Literary Safari

It’s the end of Daylight Savings Time and for a change, I feel ahead of the game. My eyes opened at 7 am and I am delighting in a scalding latte with heaps of cinnamon. There’s something about the smell of cinnamon in the fall – it is an ideal companion to the blustery winds, the raging colors, and the cloudy skies. It reminds me of apple picking and apple pie.

One food, multiple memories, multiple pleasures. The last, Marjane Satrapi seems to be saying in her new book Chicken with Plums, is the ultimate sign of life. When we turn away from pleasures, when we reject those things that give it to us most, we are rejecting life – and welcoming death.

Plums, which I just finished reading, is what Publisher’s Weekly calls a “dazzling new effort” to grapple with the “question of what makes a life worth living.” It is about Satrapi’s great-uncle Nasser Ali Khan, one of Iran’s most respected musicians who died in Tehran in 1958. When his wife breaks his treasured tar, Ali is unable to find a replacement and distraught, takes up a fast and gives up his will to live.

As readers, we are taken inside Nasser Ali’s mind during the last eight days of his life where memories and hallucinations flood his mind. He remembers his youth, his music teacher, his first love … and in between, Satrapi defly weaves in tid-bits about the lives of Nasser Ali’s family, the ones he will never see.

As I was reading, I marveled at how seamlessly Satrapi has again managed to create a story about death and life that merges foresight, flashback, insight, history, and literature (bits of poetry from Iranian, Sufi mystics Rumi and Khayyam) together to take a story from her family history and make it come to life. A reader need not be interested in the cultural context, but he or she will come away intensely more educated. And isn’t that what all great writing is about?

Satrapi’s approach to her words and pictures is not new – “By deepening the particular, we reach the universal,” she says. However, her graphic novel style, humor, and insight into the human mind are unique. Together, they leave an impression that a pure essay format cannot.

“Pleasure is the theme of life,” Satrapi said a recent lecture at SUNY-Purchase. She explores this theme in depth in Plums where the moment at which Ali rejects his favorite dish, chicken with plums – “his mother’s specialy, prepared with chicken, plums, caramelized onions, tomatoes, turmeric, and saffron, served with rice” – is when his final decline begins. Once her great uncle rejects one of his biggest pleasures, nothing can change his course and all he can do is wait for death.

As I was reading Plums, I kept thinking about a book that also addressed death in a non-traditional way – in the graphic novel format. Mom’s Cancer, by Brian Fies. I started reading it, but never finished. So I will go back to it this week and return with a review (soon).

Every day, something or the other happens to me or comes along and I make a note to myself, “Must blog about this.” The words note to myself remind me of Hugh Prather’s Notes to Myself, which I haven’t yet read but which sits on the shelf in my room at my mother’s house.

This last week was full of exciting and inspiring discoveries and I kept making notes to myself. It’s too late to try and catch up with all my thoughts, but I have to share these few things:

Monday – I heard Marjane Satrapi speak at SUNY-Purchase. Her new book Chicken with Plums was released in its English translation on the same day. Satrapi was a breath of fresh air – candid, unafraid, opinionated, and eloquent. I am halfway through Chicken with Plums and it’s a charming, moving work. More on that in a separate post (I hope!).

[I also just noticed that Satrapi just published a children's book last month - Monsters Are Afraid of the Moon. I can't wait to read it.]

Tuesday – I am on the board of my co-op and we had our monthly meeting, where I discovered that I am the Secretary. This means that I must take/keep minutes. Ah that brings back memories of when I was a minutes-taker for the Columbia Univeristy Seminar on South Asia back in graduate school. I would attend a very interesting lecture on some esoteric South Asian topic once a month, eat a free dinner, and then, write up my notes. I felt erudite and special. I don’t quite feel the same way at the Board meetings, but I do feel useful – last week we debated whether or not to lock our gas rates, how “beautiful” our building is looking these days, and the neighbor’s loud and poopy dogs. One of these days, I have to type up those minutes.

Wednesday – I finished reading Looking for Bapu, by Anjali Banerjee. This middle-grade novel is one of my favorite reads for that age group in a long time. It’s reflective, moving, intelligent, and humorous. I couldn’t put it down and highly recommend it for the age 10 and up audience. It was really refreshing to read a work of fiction about a South Asian boy for a change. The main character’s grandfather dies and he must come to terms with death for the first time. The parts I found most poignant were where the main character shaves his head and decides he is going to imitate the sadhus of ancient India. He’s going to roll his way to school. I’ve read other novels by Banerjee and have to say that this is her best yet. It’s not easy to write about mortality. Kudos to her for such an ambitious effort.

Thursday – I went to my yoga class at the Whitehall after aeons. We did the breath of fire for 3 minutes – that’s where you hold your hands up at a 60 degree angle and breathe through your nose deeply and quickly. It’s an energizing movement that strengthens your core and taps into your power. I was exhausted while doing it, but felt incredible afterward. Resolution: yoga this week too!

Friday – The best day of my week. I taught a writing workshop for City Year, a partner project of AmeriCorps. The audience: 125 Corps members between the ages of 17-24. The topic: Make a Statement (with your personal essay). The writing model we studied: Mike Miller’s This I Believe essay “My Home is New Orleans.” The response to the workshop was really heartening and positive, and I hope I will have a chance to work with this amazing organization again. Further, I’m excited about the possibility of conducting this workshop again – in a different setting.

Saturday – Diwali! Happy New Year. Lots of food, sweets, and family. A perfect day.

Every year, the Asian American Writers’ Workshop offers youth workshops that focus on some aspect of writing. In fact, I taught a couple last spring and was amazed by the talent and motivation of students who participated. I wish such opportunities had exsited when I was in middle and high school.

This fall, the AAWW is offering the following. Please spread the word:

51%: A Female Journalists Initiative
6 Saturdays, October 28th to December 16th

The Asian American Writers’ Workshop is offering a new writing project for
high school-age female journalists. We will learn about reporting and
interviewing technique and touch on specialized areas of journalism – for
example, ethnic media, opinion writing, feature writing, blogging, and radio
- depending on students’ interests. We’ll also study how to pitch stories to
publications and editors.

We will meet for six classes in October, November, and December. We will
hone our writing through exercises, peer critique, presentations, field
trips, and guest speakers. Each student will complete a major project, a
profile, by the final session.

51% is open to aspiring female journalists, grades 9 – 12, from all
ethnicities and backgrounds. All youth who participate in 51% will receive
an artist stipend of $100, based on commitment, attendance and
participation.

This program is funded by a grant from Asian Women Giving Circle, a
donor-advised fund of Asian American/Pacific Islanders in Philanthropy, and
The Union Square Awards of the Tides Foundation.

Please mail, fax or e-mail application as soon as possible. (The Oct. 16 deadline has been extended).
For more information and to download an application, check the AAWW website
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Click here to read my transcript of today’s live webchat with Beliefnet, sponsored by HarperCollins.

The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho

How I found it: When I was in my last semester of graduate school, I lived in a studio apartment on the corner of 104th St. and Broadway. There used to be this French bistro a block away where I sometimes went to pick up a sandwich or salad. One evening, while I was waiting for my order to get ready, I noticed a book on the bar — it turned out to be The Alchemist, by Paulo Coehlo.

I started reading it right away:

The boy’s name was Santiago. Dusk was falling as the boy arrived with his herd at an abandoned church. The roof had fallen in long ago, and an enormous sycamore had grown on the spot where the sacristy had once stood.

He decided to spend the night there. He saw to it that all the sheep entered through the ruined gate, and then laid some planks across it to prevent the flock from wandering away during the night. There were no wolves in the region, but once an animal had strayed during the night, and the boy had had to spend the entire next day searching for it.

He swept the floor with his jacket and lay down, using the book he had just finished reading as a pillow. He told himself that he would have to start reading thicker books: they lasted longer, and made more comfortable pillows.

It was still dark when he awoke, and, looking up, he could see the stars through the half-destroyed roof.

I wanted to sleep a little longer, he thought. He had the same dream that night as a week ago, and once again he had awakened before it ended.

Something made me want to keep going, but I couldn’t–my sandwich was ready and I had a paper to write. The next day, I bought my own copy and read it cover to cover, underlining sentences and sections. There were so many that spoke to me. I felt that I had been handed the book at a time when I was in need of answers; at a time when I was trying to figure out what path to walk in my personal and professional life.

When I finished, a rush of excitement thrilled me. I felt like I was holding my destiny in my hands–and that … anything was possible. And yet … maktub. It is written. Somehow both those notions found a place to amicably coexist in my mind.

I went on to read Coelho’s other books–By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept, The Valkries, Veronika Decides to Die, The Pilgrimage, etc. … but nothing compared to The Alchemist, at least for me. I’ve gifted the book to many, many people over the years and they’ve told me that it came to them at the right time … just like it came to me. (I love when that happens with a book.)

I haven’t read much Paulo Coelho lately, but when I learned that he was doing a live webchat with readers sponsored by HarperCollins and mediated by Beliefnet today, I immediately signed up. I wanted to hear what his voice sounded like – was it hollow or would his speech echo his spiritual principles?

The interview questions ranged from readers wanting to know about Coelho’s writing habits to his thoughts on religion, spirituality, and music. I transcribed what parts most fascinated me – in case some of you missed it and were curious. Enjoy! (more…)

Numbers and formulas have always made my eyes glaze over. Since I was a child, I’ve seen mathematics as the unsurmountable mountain. So, of course, it’s expectedly ironic that I am married to a man who sees mathematics as poetry; formulas as a spark of light.

Above his desk at home hangs a poster of Einstein with this quote:

“Do not worry about your difficulties in mathematics; I can assure you that mine are still greater.”

The word writing can easily be substituted for mathematics and voila! my husband and I are not functioning at two different ends of the spectrum anymore. Over the last couple of years, I’ve started understanding math as more than a function (ha!) of logic, reasoning, and left brain thinking. There are some matters of right brain thinking at play too, I’ve discovered.

Which is why I was really excited when I was introduced to the life and story of the Indian mathematical genius Srinivasa Ramanujan (1887-1920). Born in South India, Ramanujan was a child prodigy who despite his lack of formal education generated hundreds of mathematical breakthroughs in his short lifetime. He was a man of faith, a mystic who looked to the goddess for inspiration and claimed that he got his knowledge through prayer. Obviously this approach collided drastically with thinking of the day (and perhaps, of today as well).

Back in July, I read a fascinating post at Sepia Mutiny about Ramanujan, and learned that the off-off Broadway theatre company AlterEgo Productions was working on a play about Ramanujan’s life.

Last week, A First Class Man premiered and I was there on opening night with my husband, one of his colleagues, and his colleague’s father who is a retired math professor from the Indian Institute of Technology. All three of them were super excited to see the story of one of their heroes brought to life on stage.

I was curious because I knew very little about Ramanujan. In those two hours, however, I was gripped by his life story and challenges. The play itself jumps between South India and Cambridge, England and traces Ramanujan’s journey to fame, his struggle with living in a foreign land, and his friendship/collaboration with Prof. G. H. Hardy of Trinity College, a hard core rationalist.

“A First Class Man” stars Amir Arison, who I had seen in LARK’s Merchant on Venice a couple of years ago. He nicely carried the emotion, curiosity, and simplicity of Ramanujan and although I was not totally convinced by his Indian accent during the first few minutes of the play, I quickly got over it as I became immersed in his story. The play is running until Oct. 21. If you can catch it, do. Tix are $18.

The play has inspired me to want to pick up The Man Who Knew Infinity. That’s probably a first for me. I’ve never wanted to read a book about mathematics before.

Yesterday I attended the National Book Festival in Washington DC for work. It was a splendid affair! The entire mall was dotted with large white tents – pavilions that became temples to different genres of the literary worlds – fiction and fantasy, home and family, history and biography, poetry, young adults, children, and local literature.

The day started out rainy, but the sun came out by late afternoon and it was an incredible feeling to be walking in the nation’s capital alongside thousands upon thousands of booklovers – childrens, adults, and the elderly.

The highlights of my day were Khaled Hosseini (The Kiterunner), Donald Hall (14^th national poet laureate), Bob Woodward (State of Denial) and Alexander McCall Smith (The No. 1 Ladies Detective). All men. I certainly didn’t intend for that to be the case.

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