Book Review - Sorting Out Sid by Yashodhara Lal

Title: Sorting Out Sid

Author: Yashodhara Lal

Publisher: Harper Collins

Reviewed for: Indiblogger and Harper Collins

To be honest, the synopsis of Sorting Out Sid wasn’t the most appealing. It sounded like just another coming-of-age-of-messed-up-dude story that we are all too familiar with.

But I’d absolutely loved her first book. So I thought “Why not? Let’s give it a shot”. So I did.

Sure, Sorting Out Sid, in its true essence, IS a coming-of-age story. And it’s not very different from the many others we’ve read. But it’s not the story that makes the book an enjoyable read. It’s how it’s written.

Sid (short for Siddharth, of course) is 36, works for a toilet cleaner manufacturer, is one of the most promising stars of the company, chugs beer like water, and is an over-all lovable guy. But behind all that, his 15-year old marriage is falling apart. He and his wife don’t talk anymore, and whenever they do, it is to fight. He has good friends, albeit slightly over-interfering ones. And his relationship with his parents isn’t exactly warm. He happens to meet Neha, single mom, artist, and there’s a spark. Is it anything more than that? Is it love? Can Sid and Neha move past their turbulent marriages and give each other a chance? Will Sid and his ex-wife be able to call it a day peacefully? You’ll have to read the book to find out.

Sorting Out Sid is a good read, one of those books that you would pick up over a weekend and finish it in two days. It is well written in simplistic language, which I suppose is characteristic of the author, and that’s fine, because by now, I’ve come to realise that the mark of a good writer isn’t exactly the use of big words and literary language. The characters are well etched out, starting from Sid to his ex-wife Mandira to his friend Aditi, they all have their place in the story and add significantly to the story, instead of just walk-on parts.

I had initially found the character sketch of Sid to be rather clichéd, and was prepared to put up with an annoying hero who is lovable to everyone in spite of having no redeeming quality whatsoever (ala the protagonist from Shuddh Desi Romance. I wanted to shake that guy and slap the stupidity out of him- and out of the girls who keep falling for him for no discernible reason). But due credit has to be given to Yashodhara Lal for not overdoing it and creating a believable true-to-life character (no doubt inspired from real life / lives) who we all come across, or can identify a bit with.

The problem with having a hugely successful book as your debut novel is that it comes with the baggage of expectation. The only area where it fails in this department is the humour. I had found ‘Just Married, Please Excuse’ to be incredibly funny. SOS (Ah...NOW I get it! Clever) isn’t as funny, although it tries to be, sometimes a bit hard. The toilet jokes get a little redundant after a point, but Sid is one those who suffers from foot-in-the-mouth disease, so that provides quite a few opportunities for laughs.

On the whole, a well written book. It’s not going to change your life or give you any life-altering epiphanies. But it WILL make you smile and want to turn the page to know what happens next in Sid’s fucked up life, and whether he gets sorted out or not.

My rating - 3/5

Sunday Morning Sounds

Back when I was studying in HCU, I used to call up home every Sunday morning at around 10:30-11:00. I used to call up to listen to ‘Sunday morning sounds’. The radio playing at full volume, Amma  exasperatedly telling Acha to turn it down, the mixer running in the kitchen, whistle of the pressure cooker, voices of neighbours who had dropped in for a casual chat. If I listened very very carefully, I could even hear the pages of the newspaper rustling as Acha pored over every word, sitting in the cane chair in the balcony with his second cup of tea (well, not really, but you know what I mean).

What is so unusual about these sounds, you ask? Nothing, really. But as a girl who was staying away from home for the first time, these were sounds of comfort. Sounds of familiarity. Sounds that I had grown up hearing, but never really listened to. I would have just finished eating yet another crappy MESS breakfast of alu-paratha (which was like the Bermuda Triangle for potatoes. They always went missing) and tea that never tasted like tea, but was at least edible. I never regretted leaving home. In fact, I was one of the few girls who didn’t even cry when our parents were leaving after settling us down in the hostel. I was excited. I was scared, of course, but I was excited too. I was about to embark upon an adventure, the very first REAL adventure of my life. Away from the sheltered life that I had grown accustomed to. Away from the city that knew me so well. No more hot home-made food waiting when I get back from classes famished. No more clean clothes that get magically washed and dried and ironed without me having to do anything at all. No more maid to clean the room for me. No more of knowing that no matter how late I get, Acha would come and pick me up. The Sunday morning calls were the one thing that I held on to. They helped me get through the rest of the week. Because I knew that no matter what changed, no matter what disaster had happened during the week, Sunday morning would bring back to me the familiar, and would restore faith in me that all is right with the world. Every time the pressure of assignments and studies got to me, and I wanted to just chuck everything and go back home, the Sunday morning sounds were my strength. They were like my ticket to sanity.

But gradually, the Sunday morning sound calls waned. I stopped calling home to hear them. The regular calls happened, of course. But not the Sunday morning ones. Or rather, it stopped mattering to me. Even if Amma did call me on Sunday mornings, which she almost always does, I never bothered to listen to them. I never paid attention to them. Why is that? Was it because I had grown up and grown out of it? Did I not need my Sunday morning sounds anymore? Did I not need that comfort and familiarity anymore? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because once I moved out of the hostel and started living on my own, I got so wrapped up in ‘being independent’ and ‘fending for myself’, that I didn’t feel the need to hear the familiar sounds. It was not a conscious decision. It’s something that happened without me even realising it had.

I didn’t realise this had happened, until last a few days back, when, the whistle of a pressure cooker from a neighbouring apartment triggered off the memory in my mind. The memory of Sunday morning sounds. And just like that, a hand clenched around my heart. I had this sudden urge to call up Amma and tell her “I called up to hear the Sunday morning sounds, Amma”. But I didn’t. It wasn’t a Sunday, of course. You can’t hear Sunday morning sound s on a Tuesday morning, can you, silly? So I waited.

And this morning, I called up home. And there they were. The radio playing in the background. Pressure cooker whistle. Acha talking to someone. Amma saying that a neighbour had dropped in for a chat.

And all is right with the world again. J

Do you have any such ritual, anything that you do just to reassure yourself that some things never change? Come on, there’s gotta be something.

P.S1: Happy New Year, folks! Have a great one. 

P.S2: I was in a mood to ramble today. To be honest, this post reflects my earliest kind of writing, when I used to write just for the heck of writing, not to be read. I wonder why I'm not able to write like that anymore. I hope I didn't bore you. 

P.S3: P.S's can be annoying no? 

Kinds of people you see at a concert

We went for an Indian Ocean concert on Saturday evening. It was brilliant. They totally rocked it. But that’s not what this post is about.

The concert was at this place called the Music Academy. It’s a HUGE auditorium, with seating upstairs and downstairs. The upstairs seating is quite a distance away from the stage, to be honest. You can’t really connect with the artistes, you know what I mean? So anyways, there was this one guy who, right from when the band appeared on stage, was so enthused, that his energy was quite infectious. He was this typical HCU-JNU ‘buji’ types, you know? Long hair in a pony, kurta and jeans, spectacles, a metal kada on his right wrist (yes, I have a keen sense of observation, sometimes for the most inconsequential of things). He literally couldn’t sit still in his seat. The band started playing. This guy was in his element. Clapping, shouting, whoo-ing. The rest of the audience was looking at him and sniggering, some of them with grudging admiration. And then, after a couple of songs, he just couldn’t contain himself. He got up from his seat, went and stood in the aisle, and stood there for the following two hours. He was standing there all by himself, but I don’t think he cared two hoots.

One word for him. Respect. I SO wanted to go and stand with him and clap and shout like that. But I didn’t. Why, you ask? I guess I was embarrassed. I didn’t want the rest of the audience to look at me and laugh the way there were at him. Pathetic, I know. I preferred to sit in my seat and be an enthu-cutlet.

And that got me thinking. At every concert, you will different kinds of people. Here are the ones I have observed:-

1)      The Tripper

The guy who inspired me to write this post falls into this category, so do many many others I know. They come to the concert purely for the music. For the experience of seeing their favourite band perform live. For them, it’s not just another evening spent listening to music. They really believe in the music. It is an out-of-the-body experience for them. They will be right in front of the stage (or standing in the aisle due to lack of any other choice) and clapping and shouting. They go into a trance. They know all the songs, and they don’t care a fuck whether they get pointed and laughed at. They didn’t come to make a good impression anyway. They came for the music. They came to trip on the music.

I fall into this category partly. I go for the music. But unless I have the right company, I can’t bring myself to stand in front of the stage or in the aisle (Arun, how I missed you at the Swarathma and Indian Ocean concerts, seriously).

The trippers are an absolute joy to have at a concert.

2)      The London Mondon Statues

And on the other end of the spectrum from the Trippers are the London Mondon Statues. They don’t move a muscle. They sit there like statues and give an obligatory clap at the end of each song. In their minds, they’re probably making plans for the next day – what to make for breakfast, what dress to wear to work, when is the due date to pay credit card bills etc. I cannot for the life of me understand how they can sit still like that when music is playing. But then, I for one will move even to a Himesh Reshammiya song. So I’m no one to judge.

3)      The Updaters

“At Indian Ocean concert- so-and-so checked in at Music Academy”. “Oh wow dude. How is it?” “It is awwwsum!”

How would you know? You’re not even listening to the music. You are too busy letting the whole world know that you are at a concert.

And not because they are excited about it. Nope, they just want the whole world to know that they are oh-so-cool. They spend most of the time at the concert giving live updates. But ask them what their favourite song of the band is, they’ll blink at you. Dude, the people on the stage, they deserve a little more respect.

4)      The Record-keepers

They want to take low-resolution videos of the concert from a far distance despite strict instructions that photography and videography is not allowed. Why? How else will they prove to the rest of the world that they actually DID go for the concert? That grainy little video? Yes, that’s the proof. You think I’m being too critical? Let me ask you. This is the digital age. Videos are available all over the net. You can listen to the audio online. Buy CD’s. Why in the world would you want to take a one-minute clip when you can watch several better videos of the same band performing the same song on Youtube? Or is it BECAUSE you want to upload it on Youtube? Ah... ok. NOW it makes sense.

5)      The Pretty People

They come to get their pictures clicked for Page 3. Period.

6)      The Closet-Trippers

Yours truly falls into this category. Given a chance, I would be up there on the stage with the artistes, jumping and tripping on the music. But I don’t do it. Why? I’ll tell you when I figure it out, ok?

So we, as mad as we are about the music, and despite knowing all the songs and the lyrics to them, will not move from our seats. We will sit right there and then proceed to clap and shout and whoo and sway and what-not. We will sing along, we will clap till our hands hurt, we will shout till our throats hurt. But no, but will NOT move from our seats. Go figure.

7)      The Where-am-I-I-Think-I-Lost-My-Way ones

They came in because they had two hours to kill in the evening or wanted to get away from their kids. Oh look! There’s a concert happening! Let’s go! Two songs in, they realise this is not how they wanted to spend their Saturday evening. And they walk out. Well, at least they are honest about it, as opposed to those who come to a concert and proceed to spend the next couple of hours playing Temple Run on their phones.

Which brings me to the next type.

8)      The Tag-alongs

They just came along because someone wanted company. And offered to pay for their tickets. So they thought, “Oh what the hell”. You know exactly who they are because they will be spending most of their time on their phone playing games or reading, will go out every ten minutes to attend “important” phone calls, go out to get things to eat, take umpteen loo breaks, and sometimes disappear for hours and return just ten minutes before the concert ends. They’re harmless, except for when they are sitting next to you, and you’re in the aisle seat, and every ten minutes you have to move back to let them go. You know who they are.

That’s all I can think of for now. How many more do you think there are?

"I miss you" doesn't quite cover it

When people come to know that I’m new to Chennai, the question that naturally follows is “So, how do you like Chennai?” My answer usually is “I don’t, really”. I mean, what’s there to like? It’s hot all the time. You feel exhausted all the time because of the heat. The autowalas will fleece you, given a chance (although it’s slightly better now, what with the meter finally being implemented). It’s a lot more expensive. I don’t have many friends here. I can’t speak Tamil at all. Etc etc etc.

But in my heart of hearts, I know those are just excuses.

The real reason I’m not able to like Chennai is Hyderabad. I miss Hyderabad terribly, like I’ve never missed any person before.

I miss it all the time. Most days, it’s ok. It’s just a fond memory in my mind. A mild longing, more like. It’s been a year since I bid adieu to the place, to my life there. But not a single day has passed when I haven’t thought about those five and a half years, and I let out a wistful sigh. Five and a half short years that gave me a lifetime of lessons and memories. An affair to remember.

But like I said, most days, it’s ok. Just wishful longing.

Then there are days, like today, for example, when the wishful longing makes way for a large gaping hole in my heart. A strong desire to be back there. As though, you know, I need to be there. I need to see the places and people to hang on to my sanity.

And it’s not just a longing for the place. It’s a longing for everything that the place stands for.

Freedom. Adventure. Breaking free. HCU. Midnight strolls around the campus. Love. Life. Passion. Survival. Red FM. Necklace Road station. Uncertainty of life. Heart break. Drinking and tripping on Pink Floyd and Mohit Chauhan and Gulzar and Irshad Kamil... Living alone. Friends. Soul mates. Roommates. Gulmohar Park. Kundan bagh. Old Monk. Coming home to hot yummy food. Endless conversations. Comfortable silences. Orange wall. Knowing that you’ll never be alone and friendless. That your SOS lives just across the street and hovers around you like a satellite. That if you get a craving for biryani in the middle of the night, it WILL be brought to you. I miss being my own master. Not having to bother about what to cook for breakfast, lunch or dinner. I miss reading till late into the night and watching sitcoms back to back on weekends. I even miss the MMTS trains journeys, during which i have made some life-changing decisions. I miss cracking PJs and talking nonsense; nonsense that will be reciprocated with bigger nonsense and not sense and logic. I long to sit on the terrace with Prusty and Pattanaik, watching the moon and singing ‘chand wale gaane’. I miss my comrades and the companionship.

I miss the life that was and never will be again. Because according to some stupid prophet, life has to move on. Whatever.

Date a man who reads

…but DON’T marry him.

When you’re dating, it’s all so cool. You’re proud of the fact that you’re dating a man who reads a lot. You’re thrilled he has more books than he has clothes. You find the idea of you and him, cuddled up in bed, reading, oh-so-romantic. You find that concentration so hot. You’re happy that when it comes to buying gifts for him, you don’t have to rack your brains too much; all you have to do is gift him a book, and he’s the happiest man in the world. You’re already churning up visions of him reading to your children as he tucks them in at night. All that ‘intelligent’ conversation gives you such a high. You melt into little pools of adoration when he quotes from your favourite books, and doesn’t give a second glance at a hot chick passing by when his nose is buried in a book (alright, I exaggerate here. Such a man does not exist. Even with his wife sitting next to him, he will still check out other women. That’s just how they’re wired).

So awesome he is, no?

That’s what I used to think too. I used to find the idea of a guy who reads very attractive. I still do. Especially since reading isn’t a habit that men adapt to naturally. Also because none of my exes were much into reading. They’re a very rare species, the man who likes to read rather than watch cricket or fiddle around with his tab. I’m not saying they don’t exist, but they’re quite rare. To be honest, I have always wanted to cuddle up in bed with my guy, reading, falling asleep with the book open on my face. I have wished that my boyfriend would be awed when he set his eyes on my collection of books (which, incidentally, is bigger than my collection of clothes I think), and would, without wasting an instant, lose himself in them, forgetting about me altogether (yeah, I’m THAT kind of girl. Ignore me for another girl, I will punch your face. Ignore me for a book, I can forgive you). But like I said, none of exes found books as magical and essential as I did. I didn’t grieve too much about it, though. Because they were awesome in their own ways.

Anyways.

God must have thought, so what if you didn’t date a man who reads, puttar? I shall get you married to a man who reads. And you both shall live happily ever after in your home filled with books in every possible nook and cranny.

And that’s exactly what happened. I got married to a man who really does have more books than he has clothes. We cuddle up in bed reading, and when I fall sleep with the book (and my spectacles) on my face, he puts it away very gently, taking care to not wake me up. While all this is super-awesome, I soon found out that being married to a man who reads as much as my husband does, comes with its own share of problems. And what are those, you ask?

1) I keep the milk to boil and tell him to watch it while I go brush my teeth. He does so, with his nose buried in the newspaper. And while he’s busy catching up on what’s happening in the world around him, bang in front of the stove, the milk happily boils over and spills on the stove and kitchen platform. And that, my lovelies, is a sure-shot way to raise your BP right in the morning. Works every time.

2) Me (in the morning):  Please take the trash out, baby.

S: Hmm (but of course, reading)

Me (in the afternoon): Please take the trash out. (an octave higher, this one).

S: Ya… (still reading)

Me (in the evening): Take the trash out!!

S: What? Oh, yes. I will.

Me (next day): Take the fucking trash out! I’ve been telling you since yesterday!

S: Oh sorry. I forgot.

:/

3) The whole family is sitting around talking. Dad, mom, uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, nephews, siblings. We’re all meeting after months. Everyone’s talking at the same time, one over the other. Catching up, gossiping, laughing. And in the midst of all this, one guy sitting silently with –yes, you guessed it- his nose buried in a book. Before our last trip to my native place, I told him that if he did that again, I will throw the book into the pond in my mom’s house. Surprisingly, it worked.

4) Karma can be a real bitch, you know. For all the times that I used to pretty much ignore my mom when she tried talking to me during train journeys because I was too busy reading, God is now paying me back. I get the royal ignore in the train from S, who takes out a book before the train even leaves the station. I have had to grab the book from his hands many times and say to him “Talk to me!”.

5) 8 out of 10 times, he will not be paying attention to anything I’m saying, because he’s too busy reading. And then when I bring the same thing up a few days later, he’ll be all “What?? When did this happen?! You didn’t tell me!!” Umm.. sure I did. Maybe if I had written it in a book and given it you, you would have remembered it better?

6) Reading in the toilet. Need I even elaborate?

7) Sweetheart, do you know why I request that we switch off the lights during sex? Not just because the tubelight is a mood-killer, but also to make sure that you don’t start reading even during the act, in case a book is somewhere there in the vicinity. Because frankly, I wouldn’t put it past you.

8) And to top it all, he has ebooks on his tab as well, which he will bring out when he doesn’t have a book handy. As if I didn’t have enough competition already.

9) We were travelling by a night bus to Palakkad a couple of weeks back. Since it’s a night bus, they’ll obviously switch off the lights. So I thought “Thank god, at least now he won’t read and will talk to me instead”. And out comes the stupid fuckall smart phone in which- no prizes for guessing!!- he has ebooks stored! That pushed me over the threshold. I would’ve thrown it out of the window if it hasn’t been an AC bus. I made up for that loss by confiscating the phone and keeping it in my handbag for a while. Can you imagine!!

So ladies, don’t complain that your guy spends too much time on his phone and tab. Consider yourself lucky. I, on the other hand, have to compete with books, magazines, ebooks, newspapers, tabs, smartphones-with-expandable-memory-that’ll-allow-you-to-store-damn-ebooks, the internet, brochures, condom packs, cereal cartons, CD covers, Wikipedia, “I fucking love science”, graffiti on the walls, blah blah blah.  

But the silver lining to all this is that I can spend as much as I want on books and he’ll never ask me why. Ha!

P.S. I love you. Which, by the way, is a book by some lady, in case you want to read that as well.