWvqWktqLRC91VIawweq5ekZCLPvS4YJZ7lgL26ud1AnlDUJjQnXjk3co/s640/P1120037.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mall Road, Ranikhet | Anuradha Roy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is the middle of April and weeks into lockdown, limbo is a
jittery place. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In today’s newspaper, gunshots during a game of Ludo:
“Jai accused Prashant of coughing with the intention of giving
coronavirus to other people. He shot him in the thigh.” Rumours whine
like mosquitoes. A strident voice wafts across from next door: “Is this
futuristic Chinese bioterrorism or a Muslim conspiracy?” Some say our
hellish sanitation and tropical fevers have given us a carapace of
immunity. We breathe calmer for a moment. Then the bad news closes in
again: lost jobs, suffering, starvation and no end in sight.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I chanced upon a tweet yesterday from Christina Lamb, a foreign correspondent for the <i>Sunday Times</i>.
“For the first time in my life I find myself wishing I lived in the
country with a dog and a breadmaker and maybe a lemon tree.” That’s been
us the past 20 years, in a corner of the Himalayas with three dogs and
two lemon trees. No breadmaker though. We’ve always made bread the
old-fashioned way, massaging dough like a lover’s limbs, not as a hobby
but because it’s the only way we can have passable bread. Now friends at
a loose end write for tips on starters and crusts and send sweetly
proud images of fresh loaves. I’m a specialist agony aunt with time on
her hands. In my past life I wrote fiction, my spouse ran an independent
press. Now printing presses are closed and books locked in storage.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For
the moment we have sky, forests, bread. And a series of unpredictable
problems. Last week someone’s cow keeled over in the nearby forest. We
could see it from our house: an immense, immobile mound. Since there are
no municipal services for such things the owner gathered four friends
who dug a pit big enough to house a lorry, then rolled the carcass into
it. Social distancing remained a hopeless aspiration during this
exercise.</span><br />
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></i></span>
</h2>
<i><a href="https://www.1843magazine.com/dispatches/a-nation-on-pause-coronavirus-in-india?fbclid=IwAR2dFateVRVCjtafWGgBKDTCfSO35G_S6fTI6DMkCLfDH6_WQhDKfm2xsD4">Read the rest here in the </a></i><a href="https://www.1843magazine.com/dispatches/a-nation-on-pause-coronavirus-in-india?fbclid=IwAR2dFateVRVCjtafWGgBKDTCfSO35G_S6fTI6DMkCLfDH6_WQhDKfm2xsD4">Economist</a>,<i> where I wrote on the experience of lockdown in Ranikhet alongside Nilanjana Roy and Rahul Bhattacharya, who wrote in from Delhi. </i><br /></div>
nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-26344753849081563022020-03-04T11:53:00.003+05:302020-03-04T14:26:06.878+05:30Tales of Two Planets<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 100%px;"><tbody>
<tr><td align="center" id="m_-6679498547678789707m_379195105031855754templateBody" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; background-position: center; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: cover; background: #ffffff none no-repeat center/cover; border-bottom: 0; border-top: 0; padding-bottom: 9px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 600px!important; width: 100%px;"><tbody>
<tr><td valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="color: #202020; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 200%; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: left; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="color: #202020; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 200%; margin: 10px 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #0099ff;"><b><span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 32px;">“ELEGIAC, ANGRY AND IRONIC … [A] CLARION GLOBAL CHORUS”</span></span></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"></span></span>In the past five years, John Freeman, previously editor of <i>Granta</i>, has launched a celebrated international literary magazine, <i>Freeman’s</i>,
and compiled two acclaimed anthologies that deal with income inequality
as it is experienced. Here, he draws together a group of our
greatest writers from around the world to help us see how the
environmental crisis is hitting some of the most vulnerable communities
where they live. Galvanized by his conversations with writers and activists around the
world, Freeman engaged with some of today’s most eloquent storytellers,
many of whom hail from the places under the most acute stress–from the
capital of Burundi to Bangkok, Thailand. The response has been
extraordinary. </span></span></div>
<div style="color: #202020; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 200%; margin: 10px 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;">Margaret Atwood conjures up a dystopian future in a
remarkable poem. Edwidge Danticat to
Haiti; Tahmima Anam to Bangladesh; while
Eka Kurniawan brings us to Indonesia, Chinelo Okparanta to Nigeria, and
Anuradha Roy to the Himalayas in the wake of floods, dam building, and
drought.</span> </span></span></div>
<div style="color: #202020; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 200%; margin: 10px 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">This is a literary all-points bulletin of fiction, essays,
poems, and reportage about the most important crisis of our times.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 200%; margin: 10px 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span>"Fierce and provocative, this diverse
collection shows that climate change is not just a problem for
developing nations. One day, it will become a matter of life and death
for rich and poor alike...
A powerful and timely collection on a topic that cannot be ignored" <i>Kirkus Reviews
</i></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #202020; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 200%; margin: 10px 0; padding: 0; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>Contributors:
Sulaiman Addonia, Juan Miguel Álvarez, Tahmima Anam, Margaret Atwood,
Edwidge Danticat, Tishani Doshi, Yasmine El Rashidi, Mariana Enriquez,
Gaël Faye, Aminatta Forna, Lauren Groff, Eduardo Halfon, Mohammed Hanif,
Ishion Hutchinson, Daisy Johnson, Lawrence Joseph, Billy Kahora, Eka
Kurniawan, Krys Lee, Andri Snær Magnason, Khaled Mattawa, Ligaya Mishan,
Lina Mounzer, Sayaka Murata, Chinelo Okparanta, Diego Enrique Osorno,
Anuradha Roy, Raja Shehadeh & Penny Johnson, Sjón, Lars Skinnebach,
Burhan Sönmez, Pitchaya Sudbanthad, Ian Teh, Tayi Tibble, and Joy
Williams</b></span></span></div>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom: 0; padding-left: 9px; padding-right: 9px; padding-top: 0; text-align: center;" valign="top"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D852386a3c1%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814824000&usg=AFQjCNGCTzv0oE98Xniuh41OMAfWXb8RKw" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=852386a3c1&e=abd479cb7c" target="_blank" title="Tales of Two Planets | OR Books">
<img align="middle" alt="" class="CToWUd" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgTy1VL0AtIfAqjsA9fMoFiIk_GW-hAsvQ6iJiKthscmAOp1sBMbP6lOdrVG4RU4EQ6Es03PXbDIdoMU8XFCRW8fQq0AbzUK-uec0_dk0GEmOJ9ulAXYyky1ImyRSySLi4I6mq33CZPMDgvN_Xwwis4umXDw20TAKP9RcvzA1uEO1S3B2R3VK3ZS75pg70lFtHH9M947O2c-qlLLQbGadjFJ8yd=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border-radius: 0%; border: 0; display: inline!important; height: auto; max-width: 792px; outline: none; padding-bottom: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: bottom;" width="439.92" />
</a>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="color: #202020; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; line-height: 100%; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: center; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;">
<h2 style="color: #202020; display: block; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 22px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 125%; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D17d65e66cf%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNH-KNYBJDRaZIBg8JCs8I-KVNJD0g" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=17d65e66cf&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #222222; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Tale of Two Planets | Edited by John Freeman | OR Books"><span style="font-size: 24px;">TALES OF TWO PLANETS</span></a><br />
Stories of Climate Change and Inequality in a Divided World<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 20px;">Edited by</span><br />
<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3Dc7d52434d6%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNF2hnB0nvicJAaX_kpV2jklnPpUIA" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=c7d52434d6&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #222222; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="John Freeman, editor | OR BOOOKS"><span style="font-size: 20px;">JOHN FREEMAN</span></a></span></h2>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="color: #202020; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Helvetica,Arial,Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 200%; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: center; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 20px;"><span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #0099ff;">“[E]nvironmental
and humanitarian crises in Egypt, Mexico, Hawaii, New Zealand,
Bangladesh, Nigeria, and beyond are brought forward in masterful works
elegiac, angry, and ironic in Freeman’s clarion global chorus.” </span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0099ff;">—<i>Booklist, </i>starred review </span></span></span><br />
</div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" style="padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 18px; padding-right: 18px; padding-top: 0;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="background-color: #020202; border-collapse: separate!important; border-radius: 4px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Helvetica,Arial,Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px; padding: 10px;" valign="middle"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D30da7c45d7%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNEpkedVvCfz7AevndJ9gWSybjNGTA" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=30da7c45d7&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: white; display: block; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: 3px; line-height: 100%; text-align: center; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="TALES OF TWO PLANETS | Edited by John Freeman | OR Books">PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY HERE</a>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="color: #202020; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 150%; padding-bottom: 9px; padding-left: 18px; padding-right: 18px; padding-top: 0; text-align: left; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">AND GET </span></span><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><b>15% OFF</b></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> THE PUBLISHED PRICE</span></span></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom: 9px; padding-left: 18px; padding-right: 18px; padding-top: 9px;"><table border="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; border: 1px dotted #4caad8; min-width: 100%!important; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="color: #f2f2f2; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; padding: 18px; text-align: center; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "source sans pro" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 22px;"><span style="color: black;">Order with </span><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3Dac9c3a1c26%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNG8E6JnUNsNEfKsjrbrD9Hl1EEJ4w" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=ac9c3a1c26&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #222222; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Tales of Two Americas | OR Books"><span style="color: black;"><b><i>Tales of Two Americas</i></b></span></a><span style="color: black;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #0066ff;">(“A brilliant anthology on inequality” – <i>Salon</i>)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 22px;"><span style="color: black;">and get</span><span style="color: red;"> <b>30% off</b></span><span style="color: #0066ff;"> </span><span style="color: black;">both books.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: grey;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Offer valid on paperbacks, e-books and bundles</span></span></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="center" id="m_-6679498547678789707m_379195105031855754templateFooter" style="background-color: #fafafa; background-image: none; background-position: center; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: cover; background: #fafafa none no-repeat center/cover; border-bottom: 0; border-top: 0; padding-bottom: 9px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 600px!important; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; table-layout: fixed!important; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="min-width: 100%; padding: 18px;"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; border-top: 2px solid #eaeaea; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" style="padding: 9px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" style="padding-left: 9px; padding-right: 9px;"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" style="padding-left: 9px; padding-right: 9px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; display: inline;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom: 9px; padding-right: 10px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left" style="padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 9px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px;" valign="middle"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse;" width="">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" valign="middle" width="24"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3Ddb88c5e64d%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNE6Mrv4sk79L4Rc4Z-SBCBziBIGAw" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=db88c5e64d&e=abd479cb7c" target="_blank"><img alt="Twitter" class="CToWUd" height="24" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEg_ltsA1iaaCCzSgFPwMSi1YtfrniFfEm9BVDF2oz89fYwQFxdmzLfqqzvGpmBA11rpojKgh00BqA9QIrAzjLeCSw-8HeEpRPJPTFeOhmLEI-sJcAuZ6hyphenhyphenfKtwGSmDJV3kqZZz2ovU5Ei7ZNmyPHa9aUZyCN-UezBoUEdEwHOH62nTpCdexNazU6A8=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; display: block; height: auto; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="24" /></a>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; display: inline;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom: 9px; padding-right: 10px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left" style="padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 9px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px;" valign="middle"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse;" width="">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" valign="middle" width="24"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D960cf12b6b%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNEjyd-m-oOX9K5OKOSiUiQ7empgpw" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=960cf12b6b&e=abd479cb7c" target="_blank"><img alt="Facebook" class="CToWUd" height="24" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEjkZOeuLga0yfw8f-RfyN7fiBXC3rPHyqaFFvbU7tjsD8wUlXKSSQIssmqy7j6bmwQeSin0a1IgFX26gTn1ZnYyrFx0-4F0LxI-uatEpI000d0dFvjXQmxDaA29N7I4e2_CWhd3m-AyNKYe_xN41feZvq00bLpzUlzSq1VXPCCPn_yTV_pTgN8gcaso=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; display: block; height: auto; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="24" /></a>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; display: inline;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom: 9px; padding-right: 10px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left" style="padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 9px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px;" valign="middle"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse;" width="">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" valign="middle" width="24"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D0fefd22486%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNERY1nAka_bPg42YoY6HX2YaXCclg" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=0fefd22486&e=abd479cb7c" target="_blank"><img alt="Instagram" class="CToWUd" height="24" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEj33FvxjhlD-f_XpfiPkQbSF8957Dnj_oyRDv1VuBiHFl1x0CVfvpVjpdaskn0cMI7VtB6FFW6HlnWyMkhKDAbr_ptOQlz8rxOd_4HM34aGIgZvELqnT_z4KXAuKRUHXk9Rh5fDodaNNHzNvx7LWstPandqGRj0L-S8PqCz4dI54trxCJQRu6KsH61n-w=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; display: block; height: auto; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="24" /></a>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; display: inline;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-bottom: 9px; padding-right: 0;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="left" style="padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 9px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px;" valign="middle"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse;" width="">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td align="center" valign="middle" width="24"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3Da8f2f1dfb7%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNEJNZUKJJI8D8KAw7k3o4uxAnYWPA" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=a8f2f1dfb7&e=abd479cb7c" target="_blank"><img alt="Pinterest" class="CToWUd" height="24" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEiHtrqOgEdeBrE6TXR5KN7dXC_zSSbicW41M88KqrLSgISAfaLGxqIomfgpGP_0R-83-p5cL_8XLDwJVjZWzUFPs-a5bvqYGMrmjZaSG8sA-KdKebB7QBgeKIhQyEfTwiwdZS00EkSIkvtKkKRBOTSRK9LpwjOYyvoSpqKEwtF3SvQlqYfV6o2zNMEL8g=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; display: block; height: auto; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="24" /></a>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; table-layout: fixed!important; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="min-width: 100%; padding: 10px 18px 25px;"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; border-top: 2px solid #eeeeee; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="color: #656565; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: 100%; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: center; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;">
<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3Df655ab3a13%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNGJw77uYAyZsUo_-OuhYrUxxloi3g" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=f655ab3a13&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><img class="CToWUd" height="42" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEh0f7dKbsvh-1eo3QejXLjLXyosbeHLagw2lJgppBGpeK4p2xk4ScIh4DnhsWNVjkasUf0DFq6_GKFqSeGIYzfJ1YT0i9I9Ut-5ShydQMIFhbItVpOjs-bqDvxGBNOJ2EzGFCn2C6AMZJvNfL0t_DOB3e5c_aBzo3RTSY1QVhSbKFo27MEkV1yPe0yUJKHpI-eqB9exnKLT7xBRh8dB4iw3mhXXo1WsdQ=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; height: auto!important; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="23" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14px;"><b>OR Books</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12px;"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D23024f51a8%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNH9c9n0RFl7vz1fWJ_FxiGBhmMm0g" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=23024f51a8&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><b>www.orbooks.com</b></a></span><br />
<br />
<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3Ddae8a21271%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNEb1_yysKN8pny4wcQpElCOgBNurw" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=dae8a21271&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><img class="CToWUd" longdesc="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgIsKAZeyiuJ2GzfHpODl17A1-iqrST_ueFeXlFPIMgIoI6EIwozTtYm7MxqxdzdLGpVJGl8Rp3GZP53oEeIWMXUBqSGqfUvOrUZyzRDcLOq7AX0mxEHnaEM3NYKNj-cedjoflgUrmO3uumzqVcR6hoxsBwZg=s0-d-e1-ft" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEiltWNAX2oGBdih-uo11cDpxqEnrBK7acueYNABF0m8dhxDZoXlFQ-XaPuc23qaxBKgud9PmWKoCZ8kyGG56RpmKsdmVLejRAyneIBNUJ23c4rr_49KLZ1Pq-Yb011WmTCK60nZ47bAfN8Ifme2Hh9PyBglq1MvpN_NKHgAvbRy_ofEjrzV38W4LQEUvKHrZ8JBR8u5u_o=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; height: auto!important; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="17" /></a> <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D66a777892a%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNGVmK7I8oxuOJ4IELJsO5iOG1ygZQ" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=66a777892a&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><img class="CToWUd" longdesc="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhixzn3CdktFPX2Vr47ffnX6Dr9PUEPGS6dKYvWxhHIMa7skRKCtzEXEVd5rBNWqPGhytEIJlRhe-H41lkuHW6pKCsP2BhU2H4Ho8LR5QtrhTMAYhbmujJgfg4=s0-d-e1-ft" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhc-zmI6JHuHdkbKbclzf8vzlqCOQS8S_NgzAgQrzXKpNNWa3w8p4Zrv0ZkEVSoscSoRWXga2R5_I07N5J3L-KFCC2FGXvMCv3VN7WFNHG9jr7cQZJw6lPki05FotfCf4Xqni3-mvLFQq9ZP4wd1Ruy1I0SHT36A1tzlL5IHd_b1EFHtgyADuf1iPeyyqzNZ5Pk6k8gua_wNoKXOQ=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; height: auto!important; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="17" /></a> <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3Dc5152a7eb8%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNHiwtRrVdouyK1oVyEgg6AZlssIQw" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=c5152a7eb8&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><img class="CToWUd" longdesc="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEjaioGxNZW0jozyOlLI-tC9tVCpSaLV2rIW8NOslE3jv0r77ktiElxunG4UUclGnxSQ9yBqa7TMoi8hMI0JWE9swQfgX1EVEsM8QeQck2RxEEmB5YR314yJjGKF7647iAhX_fGHuyyYI7K0L2jG1ItdMSyy-Q=s0-d-e1-ft" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEj5MiT0F5VFMCu_FPQKvSvC21rWKUryOUA494CKC9rJiF69M-gDiRFx17fDR69qAOGq0cqwDwu14IZv3_LCHwEYTAiXuLcXlemcxVPOD8vC4F094HXo0cQdR1oACR7FX5QlANoOR0GLttrHVpKKpBwtP6eHa7AUd_e776KRjZAb7nlSb07ZYSrl9CYqru0hCyQbJf0ua5Fdd-Vt3A=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; height: auto!important; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="17" /></a> <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D359963f0b9%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNFe32DczX33y2PTxjYYfnEv3pcHlg" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=359963f0b9&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><img class="CToWUd" longdesc="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEg3FzyQSOVBiC5rUt-uvxjRqYR8FNgSU5ruuE8cyzfAxXOKJs3Tk76uDNkPzc-vhMhgQ5_ujC2xJ_uIjLEQYw3Evis48U6AAfIbAiefIy4r2Vro-FW2qhsTMQ=s0-d-e1-ft" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgfwo2ib8R4FUU-y8Nqc8stXvzwN_j0yZgZT2i9qfkREfegQbcUC541DWoVYku8Wxwr-u0ov8AIethjmvv9-Bbc-IeCqFFcnxBhghe6S_wk-jIsS44bkJvSwMpAVeketj3lSeSQLuk31wy2XiQgTUGgvy9TR4aCU5pYBmo9BAAGiKUjNzuL_Lw38kO2gBrSPhAqZK-JOruoJw=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; height: auto!important; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="17" /></a> <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3Df40b9e3426%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNF-bz_gOEKth2QUWCemlmuToEl1rw" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=f40b9e3426&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><img class="CToWUd" longdesc="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEiGlJLMrdEhnNoTX2TfPCy3HQRkiNTWCmMnh3IEloVYYVT8PUu_7XcrbmGWDXLBLxQyIQPM2tx76IGFao_gdDDuWyZFaGPjtLPtKd9mkqFO0WXqX-7AU0ZrzmkEUVo=s0-d-e1-ft" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEi4HiIsEn2pVXjcm8hLZc3rfE7qBxjnnS9QJdl3xmiiR3VR-Ub4w-syfH3iA6guOv19qn_iLP-jzZFUR3RY48beqn9gzua895msxhHUb02mMrta5GAT-79q3bolfzQlNJoPeObpVBG4KUQNDf6twFy3gPND_81EZxVf43DfRY24UkMfDZS6U-1_dnkAI_r623QGLOgbjPjxfDX91A=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; height: auto!important; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="17" /></a> <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D291ec73376%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNFuH2rCOqBzisHNazFlgcWk_JiUlA" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=291ec73376&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><img class="CToWUd" longdesc="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEjc3Y5-Onoy8wRh-ZW1NTDZM7JTOWeQBdp8mrK2j6YTwIqNLLX9sVGDtGygIMjn-AattUo6GtnMFZCO15jZZ1UfcYnfjFL5mpvxgaNYiSOu9WtdDqsTgz2xayw_-0boCCUO=s0-d-e1-ft" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEj23yWmaxnDEd8U_TF2rMAMxvLMDky6kmV0usGMRT3uDi2DjKRZiaYGhcJOBDH_a-e7yBaa3_GnX7wpkOunizve5f0-KO2inUcNLXJ0-MHrR3GI_339g3c53SflR-uvtcwY0TS4Y68wFTZpTWocEjKrDKwxZNXOHhWu4kFKvTF3z7c11oa1Z-pNIuIIBrxTQUilpXl_QdTKqtKbuQ=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; height: auto!important; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="17" /></a> <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3De977cbee4f%26e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814825000&usg=AFQjCNFLU9OrUmQ800EDuRgCXrn-lM-O_g" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=e977cbee4f&e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><img class="CToWUd" longdesc="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEjc3Y5-Onoy8wRh-ZW1NTDZM7JTOWeQBdp8mrK2j6YTwIqNLLX9sVGDtGygIMjn-AattUo6GtnMFZCO15jZZ1UfcYnfjFL5mpvxgaNYiSOu9WtdDqsTgz2xayw_-0boCCUO=s0-d-e1-ft" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhluloD65EGuN2akmypMb-UgcjrOVEmGNr4mOQs_yueiRElMVqtg1Fiz4cXcWfuUepKEnqrN2Ln3SqzxkvCrRw-szcfJxGDB6NW-NxSNeAfXgIoHAY6us8PaXwWKI1kkLBBFNKp5dcyuvRNsEFHWqyHn9woSCI4DryHt_2dEiTkUxbvZf5Dh5JMCv5LtEmJafcHNgC1dD0=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0; height: auto!important; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" width="17" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12px;"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/unsubscribe?u%3D6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94%26id%3D43ce1d59a2%26e%3Dabd479cb7c%26c%3Da0ddb5ad79&source=gmail&ust=1583388814826000&usg=AFQjCNFILcNOjhUf1K1oSzJhDdegzaYLlA" href="https://orbooks.us2.list-manage.com/unsubscribe?u=6180a1909cdc59a9df25c1a94&id=43ce1d59a2&e=abd479cb7c&c=a0ddb5ad79" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">unsubscribe from this list</a> <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://mailchi.mp/orbooks.com/tales-of-two-planets?e%3Dabd479cb7c&source=gmail&ust=1583388814826000&usg=AFQjCNHktjRCqa822BBy0YW9A4GUlXpk9w" href="https://mailchi.mp/orbooks.com/tales-of-two-planets?e=abd479cb7c" style="color: #161616; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">view email in browser</a></span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12px;">OR Books | 137 West 14th Street | New York, NY 10011</span><br />
<br />
</div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-75216144064950814742020-01-31T12:48:00.005+05:302021-01-26T19:10:47.326+05:30ALMOST HEAVEN (WEST VIRGINIA)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Late in 2018, I had a message from a stranger in the United States. He
was delighted, he said, to see Bernard Leach’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Potter’s Book</i> included in my list of six favourites in a magazine
he had been reading. He was a potter, his name was Jeff Diehl, and he thought the
Leach classic was an unusual title to feature on a novelist’s list. I wrote
back explaining that though my work was writing and designing book jackets, I made
pots too (after a fashion). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Over the next months this kind stranger replied in
careful detail to every question I asked him about kilns, glazes, pots, wheels.
He sent me formulae for glazes he thought might work for me; he worked out programmes
suited to my new kiln, sent video links, articles. The generosity was staggering.
There also came fragments about Lockbridge Pottery, and his family and other
animals: his potter-wife Donna, their two sons, their dog and cat. Our messages
travelled on the internet, but they felt like letters. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBA0fdgQlw5Gx2IyCNT-8z260dF4bcQNspvvox0H3701-jeA53N3aN00UW7bZ1sS8lED0q75YsdDmK8d_YFAIPGzx976k8qvNckKF_wlAjhe98K98aLos9t8O6eBgKyKMsS-vvea3gfKJG/s1600/v8580qXA.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBA0fdgQlw5Gx2IyCNT-8z260dF4bcQNspvvox0H3701-jeA53N3aN00UW7bZ1sS8lED0q75YsdDmK8d_YFAIPGzx976k8qvNckKF_wlAjhe98K98aLos9t8O6eBgKyKMsS-vvea3gfKJG/s400/v8580qXA.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Donna Diehl and Jeff Diehl tending the salt kiln</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After about a year of this archaic pen-friendship, a writing-related
trip to America came up for me, and Jeff invited me to come and spend a week
with them, learning. Lockbridge Pottery was in a remote part of West Virginia. I
looked it up: a dot on the map, lost in vast washes of green and blue: lakes,
mountains, gorges, and white water rivers. It was miles from an airport or train
station; there were no taxis or hotels.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I never lock myself into situations where there is no
escape route, even booking myself aisle seats on long flights so I don’t feel
trapped. In the weeks leading up to the trip, I was battered by waves of panic.
What did I know of this potter-couple beyond scraps from the internet and their
emails? And though they were inviting me into their home, what did they know of
me? This was not just high risk, it was lunacy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I climbed into a train on a chilly September dawn at New
York’s Penn Station, and started the long journey south. A mountainous,
wheezing man in the next row of seats vacuumed up packet after packet of crunchies
and watched reruns of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friends</i> on his
notebook. We went past Washington DC, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and soon my
world of known place-names was gone. As morning turned to afternoon, we passed
Alexandria, Culpeper and Clifton Forge. I had never heard of them. In the
dining car, two men in Amtrak uniforms sat inhaling the scent of microwaved hot
dogs, exchanging slow, rambling stories broken by guffaws. The hills and trees outside
made you want to walk into the Blue Ridge Mountains, wander the trails, sit
below an autumnal beech tree. There were tiny streets with level crossings, and
at one of them, an elderly, bare-bodied man stood below a flag, waving at us,
beaming like a child. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After ten and a half hours, I got off with my suitcase
at White Sulphur Springs and looked around for the people I only knew from emails.
Some reckless mutual leap of faith had led to this moment: two American potters
waiting at a tiny station in the Appalachians for a stranger from a small town
in the Indian Himalaya.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was a picture-perfect autumn evening. The sunset
coated everything with honey.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">** </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Early in our correspondence, Jeff had sent me a film about a friend of
his, a master potter from Korea, Kang Hyo Lee. In the film, Kang Hyo
spoke of his crisis of faith, a time when he had felt utterly adrift,
and left home for several months to meditate and reason it out. After a
period of hard thinking came a sense of the elusive truth: “In the past,
I thought the important things were far away from me. So I worked hard
and thought hard every day in order to get to those important things.
But I realised these things were actually close by.” </span><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When you look at the first half of Jeff’s career and compare it to his
present, you wonder if such a moment of epiphany came to him too. He has
had shows in Korea, at the Smithsonian’s Renwick Gallery in Washington
DC, and taught students in Germany, China, Korea, and closer home. He
has won a shelf-full of awards. Yet now, though he still loves to learn
and teach, </span><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">he neither does shows away from home nor conducts
regular workshops. He has only ever taken on three or four apprentices over the
decades; he says he prefers working alone.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Alone at Lockbridge, for certain kinds of people, means
really alone. The state votes overwhelmingly Republican and, in a dramatic landscape
of forests turning red and yellow, gorges, rivers, ancient cliffs and glassy
lakes, there seem to be almost more churches than homes—sometimes two little churches
face each other across a narrow road. In the undulating forested land, where
herds of cows graze the slopes, far-flung houses with pillars and porches recall
an older era of leisure but are often dilapidated or abandoned. The state has
the highest rate in the US of drug overdose deaths involving opioids. The only African-American
I met during my week there, a woman, confided to the Diehls about the
discrimination she and her mixed-race son battled regularly. From whatever you
read of West Virginia it appears that money is short, and prejudices abound.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How, in this
situation, do you survive as </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">an artist open
to other cultures and races, a potter who </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">refuses the
conventional route of galleries and art shows?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Diehls have
surrounded themselves with a like-minded </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">community of artistic people—I met an artisanal baker,
a painter, a carpenter who builds boats by fashioning wood exquisitely by hand.
They are willing to drive long distances to each other’s art events, sales, book
readings. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">People turn up at Lockbridge from other towns to
attend and help out at quarterly shows. There was a laidback warmth and a lot
of joking around among those I met, and at homes I visited, they showed off
their collections of Diehl pots. Selling pots within this small radius means
constant reinvention. Yet the sense of excitement has never left Jeff. “Clay is
a fantastic material,” he says. “With every touch, the clay responds. I want
my pots to be vigorous and spontaneous, to be functional, reliable, and
beautiful. I hope to make work of lasting value. I don’t want my name on
anything flawed.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I saw what he
meant by this at the end of my week there. He had opened the just-fired kiln
and found on close examination that some of his painstakingly made platters had
developed bumps during the firing. Through the iridescent shimmer of the
crystalline glaze, the bumps were barely noticeable to me. They had not been
out of the kiln ten minutes when he took a hammer to them. Writers are often instructed
to “kill their darlings”, but it doesn’t happen quite so physically, nor to a
soundtrack of shattering porcelain. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In many ways, Jeff is an anachronism—an outlier
recalling an earlier age of humility and anonymity. Where self-promoting,
pretentious explanations are the norm among artists displaying their ceramics,
he prefers describing himself as a potter who makes things he wants people to
use and enjoy. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As he explained the intricacies of form and function,
I understood the fundamentals of what Soetsu Yanagi said about the beauty of ordinary,
everyday objects. “Things that are used on a daily basis must stand the test of
reality,” Yanagi wrote. “The sole purpose of these objects is to serve people’s
needs … they are rooted in the earth, deeply tied to the earthly life of
honest, hardworking people… [yet] the world of utility and beauty are not
separate realms. Who is to say that spirit and matter are not one?”</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">**</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Diehls live in an old
schoolhouse they converted into a home thirty-nine years ago. The schoolhouse
stands in seventy acres of woodland, a part of which has been cleared to allow
for a garden and a pond. Lucy the Dog likes wading in the pond, splashing about
among the pink water lilies and exchanging notes with two decoy ducks that
float on the water. The house still has an old blackboard, a few school
cabinets. The supporting pillars of the porch are four big pencils fashioned from
wood by their carpenter friend.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The studio is a
light, airy space just off the kitchen, over which Sweetpea the Cat presided in
lofty solitude. Lucy and her next-door buddy, a lumbering black dog called Sam,
wandered in and out of the work room looking for muddy love, massive tails
swaying dangerously close to the pots. Donna came in to advise, mix glazes, or
urge Jeff to give me time off. Her own hand-built platters were what we ate our
meals off. Her tiles, each with a half-spiral design, punctuated the bathroom
floors. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Beyond the main
workroom was a fireproofed hall with a gas kiln and two electric kilns in which
Jeff fires most of his pots, including his ethereal acoustic pots with
crystalline glazes. The patterns on these pots, Jeff is certain, are formed in
part by sound waves created by the music he plays while firing them. There were
two other room-sized structures in the garden: a wood kiln and a salt kiln.
There was a tandoor there too—a baby kiln in a manner of speaking—and one
evening, their friends gathered around it to eat naan and kababs and play
badminton in the light of halogen lamps. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The day I arrived,
I had walked into the sunlit garden to find trees heavy with apples and pears.
Plump tomatoes grew in abundance on trellises among corn and squash. Inside,
shelves from floor to ceiling were stacked with bowls, jugs, and pitchers. One
of Kang Hyo’s Ongii jars stood in the living room, cavernous enough to peer
into, as if it were a well. Platters studded the house like giant buttons. There
was an etching by Bernard Leach, and also a treadle wheel christened by his
son, David. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">David Leach appears
to have had a profound influence on Jeff. One reason could be that Jeff too comes
from a family of potters. His grandfather was a potter in New Jersey, his
great-grandfather a potter in Germany. Sometime in the 1970s, he went to
apprentice there at a studio not far from where his great-grandfather had
worked. It was a harsh, exacting apprenticeship. “The master came to my wheel
where I had thrown about ten cups. They were of different heights and he asked
sarcastically if I was making cups or organ pipes. He threw my board of pots to
the floor. After that I was more consistent.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Stories such as
these, told with deadpan humour, were a constant as Jeff taught me specific
techniques even as he spun out pot after pot at a speed that felt like sleight
of hand. Renowned potters, dead and alive, were palpable presences in the
studio: Val Cushing, Hamada Shoji, David Leach, Phil Rogers, Kang Hyo Lee. When
demonstrating the finer points of throwing, trimming and glazing, Jeff would
recall principles these potters had passed on to him and which he in turn was
passing on to me.“There is an active exchange between potters sharing
techniques and formulae, always trying to improve their pots,” he said. Just a
few hours into working with him, I felt as if I was going through a process of
immense un-learning that would fundamentally alter how I made everything in the
future.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">**</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One day we went to visit a friend of
the Diehls, the potter Marcia Springston-Dillon. Blind from birth, Marcia could
unerringly tell which pot was flawed or badly glazed. Her fingers did the work.
All the pots she sells from a little shop adjoining her house have prices
marked in Braille. Her kiln speaks out its temperature when she presses a
switch.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At dusk Marcia
took us to her barn to meet her three dressage-trained horses, whom she rides
at competitions. By touch alone, she unbuckled their blankets, fed them and let
them loose for the night onto the slopes. A full moon rose over the surrounding
trees as the horses snuffled and snorted, out of sight. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That night, before
Marcia served food in platters she had made, Jeff examined them, flipping them
over, running his fingers over surfaces, commenting on the glazes. It was after
all the work of a fellow-potter, who like him, worked to turn clay into
ordinary objects of extraordinary beauty.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><style>@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}@font-face
{font-family:"Cambria Math";
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-unhide:no;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0cm;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}.MsoChpDefault
{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}</style></span></div><style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-unhide:no;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0cm;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
.MsoChpDefault
{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}size:612.0pt 792.0pt;
margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt;
mso-header-margin:36.0pt;
mso-footer-margin:36.0pt;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}</style></div>
nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2753784374264713682.post-73230128250654071482020-01-18T14:38:00.001+05:302020-01-19T14:45:59.850+05:30AN AWARD FOR CONTRIBUTION TO INDIAN LITERATURE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> The Nilimarani Sahitya Samman 2020 for contribution to Indian Literature was instituted by the Odisha's prominent cultural magazine Kadambini. It was given last year to Odiya writer Manoj Das. To receive recognition for my work from writers and editors in Odisha, which has a remarkable literature of its own, </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">was a great honour. The ceremony took place on 5th January in Bhubaneshwar, at a literature festival for local magazines that is run by Kadambini. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fNsNbnXf6JzxIXH2yEx4Wj8U7fH09TJP-wNncQTiqkd28GK0Wy8qw4v64ifaiil0ePiIiLRt9V19NOOm-fQTBNmDOpw08MnhVIGQtsg57DdXAPuIGfRmue1GQ3ttCWW_UnHiNsfNoLUl/s1600/nilima.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="441" height="539" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8fNsNbnXf6JzxIXH2yEx4Wj8U7fH09TJP-wNncQTiqkd28GK0Wy8qw4v64ifaiil0ePiIiLRt9V19NOOm-fQTBNmDOpw08MnhVIGQtsg57DdXAPuIGfRmue1GQ3ttCWW_UnHiNsfNoLUl/s640/nilima.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqZQi0p8-s2bj2cHhLhFeSNyS3kqP6JQ4RAitkcbwoU3g1wkvV5v7ojoztMcnTXFjf5hl6ZStKNIJEdNVtu4XRlNAP1s4HTw4FpLG_oy3R_1xaqX8u-zi8ZZ-cD2e7iKoBChG1PKRHqjrR/s1600/KLF2-768x512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="768" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqZQi0p8-s2bj2cHhLhFeSNyS3kqP6JQ4RAitkcbwoU3g1wkvV5v7ojoztMcnTXFjf5hl6ZStKNIJEdNVtu4XRlNAP1s4HTw4FpLG_oy3R_1xaqX8u-zi8ZZ-cD2e7iKoBChG1PKRHqjrR/s640/KLF2-768x512.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(left to right) Achyuta Samanta, MP; Rahul Dev, journalist; Haraprasad Das, writer; Santanu Kumar Archarya, writer; Salman
Khursheed, former foreign minister: Rajat Kapoor, theatre director;
Mridula Garg, writer; Itirani Samanta, writer and editor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Ever since I’ve come back
from Bhubaneshwar I haven’t stopped telling people about the remarkable work
that is being done by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kadambini</i> and the Kalinga Institute of Social Sciences, which is another arm of the organisation. It was wonderful to experience the vibrant literary atmosphere at
the festival, and to see thousands of tribal children at classes and games at the Kalinga Institute
of Social Sciences. While the monthly magazine is edited by the writer Itirani Samanta, her brother, M.P.
Mr Achyuta Samanta is behind the educational initiative for tribal children. I saw extensive grounds, classrooms, sports facilities, vocational training areas, dormitories, modern kitchens and a bakery at which the most delicious rolls and biscuits were being made.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimopBMorkkJoD-QFkTGbUrnikL3rdGZ1s0wWQpmpajWDtBdHR47ouPc8o06G3M_lGD0j53E4reXebd93ntElSYCpSWDBLKH4e2D7FmHGxanx0JiUOeVtdVy6VXR7IPfJQDxQoDnt9Xj-op/s1600/20200104_190153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="1175" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimopBMorkkJoD-QFkTGbUrnikL3rdGZ1s0wWQpmpajWDtBdHR47ouPc8o06G3M_lGD0j53E4reXebd93ntElSYCpSWDBLKH4e2D7FmHGxanx0JiUOeVtdVy6VXR7IPfJQDxQoDnt9Xj-op/s640/20200104_190153.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After school wandering in the grounds</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89MFwAWpoSoLJR0e1JghmMGF4xa7FatW78qBEUP3ImxvNJkHd4yyknK0h8TTy_X4qayiRDHn44Mj_SsYWV0B1IGEDS56VjpqOeTBvKcbwej7V8yWYt400hUhXVE8txPbMm-msL389LyUT/s1600/20200104_165145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89MFwAWpoSoLJR0e1JghmMGF4xa7FatW78qBEUP3ImxvNJkHd4yyknK0h8TTy_X4qayiRDHn44Mj_SsYWV0B1IGEDS56VjpqOeTBvKcbwej7V8yWYt400hUhXVE8txPbMm-msL389LyUT/s640/20200104_165145.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panel describing some of the main tribes in Odisha</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3VNtXF8GmHI80KDB_wnMsd6s-e_WRLAfmlldWqn-D5kv4pLF-YKT2y0hqhJqnwaKbyTcn9w1YqVmq1Hi260daU_KDa5r4sZBn5a49_uKHAInaHIAPcdEVnFwHQPIC5jB9wYpU36eEQ5q/s1600/20200104_190041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1447" data-original-width="1600" height="578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3VNtXF8GmHI80KDB_wnMsd6s-e_WRLAfmlldWqn-D5kv4pLF-YKT2y0hqhJqnwaKbyTcn9w1YqVmq1Hi260daU_KDa5r4sZBn5a49_uKHAInaHIAPcdEVnFwHQPIC5jB9wYpU36eEQ5q/s640/20200104_190041.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Their classes had just ended</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-font-charset:78;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:"Cambria Math";
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:-536870145 1107305727 0 0 415 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:-536870145 1073743103 0 0 415 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-unhide:no;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0cm;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
.MsoChpDefault
{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}size:595.0pt 842.0pt;
margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt;
mso-header-margin:35.4pt;
mso-footer-margin:35.4pt;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}</style></div>
nurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11845381966550403635noreply@blogger.com