Victim: The English language.
Suspect(s): All of us.
I have no respect whatsoever for people who murder and mutilate the English language. Call me a prude, call me a bitch, whatever, but I stand by what I say. I will not even read a message if it is written entirely in SMS language.
The worst part is, there are several kinds of these English-language murderers:-
1) The ones who think it’s ok to omit the vowels (other than the articles ‘a’ and ‘an’, or if it is the first letter of a word). After all there are just five of them, right?
Eg:- Wht a wndrfl dy.
Fck ff.
2) The ones who add the extra letters at the end or in between, hoping to sound enthusiastic or prove a point.
How are youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu???? Loooooooooooooooooooooonggggggggggggggggggg timmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeee!!!!
Yes, but not as long as it will take me to get over that greeting.
3) The ones who substitute ‘s’ with ‘z’.
Hi friendzzzzzzzzzz. How izzzz life?!
Great. How is your zexy wife?
4) The ones who use letters as whole words.
Y r u sad? Is it d t?
Kill me.
5) The ones who purposely mutilate the spelling even when it doesn’t make much of a difference to the original word length, except for one or two letters.
It ws a reeli awesum nite. I luv u.
Wat???
6) The ones who change spellings in the misconception that they sound cool.
Mah frendz say I’m kewl and a dahling.
Eww.
7) The ones who leave out the ‘g’ in an ‘-ing’ word.
I’m goin swimmin.
What did the ‘g’ do to you that you’re leaving it out, you big bully?
8) The ones who don’t capitalize the first letter of the first word of a sentence.
how are you? hope you’re fine.
Come on, guys, that’s basic. All it takes it a simple press of the shift button.
9) The ones who don’t capitalize ‘I’.
i luv u. i reeli do.
If you can’t give yourself respect while writing, then how can you expect someone else to give it to you?
10) The LOL- and ROFL-ers. No more comments.
11) The ones who combine the ‘cks’ to ‘x’.
My life roxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx!
Tell me, will you like it if someone asks you how your ‘secks’ life is?
12) The ones who are careless enough to mix up similar sounding words. Ok, this is not a murder, but a casualty nonetheless.
Their was ones a girl whose parents where very poor.
13) The ones who think that language and maths can be seamlessly blended.
My luv 4 u is gr8. I cnt wait 2 meet u. Will cal u l8r.
Thhu!!
14) The ones who think it’s ok to not use commas and full stops.
Hi how are you I am fine what are you doing what is wrong with you get lost you loser bye goodnight.
It’s like loose motion. Believe me.
15) The ones who ‘forget’ the apostrophes.
I dont know. He wont tell me. cant you tell me?
I know what half of you are thinking. “Bitch, thinks she’s some kind of a scholar, huh, just because she studied English Literature[spellcheck done, Red Handed;)]?” No, I have no such illusions. I’m just saddened by the way the language has deteriorated. I used to be like that. I cringe when I read my old posts. The Facebook, Twitter and SMS generation has murdered the language. And sadly, I’m also a part of that generation... And the most brutal murderers are the ones who say “What’s your problem? We’ll write whichever way we want.” I just feel sorry for their children, who’ll be taught A 4 Apl at skool.
If there’s anyone out there who shares my angst, do pitch in.
June 13, 2011
June 12, 2011
To you, with love.
Anyone who is a writer wants to see their own book published sometime or the other. I'm no different.
The only problem is, I’m not making any effort towards it.
But that doesn’t deter me from writing the acknowledgements. You know, the page(s) where I thank people for being with me, for being an important part of my life and making my book a success.
P.S:- If I've missed anyone out, I apologize.
So here is it.
Acha for being the best dad I could’ve asked for, for having utmost faith in my judgement and choice. The faith that you have in me has helped me have more faith in myself. I didn’t know how much you trusted my judgement until you told it to someone else and that person told me. A ‘good job’ from you means more to me that the highest grades. The slightest hint of disappointment from your part and my mind will blow a fuse. It’s ok if you’re not the type who gives hugs or calls me cute nicknames. You let me and Chechi go when you thought the time was right, and that was the best thing you’ve done for us. My strength, comes from your strength.
Amma, for being such a darling mom. For teaching me A B C D’s. For asking me questions while I revised for exams, and nodding off in between. For waking up at four in the morning along with me when I had to study. For the extremely patient person that you are. For having the heart to cook the best non-veg for us even though you’re a vegetarian. For passing on the genes of cooking to me, the only good thing I managed to inherit from you. For all the drama that you do.
Chechi, for being my inspiration. If I can ever be half the person you are, my life is worthwhile. For being the doting elder sister. For all the times you’ve tagged me along with you, for all the times you’ve been there for me. For giving back my old chechi to me, the one who I used to play cricket inside the house with, with a diary and rubber ball; the one I used to fight for the phone with; the one whose clothes I used to shamelessly borrow; the one who always knows what I want even without asking me. I know I’m not the best sister around. I know I can be an utter fool sometimes. I know I’ve done plenty of things to make you ashamed of me. But I’m trying my best to make you proud of me, and some day, I will.
My grandpa, Velyachan, for the inspiration that you are to everyone in the family. I wish you were alive, to see that your Ammu writes. I got that from you, Velyacha. They don’t make men like you anymore.
My grandma, Acchama (dad’s mother), for being the strongest woman I’ve ever seen. You brought up three children pretty much all by yourself, and lived alone till the day you died at age 80. Our summer holidays wouldn’t have been the same if not for your home-made grape wine, yummy food, your constant bickering with us for watching too much T.V., and the wonderful mango tree in your garden. I have forgotten what it is to have a summer vacation now.
Mamu, for being a wonderful uncle. You’re simply the best. The devotion that you’ve had towards Velyachan and Ammamma is something every son should learn from.
Anand, Chattu, Nisha, Saty, Roro, Vijish, Meera, Reshu:- for being a permanent fixture in my life for the past 14-15 years. I know you guys will be there even when I grow old and be bent over double with age. I know that you guys will be there even if I tell you to go away. I know that even if I murder somebody, you will be there for me. Yes, you will probably slap me for murdering, but you will still be there for me. There isn’t any side of me that you guys haven’t seen, and yet, you guys love me unconditionally. [If I have to thank each of you individually, that'll be an entire book in itself. Sorry for the grouping. :(]
Arun, for redefining the whole concept of friendship for me. I must’ve done something extremely great in my last birth to have got a friend like you in this birth. I’ve probably been the nastiest to you, but you’ve still stuck on. Now you know why I call you ‘Satellite’. You’re also the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met, undoubtedly. If I ever write a book someday, you’ll be the first person to read it, just like you’re the first to read whatever I write now.
Hosku, for being a wonderful roommate and friend. For being there when I’ve wanted to bawl my eyes out. For knowing things about me that no one knows and yet, not judging me for it. For being there, yet giving me my space. I hope I’ve been able to do the same for you. And yes, also for being a great cook. Makes life so much easier for me.
Sree, for showing me that happiness needn’t necessary mean leaving home, having a job, living alone, and being independent. You’ve always been there for me, be it in college when I didn’t know how to board a KSRTC bus, or when I had started to lose faith in myself. I know I don’t say it enough, but you’re a wonderful, wonderful girl. I hope every mother gets a daughter like you, who chose her widowed mother’s happiness over her own. I will always admire you for that. And my admiration for you has now doubled because of the profession you are in- teaching- one of the most difficult things to do.
Pakki, for introducing a whole new world of insanity to me. I never knew what it is to be completely mad, yet amazingly grounded, till I met you. For making my life a roller-coaster ride each and every day, every single moment. Dedication for one’s art, I learnt from you. For the ultimate PJ’s that you crack, pathetic as they are. For making me laugh with your hay-wire imagination.
Ajish, for being one of my most loyal readers and critic. For giving hundred percent honest reviews about my posts. I thoroughly enjoy our ‘intellectual’ conversations. I hope someday, you will muster up the courage to send your poems to publications.
My wonderful teachers, Sarat Sir and Becket Sir in particular, for having faith in me. Sarat Sir, for kindling a passion for the English language in me, and Becket sir for believing that I’m cut out for better things in life. AJ Sir, for making me a radio- fanatic.
Shobana Ma’m, for being a wonderful boss. I don’t think I’ll ever get a boss like you ever again in my life, and I’ve made my peace with it. The one year and four months that I spent in Red FM was one of the most important phases of my life, and you were an integral part of it. For yelling your head off at me one minute, and then taking me out for dessert to Ofen the very next. For treating me as not just a mere employee, but as a friend, confidante, and a sister.
Barath, aka Mommy, for introducing me to the world of blogging. If you hadn't sat with me that evening in the library and convinced me to create this blog, and guided me how to, I probably wouldn't have written so much. I know I'm not as much a celebrity as you are in the blogosphere, but I hope to catch up some day. :)
The regular readers of my blog, for being a great audience and encouraging me. I put half my life out here, on my blog, for the whole world to read. It is overwhelming when people accept it, enjoy it, and appreciate it. What began as just a hobby, a vent for my emotions, has now turned into an addiction for me. An addiction that I’m not afraid of.
To each and every person who has appreciated my writing. It works like a drug.
And not to forget, the dude up there, for putting up with this cranky, temperamental girl who, I’m sure, gives you a headache every single day with her antics. Still, I know I’m your favourite child. All I need to do is ask, and you’ll give it to me. Even without a bribe. :) Ok now, when can I have that bunglaw in Banjara Hills? About time, you know.
Looks like I already have half my book.
The only problem is, I’m not making any effort towards it.
But that doesn’t deter me from writing the acknowledgements. You know, the page(s) where I thank people for being with me, for being an important part of my life and making my book a success.
P.S:- If I've missed anyone out, I apologize.
So here is it.
Acha for being the best dad I could’ve asked for, for having utmost faith in my judgement and choice. The faith that you have in me has helped me have more faith in myself. I didn’t know how much you trusted my judgement until you told it to someone else and that person told me. A ‘good job’ from you means more to me that the highest grades. The slightest hint of disappointment from your part and my mind will blow a fuse. It’s ok if you’re not the type who gives hugs or calls me cute nicknames. You let me and Chechi go when you thought the time was right, and that was the best thing you’ve done for us. My strength, comes from your strength.
Amma, for being such a darling mom. For teaching me A B C D’s. For asking me questions while I revised for exams, and nodding off in between. For waking up at four in the morning along with me when I had to study. For the extremely patient person that you are. For having the heart to cook the best non-veg for us even though you’re a vegetarian. For passing on the genes of cooking to me, the only good thing I managed to inherit from you. For all the drama that you do.
Chechi, for being my inspiration. If I can ever be half the person you are, my life is worthwhile. For being the doting elder sister. For all the times you’ve tagged me along with you, for all the times you’ve been there for me. For giving back my old chechi to me, the one who I used to play cricket inside the house with, with a diary and rubber ball; the one I used to fight for the phone with; the one whose clothes I used to shamelessly borrow; the one who always knows what I want even without asking me. I know I’m not the best sister around. I know I can be an utter fool sometimes. I know I’ve done plenty of things to make you ashamed of me. But I’m trying my best to make you proud of me, and some day, I will.
My grandpa, Velyachan, for the inspiration that you are to everyone in the family. I wish you were alive, to see that your Ammu writes. I got that from you, Velyacha. They don’t make men like you anymore.
My grandma, Acchama (dad’s mother), for being the strongest woman I’ve ever seen. You brought up three children pretty much all by yourself, and lived alone till the day you died at age 80. Our summer holidays wouldn’t have been the same if not for your home-made grape wine, yummy food, your constant bickering with us for watching too much T.V., and the wonderful mango tree in your garden. I have forgotten what it is to have a summer vacation now.
Mamu, for being a wonderful uncle. You’re simply the best. The devotion that you’ve had towards Velyachan and Ammamma is something every son should learn from.
Anand, Chattu, Nisha, Saty, Roro, Vijish, Meera, Reshu:- for being a permanent fixture in my life for the past 14-15 years. I know you guys will be there even when I grow old and be bent over double with age. I know that you guys will be there even if I tell you to go away. I know that even if I murder somebody, you will be there for me. Yes, you will probably slap me for murdering, but you will still be there for me. There isn’t any side of me that you guys haven’t seen, and yet, you guys love me unconditionally. [If I have to thank each of you individually, that'll be an entire book in itself. Sorry for the grouping. :(]
Arun, for redefining the whole concept of friendship for me. I must’ve done something extremely great in my last birth to have got a friend like you in this birth. I’ve probably been the nastiest to you, but you’ve still stuck on. Now you know why I call you ‘Satellite’. You’re also the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met, undoubtedly. If I ever write a book someday, you’ll be the first person to read it, just like you’re the first to read whatever I write now.
Hosku, for being a wonderful roommate and friend. For being there when I’ve wanted to bawl my eyes out. For knowing things about me that no one knows and yet, not judging me for it. For being there, yet giving me my space. I hope I’ve been able to do the same for you. And yes, also for being a great cook. Makes life so much easier for me.
Sree, for showing me that happiness needn’t necessary mean leaving home, having a job, living alone, and being independent. You’ve always been there for me, be it in college when I didn’t know how to board a KSRTC bus, or when I had started to lose faith in myself. I know I don’t say it enough, but you’re a wonderful, wonderful girl. I hope every mother gets a daughter like you, who chose her widowed mother’s happiness over her own. I will always admire you for that. And my admiration for you has now doubled because of the profession you are in- teaching- one of the most difficult things to do.
Pakki, for introducing a whole new world of insanity to me. I never knew what it is to be completely mad, yet amazingly grounded, till I met you. For making my life a roller-coaster ride each and every day, every single moment. Dedication for one’s art, I learnt from you. For the ultimate PJ’s that you crack, pathetic as they are. For making me laugh with your hay-wire imagination.
Ajish, for being one of my most loyal readers and critic. For giving hundred percent honest reviews about my posts. I thoroughly enjoy our ‘intellectual’ conversations. I hope someday, you will muster up the courage to send your poems to publications.
My wonderful teachers, Sarat Sir and Becket Sir in particular, for having faith in me. Sarat Sir, for kindling a passion for the English language in me, and Becket sir for believing that I’m cut out for better things in life. AJ Sir, for making me a radio- fanatic.
Shobana Ma’m, for being a wonderful boss. I don’t think I’ll ever get a boss like you ever again in my life, and I’ve made my peace with it. The one year and four months that I spent in Red FM was one of the most important phases of my life, and you were an integral part of it. For yelling your head off at me one minute, and then taking me out for dessert to Ofen the very next. For treating me as not just a mere employee, but as a friend, confidante, and a sister.
Barath, aka Mommy, for introducing me to the world of blogging. If you hadn't sat with me that evening in the library and convinced me to create this blog, and guided me how to, I probably wouldn't have written so much. I know I'm not as much a celebrity as you are in the blogosphere, but I hope to catch up some day. :)
The regular readers of my blog, for being a great audience and encouraging me. I put half my life out here, on my blog, for the whole world to read. It is overwhelming when people accept it, enjoy it, and appreciate it. What began as just a hobby, a vent for my emotions, has now turned into an addiction for me. An addiction that I’m not afraid of.
To each and every person who has appreciated my writing. It works like a drug.
And not to forget, the dude up there, for putting up with this cranky, temperamental girl who, I’m sure, gives you a headache every single day with her antics. Still, I know I’m your favourite child. All I need to do is ask, and you’ll give it to me. Even without a bribe. :) Ok now, when can I have that bunglaw in Banjara Hills? About time, you know.
Looks like I already have half my book.
June 10, 2011
Sign-o-drama
I have the world’s crappiest signature.
In school, when we had to sign for the hall ticket in tenth standard, the whole class got so excited. Because it was the first time our signature was being given importance. Till then, other than your mom and dad who’ve taught you how to write, who else really cares for your signature?
So when it was announced that the teacher would be bringing our forms the next day for our glorious signatures, we all got to work furiously- practicing the perfect sign. Homeworks and daily lessons took a backseat. This was an important thing for us 15 year-olds. The pages of our notebooks were filled with our scrawls. We took advice from parents, siblings, neighbours, uncles, aunts, of what the perfect sign should be. Some said, write only your first name, some said write your full name. Some said make it very complicated, so that no one can forge it.
How complicated can one make ‘Divya’?
So after pages and pages of practicing, I thought I finally had perfected it. Just the first name, nothing very complicated.
When the teacher brought the forms to class, we were doing some last minute practicing. And that’s when I realized- I sign differently every time. Each signature of mine was different from the previous one! Either a dot here or a line there- something or the other was different. But still, it didn’t look bad. When the teacher called out my turn, I went confidently, pen held high before me, ready to conquer the forms.
It literally looked like a crow had taken a crap on that little box. And I think I made a little hole in the form also, with the final dot.
It’s still the same. When I sign my name for fun in books, it turns out decent. But when I have to put it somewhere actually, it turns out embarrassingly horrible.
But I had made my peace with it. I had learnt to accept my scrawl, just like I had learnt to accept my godawful handwriting.
Until…
Until Standard Chartered decided to teach me a lesson.
That’s where my salary account is. Right from the beginning, that bank was jinxed for me. First, I managed to rub off the ATM pin before I could note it down (I know. Charming, right?). Then they said that until I make some transaction, I cannot apply for a new pin number. But how am I to make a transaction when I didn’t have an ATM card, du-uh! They said I can do it through internet banking, with the username and password that they had sms’ed me. Yes, the very same username and password that I had nonchalantly deleted from my inbox, again, without noting it down. So finally, I trudged down to the bank, stood in line, made a transaction, and to cut a long (for me) story short, I got a new Debit card.
Then I had to go back there to deposit a cheque one day. After standing in the queue for half an hour, when I reached the counter, the teller looked at the deposit slip, checked something on his computer, and declared that my signatures didn’t match.
History had come back to bite my ass.
Apparently, there was a difference in the lines I draw below the name. So they made me sit down, like a KG student in art class, and made me practice my signature. Till I got every line and dot right. I sent a silent prayer up to God when I finally signed on the deposit slip. Everyone was looking on with bated breath, like I was signing the Indo-Pak Peace Treaty.
They accepted it, but not before I was subjected to some amused looks and laughs.
Is the thumb-impression accepted anymore? At least that won’t be different every time… Sigh...
In school, when we had to sign for the hall ticket in tenth standard, the whole class got so excited. Because it was the first time our signature was being given importance. Till then, other than your mom and dad who’ve taught you how to write, who else really cares for your signature?
So when it was announced that the teacher would be bringing our forms the next day for our glorious signatures, we all got to work furiously- practicing the perfect sign. Homeworks and daily lessons took a backseat. This was an important thing for us 15 year-olds. The pages of our notebooks were filled with our scrawls. We took advice from parents, siblings, neighbours, uncles, aunts, of what the perfect sign should be. Some said, write only your first name, some said write your full name. Some said make it very complicated, so that no one can forge it.
How complicated can one make ‘Divya’?
So after pages and pages of practicing, I thought I finally had perfected it. Just the first name, nothing very complicated.
When the teacher brought the forms to class, we were doing some last minute practicing. And that’s when I realized- I sign differently every time. Each signature of mine was different from the previous one! Either a dot here or a line there- something or the other was different. But still, it didn’t look bad. When the teacher called out my turn, I went confidently, pen held high before me, ready to conquer the forms.
It literally looked like a crow had taken a crap on that little box. And I think I made a little hole in the form also, with the final dot.
It’s still the same. When I sign my name for fun in books, it turns out decent. But when I have to put it somewhere actually, it turns out embarrassingly horrible.
But I had made my peace with it. I had learnt to accept my scrawl, just like I had learnt to accept my godawful handwriting.
Until…
Until Standard Chartered decided to teach me a lesson.
That’s where my salary account is. Right from the beginning, that bank was jinxed for me. First, I managed to rub off the ATM pin before I could note it down (I know. Charming, right?). Then they said that until I make some transaction, I cannot apply for a new pin number. But how am I to make a transaction when I didn’t have an ATM card, du-uh! They said I can do it through internet banking, with the username and password that they had sms’ed me. Yes, the very same username and password that I had nonchalantly deleted from my inbox, again, without noting it down. So finally, I trudged down to the bank, stood in line, made a transaction, and to cut a long (for me) story short, I got a new Debit card.
Then I had to go back there to deposit a cheque one day. After standing in the queue for half an hour, when I reached the counter, the teller looked at the deposit slip, checked something on his computer, and declared that my signatures didn’t match.
History had come back to bite my ass.
Apparently, there was a difference in the lines I draw below the name. So they made me sit down, like a KG student in art class, and made me practice my signature. Till I got every line and dot right. I sent a silent prayer up to God when I finally signed on the deposit slip. Everyone was looking on with bated breath, like I was signing the Indo-Pak Peace Treaty.
They accepted it, but not before I was subjected to some amused looks and laughs.
Is the thumb-impression accepted anymore? At least that won’t be different every time… Sigh...
June 7, 2011
Not-so-Little Women
I’m not a fan of feminism. Maybe because I could never really grasp the whole idea behind it. I really don’t understand it, and didn’t care enough to try. And frankly, I don’t believe in it. I don’t feel the need to label myself a feminist to get what I want. A bit of tantrum-throwing will do that for almost any girl. When the whole of my class went ga-ga over Paromita Vohra’s ‘Unlimited Girls’, I agreed with them just to not seem like a dunce.
But I guess, inside every woman, lives a feminist somewhere. The feminist inside me woke up when V.S. Naipaul (I won’t call him Sir) passed that famous comment a few days back, that he doesn’t consider any woman writer equal to him. And then followed a litany of comments by writers and authors calling him a cranky old man who doesn’t know what he’s talking about, nobody should take notice of him, etc. I haven’t read any of his books, so I can’t judge whether he’s a cranky old man who doesn’t know what he’s talking about or not, but that comment sure was derogatory. I guess coming from a man who’s been married twice, has had many affairs, and is known to have slept with sex workers, it’s not a surprise. Clearly, writing is not one of the talents he cares for in a woman. (I found this article about him quite interesting.)
So I thought, I’ll make a list of my favourite women writers, who are no less than any male writer (I don't even know why there should be a gender added before 'writer'. A writer is a writer, whatever gender they are):-
1) Enid Blyton- No one, EVER, can match up to her. Enough said.
2) Jhumpa Lahiri- only three books old, but each one a beauty.
3) Anita Nair- Another writer who can weave a fine tapestry of emotions and relationships with her words.
4) L. M. Montgomery- Only those who have read the Anne of Green Gables series can figure out why she’s there on my list.
5) Danielle Steele- Say what you may, but her books were a major part of my teenage years. It may be candy-floss, but I prefer candy-floss over blood and gore.
6) Jackie Collins- Yes yes, her books are like pulp fiction, with too much of sex in them. But she does know how to tell a story and keep the readers engaged. Also, her female characters and well-etched, be it the good ones or the bad ones.
7) Louisa May Alcott- Granted, I’ve read only ‘Little Women’ of hers. But that remains one of my most favourite books till date.
8) Harper Lee- She wrote “To kill a mockingbird’. Need I elaborate?
9) Linda Goodman- I know she doesn’t really fit in this list, but come on, who else can write about sun signs as delightfully as she does? She’ll make you fall in love with yourself, the way she describes your zodiac. And also, she’s given me the perfect alibi. If anyone criticizes me now for, well, being me, I say “I can’t help it, I’m a Virgo. That’s how we are.”
Edited to add:-
10) J.K. Rowling- For Harry Potter. God bless you.
I’ve left out on many. Can’t think of more right now. And there are a lot more powerhouse women writers, like Arundhati Roy (I haven’t read her works, except for half of God Of Small Things, so I can’t really comment), Tasleema Nasreen, Kamala Suraiyya, Anita Desai, Kiran Desai, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, etc. They’re not on the list because they’re not exactly my favourites, and I haven’t read some of them.
P.S:-Would it be too terrible if I put my own name on the list? Will you guys pelt me with stones and make me ride on a donkey in the market-place wearing a garland of shoes (chose some good ones, if you’re planning to. I won’t wear a garland of torn old shoes)? Sigh.. I know I know…
Who are your favourite women writers?
But I guess, inside every woman, lives a feminist somewhere. The feminist inside me woke up when V.S. Naipaul (I won’t call him Sir) passed that famous comment a few days back, that he doesn’t consider any woman writer equal to him. And then followed a litany of comments by writers and authors calling him a cranky old man who doesn’t know what he’s talking about, nobody should take notice of him, etc. I haven’t read any of his books, so I can’t judge whether he’s a cranky old man who doesn’t know what he’s talking about or not, but that comment sure was derogatory. I guess coming from a man who’s been married twice, has had many affairs, and is known to have slept with sex workers, it’s not a surprise. Clearly, writing is not one of the talents he cares for in a woman. (I found this article about him quite interesting.)
So I thought, I’ll make a list of my favourite women writers, who are no less than any male writer (I don't even know why there should be a gender added before 'writer'. A writer is a writer, whatever gender they are):-
1) Enid Blyton- No one, EVER, can match up to her. Enough said.
2) Jhumpa Lahiri- only three books old, but each one a beauty.
3) Anita Nair- Another writer who can weave a fine tapestry of emotions and relationships with her words.
4) L. M. Montgomery- Only those who have read the Anne of Green Gables series can figure out why she’s there on my list.
5) Danielle Steele- Say what you may, but her books were a major part of my teenage years. It may be candy-floss, but I prefer candy-floss over blood and gore.
6) Jackie Collins- Yes yes, her books are like pulp fiction, with too much of sex in them. But she does know how to tell a story and keep the readers engaged. Also, her female characters and well-etched, be it the good ones or the bad ones.
7) Louisa May Alcott- Granted, I’ve read only ‘Little Women’ of hers. But that remains one of my most favourite books till date.
8) Harper Lee- She wrote “To kill a mockingbird’. Need I elaborate?
9) Linda Goodman- I know she doesn’t really fit in this list, but come on, who else can write about sun signs as delightfully as she does? She’ll make you fall in love with yourself, the way she describes your zodiac. And also, she’s given me the perfect alibi. If anyone criticizes me now for, well, being me, I say “I can’t help it, I’m a Virgo. That’s how we are.”
Edited to add:-
10) J.K. Rowling- For Harry Potter. God bless you.
I’ve left out on many. Can’t think of more right now. And there are a lot more powerhouse women writers, like Arundhati Roy (I haven’t read her works, except for half of God Of Small Things, so I can’t really comment), Tasleema Nasreen, Kamala Suraiyya, Anita Desai, Kiran Desai, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, etc. They’re not on the list because they’re not exactly my favourites, and I haven’t read some of them.
P.S:-Would it be too terrible if I put my own name on the list? Will you guys pelt me with stones and make me ride on a donkey in the market-place wearing a garland of shoes (chose some good ones, if you’re planning to. I won’t wear a garland of torn old shoes)? Sigh.. I know I know…
Who are your favourite women writers?
June 3, 2011
Miss. Crankypants
Whenever I start on a new book, after I read the first page, I turn to the last couple of pages. I read the ending before I even start on the book properly. Why? I'm not quite sure .
Maybe it’s because, when I already know that the book is going to end well, I enjoy the book better. There is a sense of relief when something goes wrong during the narrative, that eventually, it’ll all turn out fine. If it doesn’t end well, I will be prepared for the worst and not raise my hopes while I’m reading the book. Contrary to what my friends tell me, it doesn’t spoil the effect of the book for me- in fact, it makes me feel secure.
There is a scene in the movie When Harry Met Sally, where Harry (Billy Crystal) says that he always reads the last of a book first, so that if he has to die before he finishes the book, he’ll at least die knowing how the book ended. Or something like that.
Why can’t our life be like that? We call the experiences in our life as chapters. Why can’t we know what the chapters are? And most importantly, how come we don’t have any way of knowing whether there is a happy ending or not?
“Because life is full of surprises”, you may offer. I know that. “Because if we already knew what our life would be like, what’s the fun?” you may say. I know that too. “Because life is not a book”. “Because that’s not how it’s supposed to be”. “Because it’s not the end that matters, it’s the chapters in between.”
Dammit!! Didn’t I say I know all that?!!!
I just wish I had some way of knowing, though… just one tiny little peek into the last page. Well, last but one page, technically, because the very last page would be “And thus, she kicked the bucket, gracefull at that.” I want to know whether fairytales were just to fool us into a sense of false euphoria...
You know that guy up there, the author of all our lives? He is a crafty old man.
***
Ya, depressing post. I know that too. *sigh*...
Maybe it’s because, when I already know that the book is going to end well, I enjoy the book better. There is a sense of relief when something goes wrong during the narrative, that eventually, it’ll all turn out fine. If it doesn’t end well, I will be prepared for the worst and not raise my hopes while I’m reading the book. Contrary to what my friends tell me, it doesn’t spoil the effect of the book for me- in fact, it makes me feel secure.
There is a scene in the movie When Harry Met Sally, where Harry (Billy Crystal) says that he always reads the last of a book first, so that if he has to die before he finishes the book, he’ll at least die knowing how the book ended. Or something like that.
Why can’t our life be like that? We call the experiences in our life as chapters. Why can’t we know what the chapters are? And most importantly, how come we don’t have any way of knowing whether there is a happy ending or not?
“Because life is full of surprises”, you may offer. I know that. “Because if we already knew what our life would be like, what’s the fun?” you may say. I know that too. “Because life is not a book”. “Because that’s not how it’s supposed to be”. “Because it’s not the end that matters, it’s the chapters in between.”
Dammit!! Didn’t I say I know all that?!!!
I just wish I had some way of knowing, though… just one tiny little peek into the last page. Well, last but one page, technically, because the very last page would be “And thus, she kicked the bucket, gracefull at that.” I want to know whether fairytales were just to fool us into a sense of false euphoria...
You know that guy up there, the author of all our lives? He is a crafty old man.
***
Ya, depressing post. I know that too. *sigh*...
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