Five Run Away Together by Enid Blyton

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I read Five Run Away Together in when I was 11, I think. This is the only book, till date, that I must have read at least a dozen times. More than a decade later, I would still  go back to it with the same zest. The third book in the Famous Five series by Enid Blyton has a strange pull. It is the story of the Famous Five - Julian, Dick, George (Georgina), Ann and Timothy, the dog - where they are compelled by circumstances to abandon their home and seek refuge on an island while an obnoxious family of three live in their house under the pretext of being caretakers. The preparation for running away, gathering stock of all items necessary for survival in uncivilised surroundings a la Robinson Crusoe, if only he were forewarned, and finally the escape are described with natural flair which was Blyton's forte. What begins as an innocent escape from frustrating household staff unfolds into a thrilling adventure of a rather dangerous nature. Classified as a children's book, an adult would find himself equally engrossed in the book. One of the best out of the 21 in the series.

Piccadilly Jim by P.G. Wodehouse

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The master of wit and humour churns out a typical yet unique - I do not know how he does it - plot, yet again. From the beginning to the climax Piccadilly Jim will keep you engrossed, at times even make you bite your fingernails with its on the edge twists and turns. Wodehouse presents a farrago of characters crafted with such detail that while you're at it you may just reach out and touch them. It would be criminal to give out even the slightest hint of the story, but this one's a must read. Delight for Wodehouse fans, and a definite conversion into Wodehouse fans for those who haven't yet made acquaintance with the genius. Happy reading!

Aicha

When I first heard Aicha, I thought it was Arabic. On probing further (read listening on loop) I realised it was French. It's an Algerian song written by a Frenchman and sung (this version) by an Algerian *raï singer. Enjoy listening to this enchanting track!

Another slightly different, and translated, rendition of the same track by Outlandish. The one by Khaled, however, remains my favourite of the two.

* Raï is a form of folk music that originated in Algeria some 8 decades ago. It is a mix of Spanish, French, Arabic and African forms of music.

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Hello English

A few random pointers for the human race regarding the holy institution of language and its usage. 

• Adding an apostrophe ( ' ) after a word does not indicate its plurality. An apostrophe denotes possession. So it's DOs and Don'ts, not Do's and Don't's.
• No matter to how many you may be referring to, it is always etiquette. There is no word called etiquettes.
• Using unofficial short forms of words while chatting or communicating on social media may be acceptable and/or logical when it actually saves your time. However, Kewl, 5yne, Maah, 9ice, frenzzz etc. only denote your pigheadedness. (Yes, that's a word!)
• Correct pronunciation is important. Correct spellings are important. Grammar is bloody important.
• All of you are, but none of you is. Both of you all  is bullshit, as is all of you all.
• Criteria is the plural of criterion. Nobody has any idea what 'criterias' means folks.
• Sponsors sponsor events. Sponsoror is not a word.
• Reading Sidney Sheldon does not make you avid reader or even cool for that matter, neither does Mills & Boons. Let's not even get started about Chetan Bhagat's 'literature'.
• Wanton usage of 'like' and 'stuff' does not make up for your inadequate vocabulary.
• Using the F-word excessively certainly does not make up for your inadequate vocabulary.
• You have hair, not hairs. In fact your entire family, put together, has hair and not hairs.
• Usage of '-ing' words is incorrect 9/10 times. I am feeling good today should actually be I feel good today, for instance.
• An examiner gives an exam. An examinee takes an exam. So next time you should know better than to say, "I am going to give my exam."
• Kindly do not introduce yourself as "Myself, Honey Singh!". This is just not English.
• When one reads out Roman numerals, well here's how it goes: I is first, II is second, XI is eleventh and not one, two and eleven. This applies to all the numbers written thus. So now you know what it means, rather does not, when you write Ist, IInd, IIIrd and so forth.
• Don't translate blindly. For starters, there is no such thing as your good name or anybody's good name for that matter.  आपका 'शुभ' नाम केवल हिन्दी में होता है । 

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Remembering Sir Wodehouse

There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.
~
P. G. Wodehouse 

St. Valentine's Day may mean whatever it does to people all over the world. 14th of February, however, is a significant date for me because it is the death anniversary of my favourite author, Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse. On this day in the year 1975 Sir Wodehouse breathed his last at the ripe age of 94. Had I had it my way, no age would be ripe enough for him to leave the world. If I am fortunate to meet the man's soul at the place where the departed rest in my after life I will definitely have a paean or two to sing for him. But I am not sure if I'd have the words to thank him for giving me the joy that he has, through his words. 

I was fifteen when I had my first encounter with Wodehouse. I remember, slowly grasping his unique style of narration and in no time getting hooked on to it. It is an affair that I am proud to have, and will continue to have for as long as I can read. And after that I will pester my grand children to read to me for as long as I can hear. I have sat in corridors and laughed all by myself till my sides threatened to split open clutching a Wodehouse book in my hand. In addition to his exemplary writing style, his exceptional sense of humour, the ingenious use of language, the intricate and shrewd plots and the sheer brilliance in execution is what makes Wodehouse par excellence. I have been swept off my feet umpteen times by the wondrous world that Wodehouse creates in his stories, as I believe is the case with his other readers too. Every book that he's written is a haven that one can fall back on to restore one's spirits. He played with his words as an artist would with his paint. As fate would have it, Wodehouse ascended to heaven - there can be no two thoughts about him going to heaven - on a day when the world celebrates love and happiness. Just what he gave to his readers throughout his life, and what his immortal words will continue to give to readers for generations to come.

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One of those days when this song is all it is.

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"The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education. "

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Albert Einstein


(Please click on the picture to view a larger image.)

 #StoryOfMyLife!

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MS

Well it's been a year, it doesn't surprise me!

This one goes out to commemorate the day I resumed writing after an inexplicable sabbatical of a period so long that I am not at all proud to admit. It was a strange concoction of a sudden rush of emotions and months of pent up feelings that led to the restoration of something that best defines me. I had created this blog, if I may say so, in the year 2009 because I had felt the need to express myself. The only way I thought I could do it best was by writing. Quite unfortunately I failed to honour my appointments with this blog and did not write a meaningful word for three full years until this day exactly an year ago. 

I drew my inspiration from my pets - Leo and Snow. My comeback posts were dedicated to my babies. It did not take me long to realise what I had given up for so long.  It is true that most of times we do not realise the true worth of something until it is not with us anymore. Unknowingly, I had been stifling my thoughts and impeding the reach of my mind. For the first time I told my parents and sister about this hobby of mine. They were pleasantly surprised, I was glad to note. The icing on the cake was the appreciation that came from my father. I have no words to express what I felt when he said he was proud of me. As it happens, when the heart is full your eyes overflow. So did mine.

Eventually, I shed my inhibitions and began to share my work. I received encouragement from those who read what I wrote. I thank each and every reader for strengthening my passion, and the will to go on. If not for you I would not be able to claim to have been an active blogger for an year now.  The blog is only a means though, it is the ability of penning down thoughts that is the cause of my jubilation.  I may actually never be able to thank my readers enough, but I hope they get the gist of my sentiments. Technically, now is the time for new year wishes here; I don't follow convention, do what my heart says because that's how I like it!

Cheers to the joy of writing!
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A Prick in the Toe

They loved their days with the flip-flops. Some days the zephyr ran through the toes, the dust settled on them. On others the heat parched their skin, the sun gave them a tan. Each toe was on its own and yet with the foot. Happy, content, aloof. Then there came a day when they all had to slip into a prim formal shoe instead of their usual flip-flops that they were so accustomed to by now. It took them a while to fit in well, but once they did they were all set to walk confidently. 

A little way down the lane they felt it for the first time. It did not seem to be a problem then. Ignoring it, they moved on. But the prick in the toe continued to grow with every passing moment. The foot smarted painfully with every step it took. The day was a long and tiring one. By the end of it, it was a task for them to hold on together without wincing. The first sign of relief came close and they finally crawled out of the shoe. A gush of fresh air lent them some respite, but it was not long lived. For then the realisation dawned upon. The prick was caused by a nail, wildly overgrown. It had dealt a deep puncture on it's neighbouring toe. The days with the tidy shoes were far from gone. They'd come again, and they'd be aplenty. There would be no avoiding those long tiring days. As the injured toe - despondent with pain - trembled helplessly, it was decided that the time had come to trim the nail. Trimmed though it was, the damage was done. The hapless dactyl lived with a cicatrice for as long as it did.

We all have that wild overgrowth in our lives. It is happy-go-lucky in the flip flops but pricks us bad in the formal shoe. It is when we look at the larger picture that we know that the ability of the foot cannot be sacrificed for the whims of a toe. The sooner it is trimmed, the lesser is the agony endured; because much as we'd like, we cannot suit up in flip flops for life.

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My Pebble & Me

You could be justified in calling it the yearning of a lifetime. Pretty much so. But I'm not sure if you'd understand it fully. It came into my life at a stage when I did not want, but needed it to. I remember our first meeting. We exchanged just a couple of sentences and then it was off, only to return with joy into my life in a little while. It took me some time to realise that I had found a pebble in the midst of sand. But I needed no expert to tell me how precious it was. It was my friend, accomplice, confidante. My little sister away from home. A refuge, and an essential part of my life. I woke up to its sound in the morning, and mine was the last good night it heard before going to bed. We giggled, we gossiped. We cried, we cared. We shared, we loved. Life became so wonderful that it began to seem too good to be true. Maybe it was. For the pebble got washed away with the sands one day. They say times change, people too. Sadly, I saw it happen. I do wonder sometimes, did the pebble roll away willingly? Perhaps it did. Maybe I could have done something about it. Truth was I couldn't have. It was neither captive, nor did I own it. You don't do all this to someone you love. I wish something could turn back the dials of the clock and give me a little more time with it. I often see it nestling with the sands these days, getting washed at the shore, soaking the sun - lying there as if that is where it was meant to be. I feel abandoned, to say the least. It was betrayal at its worst. I miss my pebble nevertheless, and hate the sands. Loathe the waves that took it away from me. But no dials will turn back and bring back that what was. Someday if the pebble looks back, it'll see me right where it left me. In that corridor where we laughed till we wept. Still wiping a tear.
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