Do Butlers Burgle Banks? by P.G. Wodehouse

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Do Butlers Burgle Banks is a stand alone narrative - not being a part of any of Wodehouse's series. The style of narration is the author's typical - flawless language and inimitable humour - and is a quick read. The story unfolds in the manner of a blooming flower and unravels rapidly thereon. The characters were crafted meticulously as was the author's wont. The plot gradually lands into a hilarious imbroglio as the story reaches a crescendo, taking the reader along all the way. The style is Wodehouse's classic, the story telling is what we're used to from the author, but beats me how it still stands out. Has to be the genius. If you're a Wodehouse fan you'll love it; if you're not a Wodehouse fan, well, become one!

Not Wodehouse's best, but a pleasant read. Recommended.

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I have been pondering over something for a while now. Nothing groundbreaking, but has me intrigued nonetheless. Does it make any sense to wish "Happy birthday" to somebody who no longer has his or her bodily abode in the mortal world? Isn't that thoughtless and ironic? (Or do you want to say ironical? It is ironic, by the way.) It makes sense when one wants to acknowledge the day when a certain somebody who held a position of eminence in one's life graced the world. People dole out charity in some form and/or conduct prayers in the memory of the departed. If it was a renowned person, you will probably have the news channels running some typical obituary bytes as well. That is not a guarantee though. News channels are whimsical, with a will of their own. Anyway, commemorating birthdays of the deceased is one thing - it is only natural to miss one's loved ones and there is no harm in spreading good cheer in their remembrance. But wishing them "Happy birthday" is something beyond my cognition. Besides being insensitive, it is also foolish; almost akin to mocking. A few days back I came across a feed on my Facebook account that irked me no end, and hence the outburst. It went like this, "Happy b'day Steve Jobs...you did well enough man". I am sure Steve Jobs was thrilled. This is the day he died to see.

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have you read these?

http://www.youthkiawaaz.com/2013/12/upon-christmas-six-stories-christmas-us-read/

Random Ramblings

We'll find people, in any and every walk of life, doling out unsolicited advice for world peace, post-war restoration and a ton of other issues which would supposedly contribute towards emaciation of human suffering. Everyone's a humanitarian at the macro level. Where this feeling hides itself at the micro level is what intrigues me. We harangue about issues concerning human rights violation but do we let those thoughts become our actions when we deal with real people? Why is it so difficult to empathize? Why must our sensitivity and emotions be reserved for just ourselves or for the larger good of the society? What will we lose by extending warm gesture to someone in dire need of it? To someone that we may come across in the course of our normal day-to-day lives. To someone who may not necessarily have a story worthy of becoming the prime time debate on national TV.

#Something to think about.

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Love possesses not nor will it be possessed, for love is sufficient unto love.
~
Kahlil Gibran

It takes that je ne sais quoi which we call sophistication for a woman to be magnificent in a drawing-room when her faculties have departed but she herself has not yet gone home.
~
James Thurber

When Those Eyes Looked at Him

A little bit of stage fright, then I'm ready.

~

Faith Hill

There was something about all those eyes in that room; just like there was something about all those eyes in all the rooms he had ever been in, that made him uncomfortable. He did not want to make eye contact with anybody, especially with her. He did not know what they were thinking but whatever it was, he was sure, it was not good. He cringed as he walked through the aisle between the benches, trying to close his eyes. He tried to convince himself that by shutting his eyes he could make all those eyes look away. But it did not help and his insides tied themselves up in knots. She was seated in the third row and he skipped a breath as he crossed her bench. She had worn white ribbons in her braids, and looked like an angel. He felt his cheeks flush.

His name had been called out as he was next on the roll call. The walk from his bench at the end of the classroom to the dais at the front seemed unending; and somewhere he kept wishing that the distance would keep increasing with every step that he took. Reluctantly, he reached the rostrum. It was his turn for poetry recitation but he did not want to face the class. He looked at his teacher. She mechanicallly made a tick mark with her pencil against his name on the assessment sheet and waited for him to begin.  He knew his poem by rote. He had recited it to himself in front of the mirror at least a couple of dozen times in the past few days.

He took a deep breath and mustered up all the voice he could. To his horror, he realised, he couldn't recall the first words of the poem. Almost all the students who had gone in front of the class before him had fumbled or halted with their recitation at least once. Sitting on his favourite last bench he had been imagining how he would have recited each of those poems, with alacrity and confidence. But now he had cold feet; like he had every time he had had to face an audience. He swiftly glanced around the classroom trying to place the students mentally as to who was seated where - desperate to find a friendly face. He did not find comfort in any corner. Helplessly he looked at his teacher who was on the brink of impatience. She stared at him blankly, tapping her pencil on her desk. Haplessly, he decided to get on with it. To hell with the immense amount of practice he had put in, to hell with the fact that he wanted to be the best reciter of his class, to hell with the fact that he wanted 'her' to clap for him when he was done reciting.

Still in a quest to buy time, he began " Hello friends, today I am going to recite Daffodils by William Wordsworth". By a quirk of fate he chanced to catch another glimpse of her. She was smiling sweetly, and was gesturing the 'thumbs up' sign to him. His stomach cartwheeled - once, twice, three times! He found his tongue and began to recite. "I wandered lonely as a Cloud - That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills, - When all at once I saw a crowd - A host of dancing Daffodils..!" He looked straight ahead and imagined himself in front of his mirror. His voice was clear, stance perfect. Without a single pause, he went on just like he had practiced. It seemed as if he were living the poem as he recited it. His mind was clear and focused. He went on confidently. As he began the fourth and final stanza, "For oft when on my couch I lie - In vacant or in pensive mood, - They flash upon that inward eye..," he stole a look at her once more. She was looking intently at him, as was every other student in the class - mesmerised. "Which is the bliss of solitude," he continued with renewed vigour. "And then my heart with pleasure fills, - And dances with the Daffodils..!" he concluded pompously.

He beamed nervously at the class, then at his teacher and wiped his brow with relief as he received a thunderous round of applause from his classmates; but all he could see were the pearly whites of that girl with white satin ribbons in her braids. He walked back to his seat with his head held high, feeling like a million bucks. He was going run endlessly around the school campus during lunch break, and mud wrestle on his way back home. What more could a ten year old wish for?

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P.S. - Read the entire poem here.

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As I Begin to Count My Blessings

For there is no friend like a sister

In calm or stormy weather; 

To cheer one on the tedious way, 

To fetch one if one goes astray,

To lift one if one totters down, 

To strengthen whilst one stands

~

Christina Rossetti

Sisters are a special yet strange gift from God, to each other. When they're little they will squeal as they try to tear out each others' hair, wear evil grins when they tell on each other and hide under the bed when they've meddled with the other's craft work. But as they grow, they have deep conversations as they braid each others' hair, say "I've got your back" when the other is in trouble and miss the days when they were so little that they could chase each other around under the bed. The worst of critics, the best of friends. The worst of enemies, but the most protective warrior one can have. They compete, they fight, they yell and swear; but they also love, care and worry like nobody else.

My sister is and will be the only link to my past, the companion in my present and the support in my future. Like I will be hers. We threaten to narrate each others' crazy tales to our yet-to-be-born children. We plan to spoil our to-be nieces and nephews sick; and in our moment of jest we threaten to dress them up like clowns. There are no pretenses between us. We know we'd kick each other if one of us tried to 'put up a show' in front of the other. We communicate without words, and understand the deeper meaning of the words we speak. We hit each other where it hurts; since we know each other so well, we know exactly where to stab. But we are each others' pillars of strength too. We draw inspiration from each other, and draw out our daggers should someone dare point a finger at either of us.

We know each other in and out, flaws et al and love each other nevertheless. It may have been a relation that we did not choose to have but it is certainly one that we cherish the most. My sister may be the reason I would want to be an only child at times, but she'd also be the reason why I wouldn't want to. Since I am the elder one, I like to believe that it is my duty to be more protective of my kid sister. If a storm has to strike her, it better face me first. When she needs a brother to nudge her way around, I will be that brother for her. No matter how old she is, I will still hold her hand when she crosses the road; still snatch the shopping bags from her so that she's not carrying too much load; tell her not to hold my hand when we're walking, because I know she won't listen and will still hold my hand just to annoy me. I would still pretend to be asleep when she talks endlessly after lights out; and she wouldn't stop because she would know I am pretending. She will still throw me out of her room every alternate night, whereas I will shamelessly walk right back in and plop on the bed. We'll still be called all the silly nicknames that we've conferred upon each other. We will always compete with regards to which one of us loves Snow and Leo more, and more so whom do Snow and Leo love more. (It's me, in both cases!) But most importantly, she will always be the doll my parents gifted me.

Many years down the line, when we have grey hair and crow's feet - I hope we don't get those though - our children will have flown out of our nests to build their own, and most of our links with our childhood and youth will have diminished, we would still have each other. We would have known each other all our lives and yet have not grown tired. We will still have a fraction, or maybe more, of our parents' reflections in each other. Nobody will know our struggles, our victories, our joys and our pains the way we would. All our private jokes would still be funny and I'm sure we would still laugh like maniacs scaring the daylights out of our grandchildren, the way we roll off chairs and scare our parents now. All the times we've been mischievous, the late night madness, the way we fought and swore not to talk to each other for as long as we lived, but got back together almost immediately - we will reminisce these things and a lot more. You need to have a sister, and be one to know what the world's most special bond feels like.

I'm sorry this came a little late, but better late than never. And maybe I don't say it often enough, but you know that I love you T2. Happy 20th! :-)

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