Oscar/Booker Winning Story 'The English Patient' - A Book Review

If ever a book was written to stir your senses to dizzying heights, it’s ‘The English Patient’. Sometimes like the lilting touch of a kiss, sometimes the prancing pace of a musical verse, sometimes the piercing stab of a needle, sometimes the burning pain of a hot iron… the book affects you in every imaginable way. The third novel of the Sri Lankan born Canadian novelist Michael Ondaatje, it follows the same sensual and lyrical but spare style of his earlier novels, and build upon them this time with a passionately pictorial prose and an intricate but tantalizing story.

The second world war is coming to an end in Italy, and a Canadian nurse Hanna, emotionally jaded by the death and destruction of the war, seeks refuge in the abandoned villa of San Girolamo. She chooses to make the care of an unrecognizably burnt patient her mission - a patient called ‘The English Patient’ because that’s the only language he seems to know.

Shortly afterwards, the villa sees the arrival of two more key characters – the thief Caravaggio, an acquaintance of Hanna from her childhood days in Toronto, and Kip (Kirpal Singh), a Sikh soldier who is part of the bomb disposal squad of the British Army. The interplay between these characters and an occasional solitary dip into the memories of the burnt man lead us to the slow unraveling of the man's past.

And what a past it is! A middle-aged explorer deeply in love with the desert, falling for the beautiful, young wife of a friend, leading to a wildly passionate and achingly beautiful romance. From this point in life, we will either find or lose our souls. The woman developing a burning sense of guilt at having betrayed her simple husband. And then withdrawing. We will never love each other again. Followed by anger from his side. Madness. I just want you to know. I don’t miss you yet. His face awful to her, trying to smile.

The lovers separate. But the husband comes to know about the affair somehow and tries to kill them all in a plane crash. Almasy the explorer survives, George Clifton, the husband doesn’t. And the centre of it all, the willowy woman, the one with the classical blood in her face, the one whose voice the weary, hardened explorer had first fallen in love with, Katharine Clifton - she is injured, almost fatally. What happens after that, I will leave you to find out by reading ‘The English Patient’.

In between, we are also treated to another delicious fare – the childlike, vervy romance that develops between Hanna and the soldier Kirpal and occasional flashbacks into how Kirpal has become the smart and courageous, but carefree bomb disposal soldier that he is. And parallel to that, the shenanigans of the thief Caravaggio, who for his own personal reasons, is bent upon discovering the true identity of the English Patient.

Going back and forth between Almasy’s past and this present, the book at times almost drives you to tears with its haunting description of the love between Almasy and Katherine, Hanna and Kirpal. And at other times, leaves you marveling at the lyricism and strength of the prose (and the research behind it) that turns even as dry a subject as bomb disposal into a riveting thriller.

Definitely a book to buy and cherish. No wonder it won the Booker!

After The First Kiss

A bit of self promotion - My book, a romantic thriller called 'A Dilli-Mumbai ♥ Story', is coming on bookshelves this May.

Celebrations followed the first kiss.

Not the kind where you eat nice things, burst crackers, and catching hold of your love by her waist, swing her around and say, ‘hey! Let’s mambo’; but where it takes place inside the heart, hidden, the joy unnoticed by any except for a pair of swallows about who you could wonder, what the hell were they were doing at this time of the evening out on the trees when it was so damn cold, and you sat down at a quiet place in the garden close to each other and yet shivering, tried to get closer, and then face to face, so close, you suddenly found your lips almost touching, and then imitating a nearby dream, reciting the beginnings of its rarefied verses, you let them tantalizingly brush against each other’s, and then again, and again, cupping the verses, drinking, more of them, then missing something deeply, savagely, trying to tear out that which continuously slipped from your hold, the verses now gone and in their place an anger, an intense pain, the strings of a violin tweaked till they were almost torn, and still the scorching want, to pull her inside you, to decimate, you wanted in your arms... nothing.

And then defeated, you parted, and yet it was a sweet defeat, because all that was inside you had gushed out, almost bringing out tears, the biting cold clawing out the slabs in the mountain that had blocked a spring, the unbearable pain replaced by a calm emptiness. And the world looked beautiful, the moon whiter, the snow clad treetops like monks clad in white fur gazing down at you with a beautiful smile and you laughing at what you had just imagined, the night cozy because day was much harsher, you wanted more swallows, and there was suddenly so much of happiness when you remembered the future will bring more kisses.

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A Beautiful Suicide

"Meera!"

She is in love. She was in love. She would always be in love. Always. She puts her left palm on her heart as a gesture of promise to him. Always. They can take away her life but they cannot take away that.

She looks at the shallow silver cup before her that contains the thick blackish poison, bends down, and curls her fingers around the cold stem. As she picks the cup up in a sweeping gesture her fingers shake a little and the surface of the liquid frizzles creating a little wave. She sees him, a tiny him, riding on the crest of that wave. He is smiling his benevolent smile. In one hand is his flute. He waves at her with his other hand and then spreads his arms beckoning her to come into their realm. It calms her and her fingers stop shaking. She smiles back at him. The surface of the liquid comes to rest again.

He then bends down and touches the surface with his finger. A slight touch. She sees the drop of vermillion form at the point, and then it spreads outward like a wave of redness till it hits the walls. She now holds a red liquid in the cup, bright red. She dips her middle finger in the cup, and draws her finger in a red line where her hair parts on her scalp as a symbol of weddedness. She is wedded to him. He smiles at her, a playful smile acknowledging the gesture, and touches the liquid again, now turning it the color of saffron. He then looks at her with raised eyebrows and a thin smile, his lips in a slight pout, as if asking her what she would do now. She nods her head once, acknowledging the challenge. Rising to it, she thinks for a moment, and then begins pouring the liquid over her dress, her shapely hands in a slow dance around her lithe body, turning it the color of saffron. She pours the liquid till all of her is clad in saffron. She is parted from the world now. She looks at him flashing a triumphant smile. "I am as good as you."

He smiles back, and turns the liquid yellow. She smears it in a straight line over the length of her nose. He turns it green. She throws it around herself, on the objects in the room and on the walls, turning the world around her green. He turns it blue. She paints her body blue. He turns it indigo. She daubs her eyelashes in it. He turns it violet. She is lost. What will she do now? She looks around the room searching for a solution. Then she finds it, tucked on the forehead of her lover. She asks him for the feather of the peacock he has. He gives it, albeit reluctantly, knowing he has lost the game, and she smears the violet onto the feather. He bows to her in defeat.

“Meera!” a gruff voice resounds in the room behind her. She hears the clobber of the heavy steps as they slowly near her. She looks at him, her eyes pleading for help. He smiles at her, his face ethereal, and she feels the soft radiance of his smile. Warmth floods her. Then he bends down and dips his finger in the liquid again, and whiteness swirls into the liquid riotously. It froths and foams, and then comes to a sudden rest. It looks milky white. He extends his right hand asking her to come to him. She looks at him, looks at the cup, and then feeling the sudden weight of a heavy hand on her shoulder, she tips the milky contents of the cup into her mouth.

After some time, when people come in to carry her away, they do not find evidence of the painful death by poison they expected. Her face is beautiful as before, enveloped in a serene smile, though the black poison trickles down the side of her mouth. They are astonished. The news of the strange death of the princess spreads through the kingdom like wildfire.

The Beauty Seeker

Seek
When you have time
A beauty
That is perfect
But for once
Not in reflections
About past, present or morrow
Not in feelings
Of intense joy
Or deep sorrow
That has been and will be again
In countless things
Seen and unseen

Or in nature
That ephemeral element
The azure expanse
The emerald spread
The figures erect
They came and went

Just spread your wings within yourself
And journey beyond
Those realms of faith, reality or truth
To that place
Unbound
Dark and dense

Where one can
At will
Tie knots
Or lay carpets
Sylvan
On the ground or
In the sea

Sew a maze
Of runes golden and bright
With moonbeams in day
Or with sunbeams at night

Embroider a wish
Written
In those gleaming runes
With kisses sylphish
And sweet
And soft magical tunes

Sing a song
With those lilting notes
And join the dance
Of the swirling
Silvery motes
Persuaded by the breeze
As it croons and lingers
On your cheek
And bestows a kiss
When your hands caress it
Like a passionate lover
From tip to toe
With your waving fingers

Conduct a symphony
Of the thuderous music
Made by the storm
As it moldes
The sand dunes of tales untold
Dead and cold
Breathing life and warmth
In the somnolent folds
And the motes glow
Like embers instead
In the crimson morn

There
When this storm
Of Passion
Kindles the flame
Of Imgination
And illuminates
Every dark recess
Awakens
Every drowsy emotion
You might find
What you seek to possess.

Verify

Life Insurance - Why taking Endowment Policy Doesn't Make Sense!!

Disclaimer - I am an IIM Ahmedabad alumnus and VP in an education company, and have nothing far and wide to do with insurance sector :) I write this as an informed customer. Anyway, let's begin.

Recently, I took a life insurance policy. And as most people would have experienced, I was advised to take an 'endowment policy' (instead of a 'term' policy). An amazing number of people, unlike me, take that advice. And make the insurance company happy (losing money in the process obviously).

Commonsensical isn't it, to ask the evergreen question "Kitna deti hai?"

Well, in this case, it's actually not. Unless, you are adding the phrase "Tapakne ke baad" before that "Kitna deti hai" question of yours - that is how much do I get after I die? Because that's the only thing a life insurance policy should be about.

But most people don't do that. They add, quite wrongly, another dimension to it. They look for some money in the form of returns even before the 'tapakna' happens - treating it like some kind of mutual fund in addition to life insurance.

Well... guess what? You are flushing your money down the toilet if you do that.

To understand why, imagine what life insurance is in its pure form. It's called 'Term' insurance - and in my opinion, the only form of life insurance worth taking. How does 'Term' insurance works?

Imagine a group of 500 in which there is a serial killer. The serial killer murders 1 person, and only 1 person, in a year. No one knows who that person is (I mean the guy who dies, not the serial killer; everyone knows who the serial killer is). Since you belong to that group too, you could be the one getting murdered! (You are loving me, don't you :)

Anyway, the chance of you dying is obviously is very small, since the serial killer has no particular preference for your blood. The chance is only 1 out of 500. Now life insurance is simply a pot where these 500, totally frightened people, deposit money for a year. And since you could get murdered too, even though the chance is very small, you also contribute your amount in the hope that your nominee will live richly after you have kicked the bucket. In the end, a murder happens and one person takes out all the money from the pot - the nominee of the person who is murdered. Simple!

So if everyone contributes 7000 a year - the total amount is 7000 times 500 equals 35 lakhs. Now the insurance company is a generally vella dude who spends all his time collecting money on behalf of the group, and the group pays him a salary of 5 lakh to do the job. The rest 30 lakhs goes to the nominee of the 1 person who was murdered.

Meanwhile the next year arrives and the group prepares for the next murder and the vella insurance dude goes around collecting money and life (and murder) goes on. Thrilling, isn't it! And yes, no points for guessing who the popular serial killer is and why no CID is being brought to catch him.

Well, that's 'Term' insurance. So what's 'Endowment' then? And why doesn't it make sense to take it.

Go back to the 'Term' thing - remember why it works. Well, it works precisely because if you don't get murdered and you don't die, you get nothing. And so the one who dies gets everything. That's the basic mathematics behind insurance - distributing risk of anything going wrong over many. Everything in insurance, life, vehicle, medical, works from this principle. Many people pay for one person.

Compare that to an 'Endowment' policy. Everyone's getting something at the end (whatever the insurance companies pay you)! How's that possible? That violates the basic principle of insurance! And I am sure you know there is no free lunch in life.

Well... this is what is happening. The insurance company is taking money from you more than the 7000 that was required (go back to the 'serial killer in the group' example if you are confused where the 7000 came from) ... 14000... 15000... 16000... whatever, and investing the extra money it has taken in stocks/mutual funds etc. The returns that it promises you as part of 'Endowment' is basically return from that investment of that extra money. (Note the word extra!)

So, what's wrong with that? Nothing wrong essentially... except it's somewhat similar to going to a dentist to have your eyes checked. What's wrong with that? After all, both are doctors!

No, that's stupid, you will likely say, won't you? Both are doctors, but both are experts in different organs! The dentist will do a poor job of checking your eyes!

Well... taking 'Endowment' policy from an insurance company is stupid in a similar way! Insurance companies are experts in 'insurance', not in 'investment', even though both may come under financial products (like the way both eyes and teeth are your organs too).

Insurance is about maximizing the money in the pot for you (in case you die) by choosing a group of people least likely to die, and then having a strong collection system so that everyone pays their share, and then doing strong checks to make sure the 'murdered' person has indeed been murdered and is not faking it thereby cheating the group. That requires a very different set of knowledge and skills when compared to the knowledge and skills required to invest your money well (in the way being a dentist requires different knowledge and skills from being an ophthalmologist).

So to go to an insurance company, and pay them extra money in the form of an 'endowment' policy' so they can manage it for you and pay you some returns in the end is similar to going to a dentist and letting him have a look at your eyes just because he is a doctor too.

You don't want to do that. If you have money, stop buying 'endowment' policies, and invest that extra money (beyond what you would pay for a 'Term' policy) into pure investment products by going to a company that specializes in investment (FDs, PFs, Mutual funds, stocks, Gold ETFs whatever). Which will be very similar to going to an ophthalmologist if you want to have your eyes checked or an orthopedist if your muscles are giving trouble. And very wise too!

'Insurance' and 'Investment' are two conceptually separate financial products, with totally different mathematics governing them, and though you may not understand that maths (I hope now you do understand the basic math for insurance at least; if in doubt, go back to the 'serial killer in a group' example) , please treat them and invest in them separately. That is the next time you are tempted to buy an endowment policy, hold your wallet, calculate the extra money you are paying (minus the 'Term' policy) and invest that money separately.

If you do that, I guarantee you will make more money doing that than what is promised to you in the form of endowment. (In fact, just do a simple FD in a nationalized bank with that extra money, and you will make more)

Then why people choose endowment in such large numbers? Why? Because of... Well, I am sure you know it too.

You had it too right? - The painful feeling of not getting anything in the end (unless you died) despite paying so much year after year. It hurts, it bites. Kuch toh mil jaye yaar, nahin bhi mare toh. In business, it's called the 'psychology of loss' - human beings hate to lose, much more than they love to gain. And businesses know how to exploit that.

So year after year, you are willing to pay the insurance company money just to avoid that feeling of immediate loss that comes with buying 'Term' insurance. Even though you are making true losses in the long run by foregoing the gains you would have made if you invested the extra money well.

I know that feeling - that'psychology of loss'. But I also had enough knowledge and sense to overcome it, and thus take action that will make for me real money in the long run. So I bought 'Term' insurance. If I tapkofy in the next 5 years, my parents will be so much the richer. And if I don't die, well... I know I will be richer coz I know how to invest sensibly - where to invest and where NOT to.

The Art of Giving A Rose

And then there was the matter of the rose.

There were nine days more to go when I decided upon the D-day, and I am certain that there would be few generals who would have planned as much even for a battle as I did for the declaration of my love. Truly it was no laughing matter. There were so many things to consider. And of course how to give the rose was the most important of them.

To be frank, unlike most people I wasn’t overly fond of that flower or its smell. That is why around the time I was in my final year in college, I had vigorously pushed for replacing the few poor examples of a rose plant that we had in our garden with chrysanthemums, and in spite of facing stiff opposition from my sister, had made mom yield to my demand.

Well, it appeared as if the ghosts of those roses that owing to my intense lobbying had suffered an untimely death had returned to haunt me in my dreams. Because now I saw roses often - during daytime and by night, while snoozing on the sofa or while lying curled up on the bed, whether taking a nap or going for a niner, whenever my eyes closed on their own.

Also, I had never known that roses could be shape-shifters. For I saw one that, when I was on the verge of presenting it to my girl, suddenly grew awfully big thorns as if it had come straight out of a science fiction horror, making her draw back in fear. Or one that shed its petals before her as swiftly as elected politicians broke promises, leaving in my hands the bare stem. One of the nights I even saw a rose that made wings of its petals and glided out of my hands like a helium filled balloon, twirling upwards towards the blue infinity till it disappeared from our gaze as we watched on helplessly.

My nightmares made my sister comment that why didn’t I put my dreams on paper - I might win a Pulitzer, they were such jewels of imagination. I reminded her Pulitzers were reserved only for Americans. She said in that case I should rather focus on how to get the real thing done, than dreaming up stupid dreams about it. To begin with, I was so idle I hadn’t even yet decided from where to get the rose.

This charge was false. While she was right that I hadn’t made up my mind about the flower shop, it was simply because none of the roses I had seen measured up to what I wanted. A rose that I could point to and say to the shop owner: ‘Yes, I want something that good on Friday.’ Well, I didn’t know that hard as I searched, no rose, however beautiful, would be sufficient to fulfill my expectations; smell sweet enough to be presented as a token of my love.

There was something else weighing heavily on my mind. Where to carry that damned rose? Because I wanted to talk to my girl for some time before giving the flower to her. I didn’t want to be abrupt, wishing to lead her to the topic slowly, as she had once guided me on a muddy path, hopping with nimble steps from stone to stone.

Also, since we both worked in a school, I had to take classes before I could have the opportunity of meeting her alone, and I couldn’t possibly walk into the school with a red rose in my hand without raising eyebrows. I might as well have announced my intentions on a loudspeaker. And though I could have decided to bunk my classes and arrive at school just around the time when she became free, in order to minimize the damage to the rose, an inner voice told me that gods might not be too pleased with this shirking of duty for personal reasons. Not being keen to offend them right then, I dropped the idea.

It was quite clear that I couldn’t carry the rose in my shirt or jeans pockets, for they were rather small and would have made mincemeat of the flower by the time I decided to bring it out. My bag was the next alternative and a good one too; I could easily carry it around while chatting with my sweetheart. However, a field experiment I performed with it led to the early demise of a pretty specimen and so that option had to be abandoned too.

Then I briefly flirted with the idea of carrying the rose in an opaque polyethylene bag. But my sister baulked at it saying she had never heard anything more unromantic, and even I fell in line after she asked me to imagine the scene myself. Try taking a rose out of a polybag!

At last, after thinking on the matter for two whole days, me and my sister arrived at the conclusion that to succeed in my endeavor of carrying the rose hidden safely to its desired destination, I had no choice but to wear my navy blue blazer as it was fitted with a roomy inner pocket that had space enough for even a big rose.

People who have lived in Western India in the month of May would probably comment that if all I wanted was to roast myself alive, I might as well have committed suicide and gone to hell. It would have served my intention better. But as the saying went, sometimes one had to make great sacrifices in love, and sweating profusely in the middle of May while articulating sweet nothings had to be one of mine I presume. Moreover as my sister pointed out to boost my courage, I looked quite handsome in the blazer. I prayed to the almighty that he make things better by making the day cooler.

My sister had three more instructions to offer in her “how to give a rose successfully” course. That I should, at intervals of an hour, sprinkle the petals with water so that the rose stayed fresh till the time I gave it. I was also to wrap it in a small polyethylene cover, both to preclude the possibility of the petals getting scratched or my blazer’s getting wet. In addition before giving it to my sweetheart, I should smoothen the stem with a penknife, so that she did not feel any discomfort while holding it.

It was the only time I sincerely wished I was a girl.