Latest reading

I’ve been trying hard, and failing, to read a book.

It’s not the first time. It doesn’t happen often, and so when it does happen, these books remain in my mind vivid, as the Sydney Opera House in June.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, One Hundred Years of Solitude, and a couple others.

Not that these books were complex in language, but they featured elements and situations that bored me. However, I did finish One Hundred Years of Solitude and mentally kicked myself for putting it off for so long. It took me a good nine months to finish that book because I kept forgetting I was reading it. That’s a great book—I admitted when I did read it.

But the dragon tattoo was too much for me. It went into such gruelling detail about sex that it threw me off. I don’t mind descriptions that add value to a story, but as I was reading it, it felt as if the author could’ve edited away some of the detailing and still achieved a crisp narrative. But that’s just me. Almost everyone I’ve spoken to about the book was surprised that I quit halfway through. I got tired of waiting for the exciting part of the story.

That happened about five years ago. Perhaps I was too young to digest it. Perhaps what was casual description for many was too gory for me. That’s when I realised I could return a book without reading, and not feel guilty about it after.

Except, now, after all these years, I’m reading a book that I don’t feel like finishing. It’s a lighter-hearted than The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, and it’s non-fiction. But it’s still too much detail. It’s a semi-biography of an American-Australian author. It’s the first full-length comedy book I’m reading, and although I appreciate the author’s ability to laugh at her faults and shenanigans, some of her anecdotes aren’t funny—they’re just silly.

It feels as if I’m too old to laugh at these stories. Some of them are too personal—stuff that I’d take to the grave. Of course, there’re learning opportunities in every embarrassing situation, but sometimes, lessons are personal. Writing about the time you strutted around the school in sex-stained jeans thinking it was cool, isn’t cool. Now imagine an entire book of stories like that. Of course, not every story is about sex, but the embarrassment-level is quite similar.

I’m certain there’re some stories in there about good things that happened to the author—like winning a game or passing a big test.

I’ll know for sure when I get there. If I get there at all.

That’s what I’m struggling with now. I know it’s a popular book. It may even be a good one, according to most readers. But perhaps it’s just not for me.

Ever been there?

Floriade in Canberra

For 32 years, Australia has welcomed spring with tulips. This means, at this time every year, the government assembles millions of flowers in a grand public park in Canberra, and invites people from all over the country to visit and experience nature.

In all its glory—
Floriade,
human vanity.

The festival is called Floriade. And this year’s theme was World in Bloom. For an entire month, these flowers sit in their designated spots, laughing in the sun, opening its petals, attracting birds, selfie sticks, and macro lenses of all sizes.

To call it glorious is an understatement.

With flowers, the lake, herons, and falling buds in the backdrop, people flocked to photograph themselves and the free pricelessness.

To call it beautiful is injustice.

Floriade hosts people from all over the country. Not just various shades and accents of white, but also hundreds of shades of brown and black. The air echoed with varieties of Australian, American, Asian, and European.

As I sat on a bench, flower gazing and people watching, flashes of colour showered not only from the blossoms and the sunshine they reflect, but also from the rainbow of whirlwind coming from spring dresses, khaki trousers, yoga pants, singlets, hats, and caps, mingled with heaving sighs and perfumed sweat.

What a great celebration of spring.

Set me Free

I haven’t met a Shakespeare fan I didn’t like.

Dreamy fierceness oozes from his words like a tube of toothpaste, and make readers stick like mosquitoes on an oil plate.

And when two mosquitoes meet on oil plate, what else would they share than their love for wit that landed them there in the first place?

It was with that curiosity that I picked up Set me Free by Salvatore Striano. The title itself wasn’t any different from the thousands that line the library aisle. It was the sub headline of the book that forced my feet to retreat and my hand to reach out: The story of how Shakespeare saved a life.

At that moment, I knew I had to read it.

Life got in the way, many times, slowing down my progress. And yet, I persisted—the deadline loomed and I didn’t want to be that person who extends a library book because they were too busy not reading.

I read in the bus, I read walking around the lake, I read in bed at night sipping black coffee.

This tale come from behind bars. It’s the story of a high-security, long-sentence serving prisoner in Italy. The narrator, Sasà—the prisoner himself—tells how he’s been a frequent visitor to jails since he was seven, walking us through various parts of his life leading up to the present. And all the while, he explains the realities of prison life, the solitude and hopelessness that hugs the air, and the spite that separates groups.

What’s Shakespeare doing in a place like this?

Saving souls, of course.

The narrator goes on to illustrate how one accidental play they put on opened the vault to an under-appreciated realm of sonnets and theatre. He reads Shakespeare, and with every play he finishes, Sasà feels himself glow and grow as a person. And in the end, the book closes with a hint of how even inside prison, lessons from good literature change and free people of their darkest despairs.

It’s a well-told short book.

However, at many instances while reading this book, I felt a tinge of irritation scratch the surface of my patience. For there are pages in the book that function, not as part of the story, but as the author’s opinion and observation of The Tempest. I scoffed, remembering CliffNotes. The narrator does this a lot—there’re chunks of references, poetic verses, and lengthy explanations of how and why Prospero forgives his enemies in the end. Sasà even argues with a fellow prisoner, who plays Prospero, for doing the character injustice.

As I read on, though, my annoyance melted. I grew intrigued at the narrator. For he’d internalised Shakespearean characters so much that he began identifying their real-world counterparts.

As readers, we see the plays help him discover his feelings towards the people in his life. His wife was like Miranda—loyal and pure. An older cellmate, a mentor and guide was Prospero—a father-like figure in jail. And he, the narrator, himself was Ariel. It becomes more than a role in a play, and we see how Sasà lets Ariel and other Shakespearean characters influence his own behaviour. Like an earthworm tossing out the dirt to let a breath of fresh air down the ground, these fictional men wade in and out of Sasà’s consciousness, picking out hatred and sadness, and replacing them with gardening, writing, and composure.

This is a small book. With a big takeaway.

The more I recall incidents in the book, the more I understand the impact of these plays on the narrator. From being a thief, drugger, and gangster, he emerges as a poet, and a rather philosophical actor.

This is a good book. Give it a read.

A muse on human nature

Ever since I moved to Canberra, I’ve spent every day cherishing my reality. I enjoy every aspect of this weird town that’s big enough to have everything you imagine you’ll need, but is still small enough so you run into the same person twice or thrice a week.

It’s a satisfactory blend of big and small. When, on a Sunday afternoon, I walk down the city paths, I’m amazed at the lack of people running into each other. It feels as if the city’s almost too big for the people it houses. Then as soon as I enter the shopping mall, I’m washed over by excited wailing children, babbling adults, and snippets of he-said-she-said gossips.

Afterwards, I walk around the lake or along a park, and I’m mesmerised by the vast greenness that spreads before my eyes. Of course, there’re grasslands that’ve seen better days, now dry and parched without much fodder for the grazing cows. But I’m sure, as spring rolls over, rains will pour down and lusciousness will tumble on.

Every aspect of Canberra makes me hopeful. I can’t imagine anyone feeling depressed to live here.

But—

I’ve heard friends moan at the very thought. It’s home, but it’s still alien to them. For quite a while, I couldn’t comprehend why such a beautiful valley of a town was so disturbing for a lot of people.

Today I learnt why. A friend explained: growing up in this small town meant that every street corner has a memory. Each time they walk past the fountain in the city or step over the fence in a park, it triggers past experiences—both good and bad.

That’s when I realised: no two people ever see the same thing. As a recent migrant, I can’t fathom what a local sees when they look at a building. I see architecture and unknown history, and they see experiences, losses, and lessons.

That got me thinking. It’s not just about Canberra. It’s the same with every place.

My distaste for the city I lived in for six years stems from the bad times I had there. When it comes up in a conversation, I tend to focus on the negatives because they’re predominant in my mind. And that blinds me to the good side of the city. Clouded in my opinions, every suggestion I offer to a third person is marred and false even.

Even though we don’t often recognise it, our minds are always biased. It prevents us from weighing options with a level head, to accept even the possibility of a reality we’re unaccustomed to. We’re so entrenched in our own thoughts that we’re oblivious to the external perspective.

But that’s human nature. We can shrug it off and move on, or we can understand that we all come from a personal point of view—an understanding that’s crucial for us to grow as emotionally intelligent people.

*muse over*

Gone are the days

Winter’s almost over in Canberra, and since the start of June, I’ve been entertaining the possibility of a half-rant, half-awe blog post marvelling the mystic that is this season. It was my first winter, and along with everything I expected, it was also every bit as unexpected.

From waking up at 4 am with numb feet, to feeling my innards shivering in the late afternoons, partly in hunger and partly in the unfamiliarity of the nail-biting weather, every day of the last couple of months has been an adventure.

I’d wake up at seven am, and the sun wouldn’t show up until at least ten past. And even before I could get back to the comfort of my insulated, carpeted bedroom, the sun would be gone, shrouded in mist and icy breeze.

Though I was comfortable—with lifesaving heating and miraculous thermal socks—my feet and palms were almost always chilly. As if they were entities separate from the rest of my body. While thermal socks prevented the cold from getting onto my feet, it also arrested the lingering cold, like a shadow unshakeable even in the pitch of darkness.

It didn’t take long for the tiniest of my toes to lose warmth. Unless directly placed under the sun or hot shower, they remained solid and distant. The first few seconds of warm water on my feet would feel cold. It’d take a while for the heat to permeate the blanket of chillness.

That’s when I realised winter’s real power. It was eleven degrees, felt like nine, and yet the UV index was high enough to slow-burn the skin.

Now, though, I awake at 5:30, and there’s light on the horizon. Pinkish shards shoot through the sky, hitting me right in the face as a dart on a target board, paving way for the warm glow of orange morning, elbowing its way past the silver linings, as hopeful soldiers in the border. By the time I set to work, heatwaves pierce through my window, ricocheting ultra-violetness into my messy room, revealing crumbs from dinner and sheared strands of stray hair.

Winter’s gone, and it’s left me rather bittersweet.

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