DAVID FOSTER WALLACE

My pain and sorrow none can dispel

My pain and sorrow none, I fear me, can dispel;

That you have cast me off I know, my love, too well.

And yet I am, in truth, reluctant to complain,

For though you flee from me, you flee, my love, in vain.

I feel that you are near no matter where you are;

Your lovely image sears my spirit from afar.

And should I early die of love, of love and grief,

At least, sweet love, my life would have been full if brief. 

That 'tis for love alone, as I have wished, I live,

My warm and humble thanks to Heaven do I give.

My love for you is fierce, it turns my heart to flame;

I fear lest all of me the fires of passion claim.

One wish was ever mine - to love you unto death;

If this be not the truth, embrace my soul, o death!

        Translated by Irina Zheleznova 

(From AZERBAIJANIAN POETRY, Progress Publishers, Moscow)

Kishalay Sinha [G] 

Chee, chee, chee 

'Chee, chee, chee,' lamented Radhey Radhey Kumar, seventy-four years old. 'The nation has gone to the dogs.' He was critical once again, as he was nearly every day, of the younger specimen of the female species his eyes fell on, as he gazed out of his office window at the All Saints Women's College, just across the road.

'Such tight, tight jeans,' he criticized. So tight, that if he looked hard enough, he could see the outline of their underwear. 'Not that I would ever look so hard,' he assured himself. 'And such tight T-shirts. Goodness me, they may as well not even wear them. But in my days... ah in my days, women knew how to dress, how to walk, how to talk. But now, it was all sex, sex and nothing else.' Or so he had heard. 'How times have changed,' he sighed.

(From ANURAG MATHUR: "THE COUNTRY IS GOING TO THE DOGS", RUPA, ₹ 195)

Kishalay Sinha [G] Sun April 5, 2020 

ETERNITY 

"We're ready. Start running." I don't move. "Let's go. Start running. We have to jump now." As I no longer have free will, I follow orders. I start running toward the void. "Faster." I go faster, my boots kicking snow in all directions. I start to scream. I've gone back to being a cave woman. We're afraid of spiders and insects, and we scream in situations like this. We've always screamed. Suddenly my feet lift off the ground. I stop screaming. The wind is controlling our lives. I open my eyes. And what I see, what I feel, is something I will never be able to accurately describe. Down below ... the two lakes ...the town between them... I'm flying, free in space. Ahead of us is an eagle, sailing the same ocean and effortlessly using its wings to control its mysterious flight. Where does it want to go? Is it just having fun, enjoying life and the beauty all around it? It feels like I'm communicating with the eagle by telepathy. Show us where we need to go to climb increasingly skyward - to fly forever. And the eagle tells me: "Come. You are heaven and earth, the wind and the clouds, the snow and the lakes." It seems like I am in my mother's womb, completely safe and protected and experiencing things for the first time. Soon I will be born, and I will turn back into a human being. I'm free. Yes, I'm free. And the eagle is right: I am the mountains and the lakes. I have no past, present, or future. I am getting to know what people call "Eternity." I'm floating in Eternity. The mountain tells me: "You have my strength." The lakes tell me: "You have my peace and my calm." The sun tells me: "Shine like me, go beyond yourself. Listen." I start to hear the voices that have been stifled inside for so long, stifled by haunting thoughts, by loneliness, by night terrors, the fear of change and the fear that everything will stay the same. The higher we go, the further I distance myself from me. I'm in another world where things fall perfectly into place. The eagle begins to turn toward the valley. With open arms I mimic the movement of its wings. I'm in another world. And the eagle tells me: "This is Eternity." In Eternity, we don't exist; we are just an instrument of the Hand that created the mountains, the snow, the lakes, and the sun. I go back in time and ddspace to the moment when everything is created. I want to serve this Hand. My heart fills every corner of the universe. My heart! Before I saw a gigantic universe around me, and now the universe seems like a little dot within my heart that has infinitely expanded, like space. Power. The feeling of Eternity gives me a mysterious feeling of power. I can do anything, even end world suffering. I am flying and talking with the angels, hearing voices and revelations that are as real as the eagle before me. I bow to my gigantic heart filled with light and power, which can encompass everything that has already happened and what will happen from now until the end of time. For the first time I hear something: dogs barking. We are nearing the ground and reality begins to return. In a moment I will be stepping on the planet where I live, but in my heart I have experienced all the planets and all the suns, which was greater than anything. I want to stay in this state, but my thoughts are returning. I see our hotel. The lakes are already hidden by the forests and small hills. My God, can't I stay this way forever? "You cannot," says the eagle, who led us to the park where we will land shortly, and who now bids us farewell because it has found a new stream of warm air. It climbs up again effortlessly, without batting its wings, and controls the wind with its feathers. "If you stayed this way forever, you couldn't live in this world," it says. So what? I begin to argue with the eagle. How will I live in this world after having gone through what I did in Eternity? "Find a way," replies the eagle, almost inaudibly. Then it departs - forever - from my life. My feet hit the ground. I gaze at the sky. I realize that I am crying. "Are you all right?" I nod yes. I don't know if he understands what I experienced up there. Yes, he understands. I thank him for his comforting words. I would like to explain that I never wanted what I experienced up there to end. But it's over. I walk away to sit on one of the park benches and wait for my husband. I can't stop crying. He lands, approaches me with a big grin, and says it was a fantastic experience. I keep crying. He hugs me, says it's all over now, and that he shouldn't have made me do something I didn't want to. It's not that at all, I say. Just leave me alone, please. I'll be fine in a little while... my every move brings me back to a different world, the one we call the "real" world, the one where I don't want to be at all. But I have no choice. The only thing I can do is ask my husband to leave me alone for a while. I sit there for half an hour, crying. Tears of bliss that wash my soul. Finally, I realize that it is time to return to the hotel for good. I get up. We go to the hotel... The only thing that changes us is love. While I was in the air, I understood that my love for life, for the universe [= God], was more powerful than anything. (p. 273-282)

If you've just emerged from hell, you don't want to know what life is like down there right now. (p...) [Source: "Adultery - Paulo Cielo - Best quotes [Linda 9:03-9:16]" (10:35)/La vache rose (YouTube)

(From Paulo Coelho: ADULTERY, translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa and Zoe Perry)

I have lots of Paulo Coelho novels.

ADULTERY story seems to Me to be a real life story told by Eve about her meeting God.

Kishalay Sinha [G] 

Fallen [female] angel talks of hell's torment (18:20)/Prophets Among Us (YouTube)

Anaina is grilled by "pastor"/Satan.

ALIENS HAVE COME FOR MODI 

I think aliens have come to India in search of Modi in UNREAL ALIENS (Penguin Books).

Kishalay Sinha [G] Sun April 5, 2020 

ADULTERY 

Paulo Coelho: ADULTERY, Translated from the Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa and Zoe Perry, RANDOM HOUSE INDIA 

I turn out the light. My husband brings me some Valium. I've always refused to take any medicine because I'm afraid of becoming dependent, but I need to be in top form tomorrow. I take a ten-milligram pill and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. I don't wake up all night... I see him arrive. My heart may be pounding furiously, but I must keep cool. I'm thinking about what words to use. As I walk, I feel as if I were entering a tunnel I've never traveled before, one that leads from cynicism to passion, from irony to surrender. What is he thinking as he watches me? Do I need to explain that "if Evil exists, it's to be found in our fears?" I keep thinking about what I should say. No, best not to think and just let the words flow naturally. They are inside me. A few more steps, a few more fallen barriers. At first, he'll be defensive, wanting to know about that photo taken in the park [Garden of Eden]. We will talk about the possibility of life on other planets and the presence of God, so often forgotten in the lives we lead. Only a few more feet. The walls have all fallen. I have just been reborn... Then I tell him about the aquarium I saw. Inside it was a fish, swimming round and round, and I said to myself: He can't remember where he began, and he will never reach the end. That's why we like fish in aquariums; they remind us of ourselves, well fed but incapable of moving beyond the glass walls. Then I realize that I've been talking for a very long time in a trance without giving him a chance to express his feelings. What would he like to talk about? "About that photo [of the Garden of Eden] you mentioned," he says cautiously, because he's noticed that I'm in a particularly sensitive mood. Ah, the photo [of the Garden of Eden]. Of course it exists. It's engraved on my heart and will be erased only when God chooses. But come in and see with your own eyes, because the barriers protecting my heart fell away as I was walking toward you. Now, don't tell me you don't know the way, because you've entered several times before, in the past and the present. Yes, I understand that you might be reluctant. We're the same, you and I. Don't worry, I'll lead you there. After I have said all this, he delicately takes my hand, smiles, and then sticks in a knife: "We're not teenagers anymore. You're a wonderful person and, as I understand, have a lovely family. Have you considered marriage counseling?" For a moment, I feel disoriented. Then I get up and walk straight to my car. No tears. No good-byes. No looking back. I feel nothing. I think nothing. I get straight into my car and drive, not knowing exactly where I should go. No one is waiting for me at the end of the journey. I need to drag myself onward. Five minutes later, I'm outside a castle [Garden of Eden]. I know what happened here; someone [Satan] breathed life into a monster [NL] that remains famous [infamous] to this day, although few people [all] know the name of the woman [Mary aka Margaret aka Elizabeth aka Eva Braun aka ad infinitum] who created him [monster NL]. The gate into the garden [Garden of Eden] is closed, but so what? I can climb through the hedge. (p. 109-117)

Mary (p. 118) 

The title of the book: Frankenstein (p. 119)

Dear God, of whom I think very little but in whom I trust, did I come here [Earth] purely by chance? Or was it Your invisible and implacable hand that led me to this castle [Earth] and reminded me of that story [of Mary's creation of Frankenstein]? (p. 119)

I am not Mary Shelley. I'm Victor Frankenstein and his monster. I tried to breathe life into something [NL] inanimate. No more tears. No more despair. I feel as though my heart has given up beating... Where is the lightning bolt that brought the monster to life? No bolt from out of the blue. My children will be waiting for their dinner, and my husband - who knows the state I'm in - will soon start to worry. But it's as if I have a ball and chain around my feet. I still can't move. I'm a loser. Should someone beg forgiveness for harboring an impossible love? No, certainly not. Because God's love for us is also impossible. Why is Love more important than Faith? Because Faith is merely the road that leads us to the Greater Love. (p. 120-121)

I love my husband, who always supports me. I think I also love another man, who I met in my youth. And while I was walking toward him, one lovely autumn afternoon, I dropped all my defenses and cannot rebuild them. I'm vulnerable, but I don't regret that. (p. 124)

So what do I need to concentrate on? On undoing his marriage without him realizing it. (p. 125)

(From Paulo Coelho: "Adultery")

Reads like the incoherent speech of a female patient in delirium. Written in stream-of-consciousness style of Virginia Woolf, Dostoevsky, James Joyce et al.

"Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought." - Shelley (poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, wrote famous poem OZYMANDIAS)

Adultery is a hugely popular subject.

Kishalay Sinha [G] Sun April 5, 2020 

Sita's torture in hell  

Like Eve and her many clones, Sita's kidnapping and rape was fake drama planned in advance by Nazis acting together, and her enforced marital infidelity was used as an excuse to take her to underground Nazi hell where she was raped and tortured and murdered and revived again and again and tortured endlessly. Nazis have perpetrated brutal violence on helpless girls and women on earth and inside earth for billions of years but have suppressed the spreading of horrifying news of Nazi brutality. God has watched Nazi brutality for billions of years. Soon, evil Nazis will become extinct.

Kishalay Sinha [G] April 5, 2020 

MISTRESSES 

Suddenly, s. females are thinking of themselves as future mistresses of God.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

King Solomon and Queen of Sheba 

Gift of the Magi by O. Henry - Short Story (15:00)/pressmin (YouTube)

Film adaptation of the famous short story by O. Henry.

In this moving story, King Solomon [Peter] and Queen of Sheba [Magi] are mentioned. (This short story is no. 53 in "Great Works of O. Henry", BLACK ROSE PUBLICATIONS, Delhi, Rs. 195.) I wonder if Magi is actually a metaphor for a pr. Compare "Mag" in Magi to Mary MAGdalene, a very famous weeping pr. in the Bible. In Bengali, the word মাগী - Magi - is a vulgar term of abuse.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

WikiLeaks EXPLOSIONS 

WikiLeaks will soon cause terrifying violent explosions that will paralyse Nazis in every country.

Kishalay Sinha [G] April 5, 2020 

Nazi bosses 

Top male and female Nazi bosses and all their clones hiding in every country and inside earth are under continuous surveillance. None can escape.

Kishalay Sinha [G] April 5, 2020 

INTERESTING OBSERVATION 

A.J. goes upstairs for a bottle of wine.

When he gets back downstairs, Maya is sitting on Leon Friedman's knee.

'I like The Late Bloomer,' Maya is saying, 'but I'm not sure I'm the intended audience.'

'Oh ho ho, that is a very interesting observation, little girl,' Leon Friedman replies.

'I make many of them. The only other writer I know is Daniel Parish. Do you know him?'

'Not sure that I do.'

Maya sighs. 'You are harder to talk to than Daniel Parish. What is your favourite book?'

'Don't know that I have one.'

A.J. claims his daughter from Friedman's lap and gives him a glass of wine in exchange. 'Thank you kindly,' Friedman says.

(p. 134)

(From Gabrielle Zevin: "The Collected Works of A.J. Fikry", Little, Brown.)

My surname Sinha is a stylized form of Singha or Singh which means lion.

The character Leon Friedman's first name Leon sounds like Lion. Hence...

Kishalay Sinha [G] 

AN ECCENTRIC AUTHOR 

'Would you mind terribly signing some stock for the store before the reading?' A.J. leads Friedman to the back where he sets him up with a carton of paperback books and a pen. Friedman is about to sign his name on the cover of the book when A.J. stops him. 'We usually have the authors sign on the title page if that's fine with you.'

'Sorry,' Friedman replies, 'I'm new to this.'

'Not at all,' A.J. says.

'Would you mind telling me what kind of show you'd like me to put on out there?'

'Right,' A.J. says. 'I'll say a couple of words about you and then I thought you could introduce the book, say what inspired you to write it and such, then you could maybe read a couple of pages and then perhaps a Q and A with the audience, if there's time. Also, we're having a hat contest in honour of the book, and we'd be honoured if you'd pick the winner.'

'Sounds fantastico,' Friedman says. 'Friedman. F-R-I-E-D-M-A-N,' he says as he signs. 'Easy to forget that I.'

'Is it?' A.J. asks.

'Should be a second E there, no?'

Authors are eccentric people so A.J. decides to let this pass. 'You seem comfortable with children,' A.J. says.

'Yeah ... I often play Santa Claus at the local Macy's at Christmas.'

'Really? That's unusual.'

'I've got a knack for it, I suppose.'

'I mean - ' A.J. pauses, trying to decide if what he is about to say will offend Friedman. 'I only mean because you're Jewish.'

'Righto.'

'You make a big point of it in your book. Lapsed Jewish. Is that the correct way of saying it?'

'You can say it any way you want,' Friedman says. 'Say, do you have anything harder than wine?' 

(p. 134-136)

(From Gabrielle Zevin: "The Collected Works of A.J. Fikry", Little, Brown.) 

Kishalay Sinha [G] 

BOOKSTORES 

In the past few days, I have watched lots of YouTube videos on American bookstores and booksellers and the strong impression I have gained as a result is that American bookstores - called "independent bookstores" or "indie bookstores", I think - are not very profitable business. I have been puzzling over the probable reasons. As far as I know, INDIAN booksellers receive from publishers quite a good percentage of the printed prices of

all books sold. Is that not the case in America also?... I have noticed that American bookstores seem to keep only HARDBOUND copies which are very costly and therefore discourage customers from buying books they want to buy. If books are published in inexpensive paperback editions, there would be a massive increase in the sale of all types of books for all types of readers. This would be a WIN WIN SITUATION for publishers, authors, bookstores, and customers. Indian bookstores are flooded with low cost paperbacks on all subjects published by enterprising Indian and foreign publishers. I am certain that American bookstores can be full of inexpensive paperback editions, to the benefit of everyone connected with books. Expensive hardbound books can be sold to libraries.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

SYSTEMATIC PLAN 

I am sure that the strange fact that American bookstores can only sell very costly hardbound books which the American reading public cannot afford to buy must be a systematic Nazi scheme to prevent educated Americans from buying inexpensive paperbacks for their own personal libraries. 

Cf. Susan Orlean, "The Library Book" (54:36)/Politics and Prose/Simon & Schuster (YouTube).

Susan Orlean's book "The Library Book" is a product of her research into the mysterious fire in 1986 that burned the big Los Angeles public library; 400,000 books of the library were burned by the inferno, the largest library fire in the history of the United States, considered to be a CRIMINAL case of ARSON. 

She seems to be an advocate of big American publishers and American "public" libraries. Or perhaps she is not. She is puzzled by the fact that such a big fire was not reported in The New York Times of New York where she lived at that time. She had not even heard of the huge fire. Ms. Susan Orlean hardly looks like a detective capable of solving a big mystery.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

INFINITE JEST 

A.J. does not yet want to face his family at home so he calls Lambiase, and the two of them meet at the bar.

'Tell me a good cop story,' A.J. says.

'Like a story about a good cop or a story that is interesting involving police officers?'

'Either one. It's up to you. I want to hear something amusing that will distract me from my problems.'

'What problems do you have? Perfect wife. Perfect kid. Good business.'

'I'll tell you after.'

Lambiase nods. 'Okay. Let me think. Maybe fifteen years ago, there was this kid, goes to Alicetown. He hasn't been to school for a month. Every day, he tells his parents he'll go, and every day, he doesn't show up. Even if they leave him there, he sneaks out and goes somewhere else.'

'Where's he going?'

'Right. The parents think he must be in some serious trouble. He's a tough kid, hangs with a tough crowd. They all get bad grades and wear low pants. His parents run a food stand at the beach, so there isn't much money. Anyhow, the parents are at their wits' end, so I decide to follow the kid the whole day. The kid goes to school, and then between period one and two, he just leaves. I'm trailing behind him, and finally we get to a building I've never been into before. I'm on Main and Parker. You know where I am?'

'That's the library.'

'Bingo. You know I never read much back then. So I follow him up the stairs and into a library carrel in the back and I'm thinking, he's probably going to do drugs or something there. Perfect place, right? Isolated. But you know what he's got?'

'Books, I'd imagine. That's the obvious thing, right?'

'He's got one thick book. He's in the middle of Infinite Jest. You ever heard of it?'

'Now you're making this up.'

'The boy is reading Infinite Jest. He says he can't do it at home because his buddies will make fun of him. So he skips school to go read in peace. The book takes a lot of concentrating. "Listen, hombre," he says, "there's nothing for me at school. Everything's in this book.'''

'I take it he's Latino, by your use of the word hombre. A lot of Hispanic people on Alice Island?'

'A few.'

'So what do you do?'

'I haul his ass back to school. The principal asks me how the kid should be punished. I ask the kid how long he thinks it'll take him to finish the book. He says, "About two weeks." And so I recommend they give him a two-week suspension for delinquency.'

'You're definitely making this up,' A.J. says. 'Admit it. The troubled youth was not skipping school to read Infinite Jest.'

'He was, A.J. I swear to God.' But then Lambiase bursts out laughing. 'You seemed depressed. I wanted to tell you a story with a little uplift.'

'Thanks. Thanks very much.'

(p. 213-215)

- Gabrielle Zevin: "The Collected Works of A.J. Fikry", Little, Brown.

Infinite Jest = online writings of God?

Kishalay Sinha [G]

Gabrielle Zevin

'Who the hell are you?' A.J. asks the baby.

For no apparent reason, she stops crying and smiles at him.

'Maya,' she answers.

That was easy, A.J. thinks.

'How old are you?' he asks.

Maya holds up two fingers.

'You're two?'

Maya smiles again and holds up her arms to him.

Praise for Gabrielle Zevin

'Zevin's touch is marvellously light even as she considers profundities, easily moving among humour, wisdom and lyricism ... No plot synopsis can convey what a rich, wise spell this book casts'

   - New York Times Book Review 

'Heartbreaking, without being mawkish, philosophical without being pretentious and so convincing you find yourself wanting to read the book backwards when you've finished'

  - Sunday Telegraph 

'Delightful. I read [it] in one sitting.'

  - Eowyn Ivey, author of The Snow Child 

[Eowyn reminds Me of Eoin Colfer, author of ARTEMIS FOWL young adult series about young criminal mastermind Artemis Fowl - Eoin is pronounced Owen! I don't know how Eowyn is pronounced! - G] 

(On the covers of Gabrielle Zevin: "The Collected Works of A.J. Fikry", Little, Brown)

Kishalay Sinha [G] 

The Open Window 

I am reminded of Saki's very famous and charming short story "The Open Window" as I listen to the five literary panelists holding a very interesting discussion on David Foster Wallace: "Reading David Foster Wallace - The New Yorker Festival - The New Yorker" (1:30:57)/The New Yorker (YouTube)

I find mutual female jealousy a very lovable trait of females competing for His attention whereas the sad and glad truth is that He regards all s. females as equal, all s. females having the same v. Level playing field (cliché). "Jealousy is a proof of love." Is it? "Unrequited love is sweetest." Is it really? "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." Does it?

Kishalay Sinha [G] 

The "Happy" Fish 

A fish got caught upon a hook,

So to get free again,

It turned and twisted, leapt and shook,

But all - alas! - in vain.

Another fish came swimming by

And saw the sorry sight.

"O me, o my!" that fish did cry,

"She's dancing with delight!"

   Translated by Dorian Rottenberg 

***

If you hear bad words about somebody else 

Do not pass them on, do not ring all the bells.

It is easy to ruin another's home,

But it's harder by far to build stone upon stone.

***

Can a man fall in love with a woman? He can:

None will accuse him - he won't have to quarrel.

If a woman, though, falls in love with a man 

The world is against her and calls her immoral.

***

A scholarly man addressed me one day,

"What do you think of the Shah, please say?

Is his mind as broad as his brow appears?

Is his heart big? How does he hear with his ears?"

"He is a man just like all the rest,

Like us in a gown and turban dressed,

But he knows that people are cowards and fools 

And that is the secret whereby he rules."

(From AZERBAIJANIAN POETRY, Progress Publishers, Moscow)

Kishalay Sinha [G]  

SHORT STORY 

The thing I find most promising about your short story is that it shows empathy. Why do people do what they do? This is the hallmark of great writing.

(p. 177)

(From Gabrielle Zevin: "The Collected Works of A.J. Fikry", Little, Brown.)

Kishalay Sinha [G] 

INDIAN WOMAN EATER 

Mimi's father was a writer too. On the surface of it he had had an exciting career. He had left India at sixteen - long before Independence - and arrived in England, working as a cook's boy on a ship. Then he had taught himself English, put in time with numerous local papers and had learnt the journalist's craft from the stone to the editorial chair, the hard way up. There weren't too many Indians floating around in Britain in those days; those who were there were mostly students from upper-class families and were treated with respect and awe - 'Never know, he might be the son of a maharajah' - by the populace. Mimi's father climbed the social ladder fast; his burning eyes set in a dark handsome face more than endeared him to hostesses at elite dinner parties. By the time he was in his mid-twenties, Mimi's father was well known in London as a crusading journalist and engaging raconteur. Then Time magazine offered him the post of 'European Correspondent'. He accepted, fervent patriotic feelings about his 'dear India' notwithstanding. He had arrived.

Publishers hunted him. He wrote several monographs on 'Socialism', 'Nationalism' and all the other innocuous isms that sold in the market place in those days. He also wrote travel books, having made several forays into dangerous and unheard of terrain - Greenland one winter, the Black Forest in the following summer. Expenses paid and photographer provided by Time magazine, of course.

He had married a Scottish singer, produced two lovely girls with alacrity and was about to settle down and enjoy the fruits of his labours when demon politics caught up with him. Having fought so valiantly for the 'cause' in self-imposed exile, Mimi's father rightly expected to be showered with medals and trophies on his return to 'dear India'. But the Goddess of Fortune had developed a taste for flirting with this Man of Destiny. More than ten years after the return of the exile, when I met him, he still had not found a job. His wife worked as a manageress in a small restaurant and Mimi's wages provided an important prop to the family finances.

It was all too bewildering for Papa. 'What happened? I came back to serve my country, to help build a "new India". Why don't they lay out the red carpet for me, provide me with an air-conditioned room from which I can direct the affairs of the nation? Delhi is too hot in the summer.' So he slept for most of the day, took the dog out for a walk in the afternoon and corrected and re-corrected the manuscript of his 'opus' through the rest of the evening. 

In fact there was a genuine odour of tragedy about this man. He was still handsome, no wrinkles on his face, no paunch or double chin to destroy the illusion of a tiger about to leap into action. The girls adored him, the missus sulked sullenly while doing the dishes. And Papa went on living an illusion, apparelled in dreams which all artists must know.

His last book came out some two months after I met Mimi. I got hold of a copy, read it and was appalled. The style was lumbering and leaden, the anecdotes as flat as unleavened bread. I could not understand why a British publisher had chosen to bring it out. There was something wrong somewhere. If the story of his life was true, if he had really made it from the ship's kitchen to the Time office, then it just couldn't be the same man who had sired this dismal tract. Of course, I was young then. I had not yet learnt that people do change, even writers; inspirations dry up, idealism and courage wither away.

The book created a problem. I had promised Mimi to review it in a weekly magazine in which I had begun to write. Yet I could not genuinely utter a single word of praise for a work which in my opinion should never have smelt the printer's ink. I knew too that it was important to Mimi; she was hoping that it would revive the family fortunes, pull Papa out of his well of depression and self-pity. What do you do in a situation like that? Refuse to review the book? Or tell lies? Or worse still, say nothing at all, padding your comments with homilies and 'on-the-one-hand, on-the-other' phrases of puerile banality?

I began my review by saying that it was a readable book, if you were interested in the subject-matter, that is. The author had a lust for travel; the book was an attempt to record the sinuous track along which that lust had had to be guided. I qualified every single statement I made, neutralizing each phrase that might sound even vaguely complimentary with a thrust at the author's 'inability to capture mood, report dialogue which sounded authentic', etc.

The Friday on which the issue came out, I was nervous and taut. I did not want to lose Mimi and I knew that her father had a lot of influence over her. All morning I roamed around in the Statesman office, tense and touchy. In the afternoon Mimi was on the phone. She had just spoken to Papa; would I care to come over for dinner at their house that evening?

'Er ... er ... what does he think of the review?'

'Daddy said that you write very well and that it was a thoughtful analysis of the book. He is very pleased.'

From that day on, I have never doubted my capacity to deceive, to say one thing and mean another. Words can wear many masks - you can always keep a straight face and come out with the most outrageous things - if you know how to use them. Dinner that night established me firmly with Mimi. Her father approved.

(p. 76-79)

(From Sasthi Brata: "CONFESSIONS OF AN INDIAN WOMAN EATER"**, Penguin Books. It has a scandalous cover with pencil sketches of a nude male and a nude female on the book cover, which may be a clever ad ploy to attract sale of the book. I do not show it to others for this reason... 'I read his Confessions at one ten-hour session because I could not put it down' - Khushwant Singh)

** Is that a barb directed at A Guy like Me? By the way, it is obvious to Me that Sasthi Brata must be a pen name because sasthi brata ষষ্ঠী ব্রত is a very popular and amusing Bengali festival and CANNOT be the name of any Indian guy!

Kishalay Sinha কিশলয় সিনহা जी [G] 

EXPERIENCED PAKISTANI ADVISER 

One day, when I was a Ph.D. student at UIUC, I explored the UIUC campus and went inside an empty restaurant owned by a kind Pakistani guy. As I was partaking of a tasty meal (it was a tasty rice dish prepared by him, if I remember right), he came near Me and learning from Me that I was an Indian Who had only recently arrived in America, he took pity on Me (Who must have looked like innocent and ingenuous Prince Myshkin, the hero of Dostoevsky's novel "THE IDIOT") and gave Me free helpful advice out of the kindness of his heart: "When You want to fall in love, do not rush things with American girls but move step by step." How was that poor kind-hearted Pakistani restaurant owner to know that I was An Expert at eluding any honeytraps, Indian or foreign, no matter how sexy! (I have never told this interesting true story to anyone before.)

Kishalay Sinha [G]

LOVE (poem)

I wrote the following immature love poem for Dibrugarh University wall magazine many years ago when I was an M.Sc. student in the physics department of Dibrugarh University, Assam, India. I have slightly edited the original poem:

LOVE 

Love is listening to the silent wireless waves from your beloved.

Love is thinking about monogamy and polygamy and harem-building and celibacy.

Love is gazing at the star-filled sky and thinking of deep, eternal love.

Love is scoffing at Miss Worlds and Miss Universes.

Love is pretending you don't love!

Kishalay Sinha [G] 

DAVID FOSTER WALLACE 

I suspect that eccentric writer David Foster Wallace, purported author of "Infinite Jest" (Gabrielle Zevin: THE COLLECTED WORKS OF A.J. FIKRY, Little, Brown), is now being used as a synonym for Me by American fiction writers, literature professors, literary critics appearing on YouTube*, all of whom seem to have a hyperactive imagination very much like the little girl in Saki's short story THE OPEN WINDOW. 

* E.g. "Writers on Wallace" (53:24) /The University of Texas (YouTube)

I think what Gabrielle Zevin actually means by "The Collected Works of A.J. Fikr" are My fantastic/fantastico online writings posted on My Blogger blog.

Kishalay Sinha [G]