Literary Safari

I will be away for a few weeks, with somewhat infrequent posts. Here’s wishing you a very happy new year, with much good fortune, joy, and many literary thrills. One for the road: an interesting book deal in the news:

Harper editor Rakesh Satyal’s BLUE BOY, pitched as “David Sedaris meets Jhumpa Lahiri,” about a sexually confused Indian-American boy who think she may be the reincarnation of the Hindu god Krishna, to JohnScognamiglio at Kensington, by Maria Massie at Lippincott Massie McQuilkin (NA).

Besides being an editor, Satyal is a cabaret singer who has performed at the Duplex (his last show was a solo tribute to Rufus Wainwright and Fiona Apple. A graduate of Princeton class of ’02, his senior thesis was a novel about castrati (castrated males who sang in the soprano range) at the Santa Maria di Loreto music conservatory in 18th century Naples.

My dad passed away exactly six years and one month ago. Every Christmas Day, I remember the delight and sweetness he brought into my life. Here are some of my favorite memories of him that I thought I’d share as part of my off-and-on again series “Family Ruminations.”

Papa always came home late on Christmas Eve. If my mother, sister, and I didn’t accompany him to Man Plus, the men’s retail clothing store that he owned in Greenwich Village, then he would go alone.In the hustle and bustle of holiday shopping—the biggest sales night of the year—he walked the floor, checking on the salesmen as they skillfully guided harried customers to the perfect last-minute gift.

Papa always stayed at “the store” (as we called it) till it shut its doors. Then he would hand out Christmas bonuses to the salesmen and pop a bottle of wine or champagne with them, sharing in the feel of satisfaction with them.

I think that this was his favorite night of the year. He loved people watching … and there is nothing like people watching in the Village, especially at Christmas time. All sorts of people would pound the pavements in search of that perfect gift. At an urban men’s clothing store that specialized in hip-hop apparel and bling bling two-piece sets, the turnout was even more spectacular. Beautiful men and women armed with handfuls of cash arrived in their silver and black BMW’s and sports cars. Short black men dressed in baggy jeans and large fleece and leather jackets strutted through the door flashing their golden teeth at the women browsing through the racks. Young children held onto the hands of their mothers grumbling, “When can we go Mommy?” while their mothers shifted shirts between their hands asking, “Do you think Daddy will like this or that one?”

On Christmas Eve, Papa would usually leave the shop for a few hours and wander through the of the West Village, going into his favorite stores to pick up gifts for us, his three girls. Over the years, we came to love and look forward to these last-minute shopping excursions.

Balducci’s Market was at the top of his list. Here, he would walk through the packed aisles and pick carefully from the assortment, bringing home a loaf of tomato focaccia chocolate truffles, and of course, French pastries for Mom. Papa loved fine food and there is no more tempting place to be at than Balducci’s at Christmas time, where gift baskets pregnant with fresh baked goods, gourmet fruit and fine chocolate line the aisles and the pavement outside.

The other places on Papa’s list were Barnes and Noble, Bigelow’s Pharmacy, and Le Chateau, the Canadian women’s clothing store. It was also on 8th Street like Man Plus. Here, Papa would buy us our annual presents – pajamas, slippers, socks, gloves, scarves, one of each for each of us. He had wild taste. One year, he bought me blue pajamas decorated with oreo-stuffed clouds, golden stars and animal print poufy slippers. That same year, he bought anjali cloud pajamas. For mom, he always bought beautiful and delicate colors that were warm and comfortable like the knits and sweats that she so likes to wear.

We would laugh when we opened his gifts. They were always hastily wrapped in boxes after we went to bed, our names scrawled on the brown paper packaging in black fine-tip pen and no giver acknowledged.

On Christmas Eve, when we were usually wrapping up with dinner, we would hear the garage door open. “He’s home,” we would laugh as we chewed on our piece of apple or orange. He would stay in the garage for a long time and we knew that he was sorting through his purchases, bringing them into the basement so that he wouldn’t have to go out into the cold later. Then, when he was finished with his transfer of goods, he would walk into the house, empty-handed but for one or two shopping bags, the ones filled with the perishable food items, that is!

A few years before he passed away, he also discovered Carry On Tea and Sympathy, the British food shop on Greenwich Street. The shop reminded Papa of his childhood in Ghana, where all the non-perishable foods they used to buy was imported from the England. Here, he would pick up Christmas crackers, plum pudding, cheese, Cadbury chocolates and hot chocolate mix. On our last Christmas, I went to the store with him and delighted in picking up a large fishnet stocking filled to the brim with all sorts of British candies, including Smarties and Aero chocolate.

After he had finished eating his dinner – which he always ate while telling us funny stories about the store – we would all sit in the family room and watch some TV. We knew though that Christmas Eve was meant to be an early night so that all the presents could appear under the tree early morning. Off we would go to bed so that we could leave Papa Claus to work his magic.

I never saw him at work and each year, I always thought that he would get tired of doing this. But until his physical body gave out and he was unable to, he kept up this tradition, he kept going. On our last Christmas he bought all of us the most beautiful and perfect gifts—Buddha heads for me and my sister, Zen scented candles, and of course, pajamas and bath lotion.

Papa was one of those whimsical shoppers. He always bought us things that we didn’t necessarily have use for but that we would always remember. (more…)

When I went to a screening of The Kite Runner a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t know what to expect. The book had made an indelible impression on me when I read it a few years ago, but I’m always wary of books turned into films, always doubtful that they will have the same impact.

With a story like The Kite Runner, I was actually hopeful that the result would be a good one, especially since while reading the book, I was struck by the cinematic feel. (Apparently so were producers William Horberg and Rebecca Yedlham, formerly at Dreamworks. They secured rights to adapt the forthcoming novel when they read an unpublished manuscript of The Kite Runner back in 2003. “It’s a story that’s told in the most lyrical, evocative, and beautiful way, one that lends itself to a visual interpretation; as you’re reading, you literally see its events unfold,” says Yeldham.)

The road to the cinematic arrival of Khaled Hosseini’s bestselling novel (8 million copies sold in 40 languages worldwide) has not been an easy one. Once the screenplay, adapted by David Benioff (The 25th Hour, Troy), director, Marc Foster (Finding Neverland, Monster’s Ball), and adult Amir, Egyptian actor Khalid Abdala were in place, there remained the matter of finding the actors who would play little Amir and Hassan, the childhood best friends who are at the center of this drama about friendship and redemption.

Kate Down, a London-based casting agent (Finding Neverland) traveled to Afghanistan where she canvassed schools, orphanages, and playgrounds of war torn Kabul in search of the perfect child stars. It was at a local French Lycee that she discovered Zekiria Ebrahami, a 5th grader who would play Amir. Through the Afghan Relief Organization she found both Ahmad Khan Mahmoodzada, who superbly plays the faithful Hazara servant boy Hassan andAli Danesh Bhaktyari , who plays his orphan son Sohrab.

Once the actors were found, an ideal filming location that was reminiscent of pre-Taliban, rubble-esque Afghanistan had to be found. The “lost Kabul” was found in the desert region of the People’s Republic of China, between the ancient cities of Kashgar and Tashkurbhan. This section of the famed Silk Road is interestingly a vibrant Islamic center within Chinese society, where Indian and Persian influences abound.

With all this in place, the film was ready to be made. But, the challenges did not stop there. Shooting in China was no piece of cake … and, we’re all familiar with the controversy that has surrounded these first-time actors. With much controversy swirling around the rape scene in the film, these children and their families have had to be transplanted outside of Afghanistan, to an unrevealed town in Saudi Arabia.

I always trust the NYT reviews of films. In this case, I’m glad I saw the movie before I read Manohla Dargis’s review which calls the screenplay “clumsy,” says that there is ” remarkably little of visual interest” in the film, and complains that it “lacks credible performances.” Dargis also complains about the overly dramatic fight scene at the end of the film, where Amir must rescue Zohrab from the Taliban.

Sure, the action and the gory blood scenes that accompanied it reminded me of a Bollywood movie, but they were not disjointed from the overall feel and theme of the story. There is something in The Kite Runner that is reminiscent of my favorite Bollywood films – the ones that do justice to themes of friendship, family, evil vs. good, and what goes around comes around. Sometimes that’s a good thing.

I also thought that Marc Foster and his team did incredible justice to a novel that has such epic proportions. Besides the diligent recreation of the Afghan landscape, home, and street scenes, one of my favorite things about the movie was the fact that much of it takes place in the Dari language. This added a level of authenticity to the film, which would have been missing had it been solely in English. Finally, I was also struck by the performances of all the characters, particularly the children and Homayoun Ershadi, who plays Amir’s larger-than-life father Baba.

Of course, there remains the question of whether I agree with the inclusion of the rape scene. I’ve been conflicted about it for weeks. I feel that some blame must be placed on the production studio who should have informed the families of the children of the nature of the film. And, I’ve been wondering whether the film could have had the same power without the alley scene. There’s always a way to show what might happen, and I can’t help but think that those kids and their families could have been spared the personal turmoil and displacement. If anyone else has seen the film, I’d be curious to know your thoughts on this point.

At the end of the day, The Kite Runner is a story about making up for things done wrong, a story about forgiveness and self-forgiveness, and a story about faith. That it is set in Afghanistan is a plus. The American cinema needs more films that criss cross the continents that are so inextricably tied together, and this movie is one that could do a great deal to promote a better understanding between Americans and Afghani Americans.

A final note about music: One of the most powerful scenes in the film, for me, was when Amir enters a mosque while he is looking for Zohrab. That slice of the film – the prayer, the music, Supplication by Sami Yusuf – is what this film is all about – frienship, redemption, hope, self-forgiveness, surrender, and a learned humility. This is the essence of the film’s tagline: There’s a way to be good again. And, regardless of religion or culture, this is a theme that we can all identify with … at the risk of sounding cliche, dare I say, especially during the holiday season ….

Related:
Salon interview with Khaled Hossein
Official movie site

A little while ago, 100 Scope Notes tagged me for a 7 Things About Me meme. Here are the rules (from the source):

1) Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
2) Share 7 facts about yourself.
3) Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4) Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

I’m much overdue, but here I go … Here’s a holiday themed list of facts about me, mostly focused on literary products that have left an impression on me over the past few months. I’m not calling it my literary-themed holiday gift list, but you could…

# 1 I am a huge fan of quotable cards! If I can’t get around to buying them, at least I scour the website for quotable quotes I can add to my own holiday cards.

# 2 If there’s one chair in the world that I’d wish for, it would be this BiblioChaise, designed by Italian company Nobody and Co. It can hold five metres of books!

#3 The most delightful writing gift I ever received (thanks Beautiful Soup!) was this bottle of Pinot Noir made by Steele Wine. It’s called Writer’s Block and has the most incredible label. More about it here at winewaves.

#4 I’m tickled pink by this 2008 101 Reasons to Stop Writing calendar, which is a genius reversal of the motivational calendars we’re all familiar with. More about the creator of this calendar at Paper Cuts.

#5 One of my favorite smells in the world is that of old books. At Salon’s holiday shopping guide, I learned that there’s a perfume maker, CB I Hate Perfume, in Brooklyn who has supposedly bottled this scent in “In the Library.”

#6 I loved Wired magazine, both for its content and design. No wonder I was thrilled when I came across their “Create Your Own Wired Cover” site. You pick a template, color for the masthead, and upload a picture, then write your own cover slugs … and voila, you have your own customized Wired cover. I made one for my husband just as a PDF, and he loved it. (I also liked Wired’s gift guide.)

#7 My all-time favorite writing poster is Leonetto Cappiello’s vintage advertisement for the Remington typewriter. Hard to find; I got mine at eBay.

I’m going to tag The Gourmet Cartographer, Sanjay, Bookish Desi, The Slush Pile Chronicles, and Beautiful Soup.

With a mixture of excitement and skepticism, I have anxiously been awaiting the release of Persepolis, the onscreen adaptation of Marjane Satrapi’s much lauded graphic novel (of the same name) about her childhood during the Islamic Revolution in Iran. Despite the awards and rave reviews thus far, I still couldn’t help but wonder how a riveting black and white comic would actually come to life on film, that too in animated form …

I should have known better than to doubt the vision of Marjane Satrapi, who was deeply involved in the two plus years adaptation process [read Deborah Solomon interview]. Starting with the opening shot, a whimsical garden scene with butterflies, birds, leaping fish, and shooting stars, I was hooked.

I had expected the movie to be all black and white, like the book, but the filmmakers cleverly (and successfully) threw in a splash of color. The film begins at Paris airport, in full color, and is set in the present, where an adult Marjane Satrapi serves as narrator, framing each of the sections of the film—her childhood in Tehran, her adolescence and the rise of the Ayatollah, her move to Vienna, and her return to Iran—all of which take place in B&W.

Marjane is an endearing and memorable protagonist; her grandmother a fountain of wisdom who imparts golden nuggets of wisdom in shotgun fashion (“Be true to yourself, keep your word, etc.); and her parents political activists eager to raise an independent and intelligent daughter. (The timing is good; we need more works in the mainstream media that dispel stereotypes of the Muslim world, including Iran which has received much flack in recent months.)

Whether it’s in full color or black and white, Persepolis takes us into Marjane Satrapi’s world; that is, we are seeing it through her eyes. In many cases, quite literally—there are numerous close-ups of her wide-open eyes. Whether she is or asking her grandmother about the jasmines in her brassiere or trying to buy bootleg heavy metal on the streets of Tehran, Marjane is a curious and a realist.

The animation style of Marjane’s personal and family matches her personality; the drawings are life-like, not cartoon-y. When Marjane’s father or uncle or grandmother tell her about the political history of Iran, the style of the scenes switch—and we are reminded of puppet shows and Persian miniatures. And, when Satrapi’s personal narrative is interrupted by scenes of war or her imagined conversations with God, dark and textured charcoals, evocative of woodcuts, take over the screen. Just beautiful.

I’m not going to compare the book to the movie. Details from the pages sometimes didn’t make it onto the screen, and details from the screen sometimes could never have been captured in the book. So, all I can say is if you’ve seen the movie, read the book. And, if you’ve read the book, definitely watch the movie.

Bottomline: If a film can be poetry, then Persepolis is just that—a powerful personal coming of age story innovatively made into a masterful cartoon that has drama, strains of magical realism, a sweet and sassy sense of humor, and a memorable soundtrack to boot.

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I’m officially addicted to many of the NYT blogs. On the Travel Q&A blog last week, anonymous asked, “I am planning my first trip to India in December and was wondering if you had any good books (novels and fiction particularly welcome) that I could read prior and during my trip?”

David G. Allan offers up his favorites, and rounded up recommendations from NYT writers including Somini Sengupta, Matt Gross (Frugal Traveler), Jonathan Allen, and Literature Tailored for a Trip Through India.”

For posterity and because this is a subject that I’ve been wanting to write about for a while, I thought I’d break them down (by genre and in alphabetical order) and add links ( plus, of course, add my own essential list and solicit your favorites).

First off, here are the NYT writers’ recommendations (I’ve bolded and starred the recommendations that I second):

Fiction

English, August, by Upamanyu and Akhil Chatterjee
Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard, by Kiran Desai
Sacred Games, by Vikram Chandra
A Passage to India, by E. M. Forster*
The Hungry Tide, by Amitav Ghosh
Midnight’s Children, by Salman Rushdie*
The Moor’s Last Sigh, by Salman Rushdie
A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth (though it is a heavy book to lug around on your travels!)*

Nonfiction

City of Djinns, by William Dalrymple
India after Gandhi: The History of the World’s Largest Democracy, by Ramachandra Guha
In Spite of the Gods: The Strange Rise of Modern India, by Ed Luce
Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found, by Suketu Mehta*
The Argumentative Indian, by Amartya Sen

And, here’s a roundup of reader recommendations from the comments section:

Fiction

Transmission, by Hari Kunzru
A Fine Balance, by Rohinton Mistry*
The God of Small Things, by Arundathi Roy*
The Twentieth Wife and The Feast of Roses, by Indu Sundaresan
The Death of Vishnu, by Manil Suri
Bombay Time, by Thrity Umrigar

Nonfiction

All the Way to Heaven: An American Boyhood in the Himalayas and Sacred Waters: A Pilgrimage Up the Ganges River to the Source of Hindu Culture, by Stephen Alter
Arrow of the Blue-Skinned God, by Jonah Blank
May You Be the Mother of a Hundred Sons: A Journey Among the Women of India, by Elisabeth Bumiller
Ka: Stories of the Mind and Gods of India, by Roberto Calasso
Age of Kali, by William Dalrymple
The Last Mughal, by William Dalrymple
A Son of the Circus, by John Irving
India: a History, by John Keay
Holy Cow, by Sarah McDonald
Butter Chicken in Ludhiana: Small Town Travels in India, by Pankaj Mishra
The Great Railway Bazaar, by Paul Theroux
Following the Equator, by Mark Twain has some essays
Being Indian, by Pavan K. Verma

There are many kinds of readers and travelers. Some of us are interested in history and anthropology. Others women’s stories, rural ruminations, or food. Here’s my “essential reading list” for first-time travelers to India, with recommendations for readers of various persuasions.

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