Hit me baby one more time!

The Gods must be crazy, and the goblins running the rumour mill crazier. For the latest on the grape vine, which hangs heavy with sour bunches, is that if you are good looking by some standard you get more readers on your blog. That it is not about writing any more, like it was once (for after all, Shakespeare did manage plenty of hits). That it is all about features which match the ideal assets the fantasies in your reader-head enjoy. Insulting, sad and unbelievable, all at the same time. But who is surprised?

Picture this. 

A stranger who considered himself a brilliant-but-wronged writer asked me to write a post for him and him for me. An experiment that would involve us to publish each other’s works in our own names and exchange the hits number at the end of the day. He wanted to prove that content is not king, but pretty faces are queens, and that under my hat his ink will find kisses while mine will fade in comparison. I politely refused, finding the totally resistible offer slightly offensive for implying my writing unworthy of sustaining a readership and also realizing soon enough that some heads which hate to take no for an answer even fail to spot nonsense planted in their own. His parting words threw ‘you vane woman’ at me. But before I could tell him to make that ‘vain’, he had vanished into thin air. Probably hiding in another’s inbox which acted abettor in his research crime to make me publish, in my name, something written by a dude whose commas and punctuation were like drunk ants doing striptease atop an express train. With full stops flying everywhere, off course, of course! 

To think that someone's else's balderdash flowing from upturned toilet bins can make you think … 

Reminded me of a man asking his wife to pick a gynaecologist who was the least good looking of the lot, for that meant she spent more time studying medicine properly rather than in front of a mirror. Hence, a better doctor! So strange that his wife would believe him; all ten manicured nails and highlighted hair of hers included, to pop her kid out! So strange again that we have reached Mars but our minds sit cosy inside a caveman’s animal skin toga, quivering with inferiority or envy on spotting in others physical features matching brain quotient in their sharpness.
   

And you don’t even need to be blonde any more to take the sh** cake! I talk of only one segment, where Blogging meets Bollywood and apparently proves that if you have the right face you need have nothing more, for then a good number of readers and publishers will follow as night follows day. And good writing, well, who needs that anyway.  Isn’t the dude who sent me the message for a life-changing research sitting without a woman’s bullet lodged in his chest?  

First things first; thank you for the compliment. It is super to know one belongs to a good looking genepool. For such fortunate planetary disposition I thank God first, then my parents, Galileo, some of my favourite teachers, Mendel, my dog Timmy, Darwin and the latest ladybug stuffed toy we got and named Gaston (after Gaston in Ben and Holly, that is).

And now for some serious talk. 

Pray, what is wrong with making oneself look good? Of showing aligned teeth in profile pictures or legs-above-the-knee in party ones? Of knowing the waist-to-shoulder proportion is perfect or that the face turned leftish looks best? Does colour on my lips make me any more fake than the free-flowing compliment on yours? That kohl in my eyes is as much a part of my outdoors as is my phone, and it is me who decides if the blush is pink or not there at all. About berries, I love to eat them and wear them too, sun shine or star light I decide. Only me!

Such misplaced are the times that a pretty picture in ‘About me’ on your site can make not just men but women too to attribute to you feats the very devil on your shoulders would shudder to perform. Of course, the devil may make you pout those lips, all the way from your timelines to theirs. But then you wonder, why bother, why kiss and make up with a dinosaur or use terms like sexist or feminist for brains which think no bigger than a pea.  

And more importantly, how, just how does a blogger's face conforming to conventional ideas of beauty make a reader spend 2 minutes and 30 seconds (average, Alexa says) reading a post about a book review or a short story, leaving behind feedback which proves they were paying attention and not fantasizing sipping coffee with her mascaraed eyes? It is not as if I'm picking my peasant skirt just over my knee to hitch a ride. Even if I were, why did you stop the car? If you expected to see me in my Sunday best lingerie in a post about exactly that, then, delusional reader, it tells everything about you and zilch about me, apart from saying nothing about the others who enjoy reading me. And who, gasp and fume and beat your chest as you may, keep those ‘hits’ coming in! Quite steadily!

I don’t hang around your breed to know enough about it, but I can still advise. How about you experiment on your own the next time around, without trying to rope in a pretty face allegedly unfairly enjoying it all or posting anonymous comments on Blogger Confession pages with the courage of a rat in the deep end of a pool? You don’t even need to doll yourself up. Just make sure the grammar is in place, creativity bribed in and something, anything, unique enough about it to make your readers want to ‘hit’ you again. You need the support of imagination and language, not a wonder bra for sustained readership. You see, you need to turn that gaze in the right direction to get inspired, and that direction is not another’s body. In the mean time, don’t forget to remain polite and pleasant. Sweetness is fashionably under rated, and last I checked it helps you look good too!

PS – You saw the picture on the top, didn't you? How silly and stupid I looked. But you still read me to the end? Hm! That would be another 2 minutes and 30 seconds.

Thank you for ‘hitting’ me, baby, one more time! 

[WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts. The prompt for today was - Opposite Day - If you normally write non-fiction, post a photo. If you normally post images, write fiction. If you normally write fiction, write a poem. If you normally write poetry, draw a picture - As you can see, I did post a picture, but then I had to write too. I just had to!]

Book Review – Vicky Goes Veg by Vicky Ratnani

'Chaat, to lick, so you know what I mean. Crunchy, healthy and sexy. This is how I look at and interpret today’s eating habits and trends,' says Vicky Ratnani.

Now, I am the kind who calls buttering my bread cooking. My gas cylinder lasts me months, and when my oven is switched on it is to warm food which was cooked to celebrate something special the previous day – say, Messi’s goal, 100,000 hits on the blog, and so on. For all other times, I work up … a meal, somehow! May sound a tad hyperbolic in keeping with my Punjabi roots, but really, this is as close as it gets to my culinary truth. And so, I had to laugh out loud when I was asked to review none other than Vicky’s latest book. I agreed to, but with a rider attached - that I will not furnish my own versions/recipes of any of this Master Chef’s dishes. Because, dear reader, I simply cannot.

About the Book

‘Vicky Goes Veg’ is vegetarianism made mouth-watering and fun. The dishes hail from all over the world but come with an Indian twist. So you will find Braised Plantain with Thai spices sharing green space with Hing-roasted Pumpkin, Vegetable Shepherd’s Pie, and so on. A lovely mix of countries and ingredients, with pinches of Vicky’s special masala combinations. From salads and soups and party starters, to one-pot meals and sweeties, the book leaves no course unturned. My favourite ones from the collection were - Minted Chickpeas and Crispy Orka, Roasted Red Pepper Soup, Stromboli, Green Chilli and Raw Mango Risotto and Lemon and Basil Panna Cotta.

At your coffee table, you will sit turning the pages and savouring the recipes way beyond the last drop in your mug is consumed, not just because the dishes are interesting for someone who likes cooking vegetarian food but also because the book presents them as nothing less than gorgeous. This is not pocket sized cook book with procedures in black and white. ‘Vicky Goes Veg’ carries some wonderful photographs – be they of Vicky’s well-known-on-TV expressions or of food and ingredients. Each page is designed to delight. What caught my eye the most were pictures 'from the old world subzi mandis to the new vegetable bazaars' and of the 'people behind it'. Vicky believed in turning the limelight on the grass roots even as he cooked roots and grasses in his well-known kitchen. I found this personal touch endearing and one which added character to this compilation.

Apart from the presentation and graphics, the content of the book – the methodology of cooking each dish - is put in a simple, step-by-step manner. The language is more conversational than scientific and dotted with Vicky’s ready wit and homely analogies. The dishes, even to my green eyes, seemed earthy, fuss free and easy to make, enough to give a home-cook-sans-caliber like me confidence to try them. What added to the experience of learning were tiny coloured boxes floating on each page – carrying anything from tips and tricks to trivia from across the world. Even suggestions like 'pass this recipe on to the bhutta wallah – he’ll simply love you for it!' for BBQ Corn with Chilli and Lime Butter. 

About Vicky

If you watch his cookery show on television, you will in part know already what Vicky Ratnani stands for. I find him fun, endearing, casual yet meticulous, super talented and making you believe exactly that about yourself too. In tees and jeans he’ll use hands more than ladles and make you feel at home with his comfortable style of cooking. And, as luck would have it and culinary Gods willed it, I found someone who knew him in person to tell us more about Vicky Ratnani. 

Ramanjeet Singh is a chef at his family's Green Hotel and Restaurant, in Pathankot. Some questions that I mailed him to cash in on this coincidence got the following replies:

Q: How do you know Vicky Ratnani?

I have been a great admirer of Vicky for the last many years and never missed a TV show of his in my life. I met him for the first time through social networking. Gradually, over shared interests and professions, we became good friends. I consider him my professional idol and am glad to have him around as a friend and a guide. 

Q: What sets him apart as a celebrity chef?

Vicky is first a chef and then a celebrity. He loves his job more than the flood lights of fame on him. He is humble beyond measure and it amazes me. It is this that gets reflected in every dish that he creates. They are honest, practical and of course, delicious. 

Q: Do you make Vicky’s signature dishes in your restaurant?

Many. I serve many of Vicky’s creations regularly to serve my customers. Some of the popular ones are Cafe O’ Latte, Chicken Escallops, Sloppy Joe and Mango Pepper Cheese Cake. The last dish is my all-time favourite from his kitchen; that is, till now. He is constantly inventing and I am sure I will have a new favourite soon. 

Q: A secret about Vicky?

He is crazy about Mughlai food. And yes home-made pickles too. That's the way to Vicky's heart!

‘Vicky Goes Veg’ is one of the better cookbooks on my shelf. For all the reasons mentioned above and also because it's creator won me over with this - 'Don’t watch the calories when you eat. Trust me, these sinful calories are completely worth it. Enjoy your life!'

Now that fits my bill just right!

Title: Vicky Goes Veg
Author: Vicky Ratnani
Publisher: Collins
2013

[Tying this up with WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts. The prompt for today was - Earworm - Write whatever you normally write about, and weave in a book quote, film quote, or song lyric that’s been sticking with you this week.]

Orkut and my wedding anniversary

I received a goodbye mail from Orkut yesterday, the first social networking site I had bungee jumped into sans any strings attached to my teenage feet. Having failed to keep itself as popular as other sites, Orkut was shutting shop and with a letter titled ‘Farewell to Orkut’ I was being invited to collect half my virtual lifetime’s worth of archives to store in a Zip folder and preserve, perhaps, for a day when it will seem antiquated enough to be material for personal museums. Or maybe, because some of us have memories all hues attached to our presences, our identities and our relationships on that site, and which deserved space in our present and our future too. 

I do. And to be honest, Orkut’s retirement has saddened me.

Not that I have been there in the past few years. I live on Facebook, where most of us do now. So, much like an infidel, I too have found greener, more fun pastures to work and network through; enough to gradually forget passwords once created by a much younger mind and beyond the memory of this older one. But you know how, so often, certain objects no longer as significant as they were in our past lives get pushed back into drawers only to be found on a spring-cleaning day, or when a serendipitous reminder of it from unseen hands drops into our letter box? That is what happened yesterday, for that farewell Orkut letter in my inbox came like a steam engine roaring me awake to stories I had become too busy to even think back about. 

Of how my friends removed all Capricorn cobwebs from my old-fashioned mind and conspired to open my Orkut account for me. I needed to be where it’s at, according to them. Over guffaws and word-play a password was decided which I noted down, oh fear of forgetting and stupidity combined, on the front page of a diary – like a label we fix on a child’s almanac in bold red. Thankfully, a kid brother is called exactly that for a reason, and my giggly girly life and times on Orkut continued without prying eyes, till the password acquired maturity of thought, and my practices on the site grew away from child-like curiosity to a carefully contained way of expression becoming of a 20-something. Thankfully, by then I had met enough new people to call friends, joined the requisite communities of schools and colleges and bribed enough with cuppas to write glorifying testimonials for me. Thankfully!  

Because somewhere around that time, I met my husband. On Orkut.

A crazy coincidence of a common friend spotting me in our hometown later he sent me a ‘scrap’, one which he refuses to acknowledge even today, putting on me the ‘blame’ for having sent a friend request too, which actually, he did. I swear! But we were in each other’s lists now. All else (and everyone else too, much to their chagrin) lay forgotten as my Orkut time flowed like a river towards him, and him alone. We made up for all the kind of talk we never did when we continued prudes in school together, stealing glances but mostly squabbling over assemblies and toilet duties. Over messages and comments, we discovered each other, and how we had grown away from what we were. Some Suns later phone numbers were exchanged, and a quickly planned cup of coffee too. After four cups of which, during which time we kept falling a little more in love, we got married. So clichéd, but true!

Of course, the wedding ceremony was not on Orkut. Which reminds me, we turn seven in a few days. And the timing of bye-bye Orkut knocking on our marriage anniversary date brought back memories tinted pink, and also, a lump in my throat. So strange, but true! 

There is more brouhaha about social networking sites than genuine ha-ha on them now. Established researches as well as those born out of a day’s mood advice, almost implore us to not be tempted to remain online too long, cut ten hours to five, five to two, or leave, deactivate and never come back to live a longer, wrinkle-free life. Schoolmarms are defining ‘optimum’ usage, mothers of under-age users ‘the right behavior’. And I agree, for there can exist a dark underbelly to updates shared and relationships forged, or forced, in spaces like FB. And it gets tiring. Exhausting, to keep the hellos up and smiles aglow. And hurtful to learn that what seemed real was just fluff for another. For if forged and forced begin with an ‘f’, so does faked. After more than a decade of enjoying my virtual networks, how unfortunate that days preceding this post shows me how true this is. 

And then I wonder to myself how is it that I continue so happily socially networking, never annoyed with another’s over-doses or wary about my own? Meeting people, making friends, tooting my horn and tom-toming like an over-immune-to-censure cheer girl too? Is it because I believe good things become better and dreadful things less dreary when shared? Yes. Or does FB take away the lonely from alone days and thus gives me company? That too, yes! But most of all, as I sit and seek answers to inexplicable behavior patterns in my virtual life which never reared their heads in the days of Orkut, I wonder. 

I wonder if we other our evils as we blame a website like FB for ruining relationships, and not ourselves for never having genuinely meant to forge them. I wonder if nonchalance and intolerance towards another on www is a photocopy of our attitudes outside of it. I wonder too if the excuse of ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ through four albums of a friend's holiday pictures online was relevant in days before the internet when people lived not just like next door neighbours but as family too, crossing over rooftops to borrow dry red chillis or cups of sugar. And I wonder if we want to walk an extra mile to keep, to preserve bonds which do for sure get formed, or lose them all to what fashion asks, lobbies demand, or the queen of a club commands!

Gone are the days of gay abandon and fuss-free minds that Orkut stood for, for me. Of interest in interesting people, or boring boredom itself away. Of a virtual avatar whose behavior no one measured in a petri-dish. Of finding strangers who became permanent friends and translating a foe into a husband. Perhaps, once upon a time we bothered to make amends. To make peace. Talk, hammer, order, order, objection sustained or over-ruled, but sorted! Whereas today, we simply press ‘delete’. And right after that, sign a declaration proclaiming the 101 ways in which FB could be your death.

Just wondering. Anyway.

I remember I dilly-dallied with his proposal seven years back, when Orkut was alive and kicking and not waving goodbye. All ifs and buts that could be born were given birth to, and voiced. My greatest fear remained that our relationship would change with time. And instead of saying ‘Oh! It won’t. Please don’t worry!’ he had said ‘I assure you it would. It would change to exactly what we want it to become!’

He was right. 

I will miss Orkut. Perhaps, this wedding anniversary I will get that O-shaped cake to cut which our friends almost got for us then. For now, time to download a truck-load of the best online memories to pickle and preserve, for even they are changing shades as time goes by. 

Imagine what magic the aroma will create when my son opens the lid, someday!

Foot-see and Me

It was my first time. 

Don’t ask how old I was, for by many standards it was late enough to have ushered in at least three babies, if not four. Perhaps, a few dinosaurs too. But so what? Don’t they say there is a right time for everything, and if indecisiveness, ignorance or fear-of-the-unknown has delayed the much needed, blame the lateness on a cocktail of Karma and Kismet with a dash of Zodiac? That is exactly what I was doing as I bathed and perfumed myself, and dressed it all up in Sunday best. Especially the tiny vales between my ten toes, you know, where the dirt unseen rests feeling cosily at home till you discover it one day when it has formed a tiny hill there, much like termites. Or moles. I wore my best flip-flops to walk to the occasion too. 

After all, I was going for my virginal pedicure. 

A lot of firsts happen after your marriage. Ouch! But many in the days just before it too. Somewhere in my 20s I was off to a salon which promised me the most freebies (read pint-sized bottle of Bisleri, a mug of coffee, an umbrella stand to hang my coat/dupatta). Freebies, for the palatial fortune I was to exchange for just getting my dear nails clipped. Moral of the story till now being, I like freebies, and that then I had no idea about pedicures.

A separate section called ‘Foot-see’ opened into a pink and black room lined with chairs which would put the PM’s gaddi to shame - with their grandeur, their gadgetry and the chest-size of the gentlemen standing behind them. Men? Suddenly my nervous lips licked the lip gloss away and my toes twisted into such strange positions of awkwardness that they could just have been possessed with the spirit of an ashamed exorcist himself. I cushioned myself into one which seemed three sizes too big for me, and dipped my feet into a tub of water I swear I wanted to put my head in. And drown. Why? Here I was, ready to risk a pedicure just to escape that-talk-which-forms-the-about-to-be-married-day-at-home, and all I got was a brain on an over-drive, trying to think of ways to keep the legs together enough to please the nuns and fathers who moulded me in school but apart still so the young man with the lovely cheek bones could reach all corners of my feet once they were soft. And supple. And ready to be peeled. 

I peeked at my two innocent feet somewhere down there and blessed the bubbles in the water which were, truth be told, quite relaxing. What wasn’t relaxing was the man with cucumbers on his eyes sitting next to me, getting a head massage, a facial and a pedicure done, even as he spoke on the phone sealing a property deal. Because now, as my eyes held him while his the cucumber slices, I felt it rising up my gut, twirling in my belly and knocking on my teeth to open up my mouth, for Laughter Express was on its way. With its brakes failed! 

Past tense.

To not laugh is impossible for me. Ever since I remember I have had uncanny urges to laugh at just the socially wrong times. For instance, as a little girl in stranger aunties’ and uncles’ arms I would laugh with glee, sometimes because their nostrils looked like obstacle courses and often because the hair on the chin would be singing to me in the breeze. Of course, I escaped censure then, for because of my laughter they gave themselves certificates of merit for being good with kids. Later, I started getting caught. In standard 7, after chopping the hard ink-erasing dirty green rubber into tiny pieces and putting them on the head of the girl just before me, I started laughing. Mrs. Abraham did not find humour in the concept of pulleys and fulcrum that she was teaching and I was standing outside my class the next moment. Still giggling, by the way. And braces on teeth played traitor too, for my mouth would barely close. In standard 12 it did not help to have a Hindi teacher who kept repeating to us ‘Bharat krishi pradan desh hai’ after every full stop, and tautology I do find amusing. What to do! Also, if you think no one gets sent out of class on laughing out-of-context (but in-context with what’s inside the head, imagined or in full view of) you are wrong!

Present, in Foot-see now.   

Testosterone had done its deed on that man next to me, and in patches it had left hair-free there was cream. If he was Greek, I could have passed him off as a chocolate frost cake with a cherry on top. But he wasn’t, and there was nothing on top. With jeans folded up to his knees his feet were getting massaged, as mine would be soon. I watched out of curiosity, I swear, for it was my first time and clearly he was a veteran. And then, the right pressure points started getting activated on his sole by a man in black who seemed responsible for his feet by the day, and his drunken safety as a bouncer at night. And how they touched his soul! ‘Why don’t you talk to Golden Foresssttt … ten, he will give ten … its two bighaaaa … aah … so what if the approach road it narrow … oooh … 20 flats? Hmm … mmm … no man, just getting paddy done ... nnnn...’ and it went on. Property dealing and orgasmic foot healing, as the pedi-curer did his job as if nothing was wrong with the world. 

My belly was distended with the whole 9 months of laughter, as if an army of feathers was tickling it on the inside. I had to get it out, oh, I just had to laugh. Should I fake a phone call and release it? Bathroom, no, I won’t reach in time. Shame shame! Marriageable woman and still doesn’t know how to hold it in. Little did I know the solution lay in the problem itself, for as my good looking worked my now-soft feet, the tickle buds all over them got provoked beyond all Edens. Forget awkward toes and legs apart moments and all monster men frothing next door. Forget even that I was all grown up. It started showing its teeth, from the feet upwards, and with all things in the head acting the very fuel for it.

First, a little giggle. Then two, together. And then, like floodgates of a whole generation repressed from expressing, I laughed. The mouth-wide-open, head-thrown-back variety of laughter. Louder than ever. The dumbstruck staff stared, first at my funny feet and then at my face contorted like a monkey, as I jerked my right foot alternatively away and towards my attendant to make them clean. Almost as if I was cycling! This had to stop. And stop it I did. I just told myself then that maybe this could wait too for after marriage, among other things. Ouch!   

Of course, I paid the full amount. My overly tickly feet were not their problem. Thankfully, neither was my tickly tummy for the man who was now in stage four. Of his paddy, of course. 

P.S. - I continue a virgin in this department. True story, this. 

[Written for WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts. The prompt for today was - From the gut - Tell us about the last time you had a real, deep, crying-from laughing belly laugh]

Book Review – Twice Upon a Time by Anjali Bhatia

Anjali Bhatia’s book ‘Twice Upon a Time’ drew me with its title. That most things, since the days of Aesop at least, happened once upon a time mattered not to this author. With her own twist to a phrase which begins most stories you and I hear, Anjali got me interested in her book instantly. I remember quickly checking to see if the book began thus too, but it did not. It did begin with an equally enigmatic scene-setting though. 

Arpit, Anjali’s young protagonist, is full of ‘reckless self-abhorrence’. Bitter about circumstances which he finds himself in as well as the ‘shallow pool of humanity’, he is ‘trying to make amends … to get back what he lost’. The first few scenes are wrought with his restlessness to come to terms with his past decisions, particularly to make his love, Mannat, more than ‘a beautiful phantom meant to be resurrected only in dreams’. This is when he meets Nishimaya, a modern-day mystic, who helps him travel back into his past psychically, re-visit through his dreams the seven key mistakes that he made then and through the process come out a man who first willingly embraces his demons and then puts them to rest. 

The striking idea of ‘Roots’, and author-speak

When I finished reading ‘Twice Upon a Time’, one particular word took root in my mind. Anjali Bhatia’s book circles like a vine around a central theme - of ‘Roots’. Within the folds of this novel you will find myriad ways in which this theme finds utterance. 

We know human aggression does not always manifest itself as violence, for the other side of a phenomenon like Partition is displacement of people from their native lands; severed not in head or limbs but in their roots. Dispossessed from places where they belonged – in body and in spirit. This idea of migration gains in significance in this novel, for it forms the background to the debate of country versus city, the movement of people away from their holy villages and green hills, the consequences of this relocation and the death of small towns. Reminded me of Gray’s poetry, one of the famous Graveyard Poets, who bemoans the emptiness which villages were fighting as young and old moved towards the outwardly glittering cities. 

Then, when such movement happens, one moves not just physically from a place but emotionally away from what we call ‘extended family’ and friends who once stayed as one. Arpit’s relocation to New Delhi and beyond from Meharsar cleaves his ties with people he loved as a boy, and dictates his decision-making such that later he wants to turn back time itself. It is only when he visits his village after years that he muses to himself – ‘How did I stay away that long?’ When people make up a place, the dispossession is of the hearts too. 

The book, as does its author, carries a strong ecological streak set in an India which has ‘been brought up on legacy of broken promises’. Through varied ideas, predominantly the fight of locals versus corporates over the holy lake in Meharsar, the chilling apathy of corporates and the government machinery towards it, Anjali’s “heart-from-the-hills” is not just making a bold point about sensitivity towards the environment and the ill effects of uncontrolled development but of the larger idea of co-existence as an organic whole; of man and nature in a symbiotic spiritual embrace of care and concern, not use and abuse. For instance, the lake in Meharsar, ‘where it all started, and it is where it will all end’, is perceived as a symbol to spiritually connect human misery with that of nature. 

I enjoyed the topicality she brought to the narrative sans preaching, and the mysticism she attaches to it all to make it quite interesting. Some of the lush green descriptions are stuff that dreams are made of. Literally, in this book, as you will find out.  

As for the rest …

While I admire Anjali for weaving her idealism within her tale and for impressing it upon her readers thus, the tale itself failed to impress me. The ways in which she incorporated ecology and its mysticism into Amrit’s story charmed the environmentalist, but certain aspects about the book as a novel did not the reader/reviewer in me.

The Story moves forward in two ways – either through Amrit’s dreams mentored by Nishi or through a series of coincidences. The dream sequences are well done. They are written beautifully, imagined even better and surpass real life events in significance of dropping hints or furthering the story line. I found the to and fro between the two worlds unique in usage. Something like what Nishi says – ‘Memories are dreams of what once was, and dreams are but memories of what is to be’ - prophetic dreams, used cathartically for Amrit and prettily for the novel. The dreams are so rich in images and sensory perceptions that they stand out as bright spots in an otherwise simple story. They show more than tell, with recurrent images from nature, creating in the reader everything from the dread of drowning to the amazement of sylvan surroundings. It is only the series of coincidences, and only coincidences which form and forward the rest of the story, that seemed a little problematic to me. 

Excess of not everything is bad. But an excess of coincidences defeats the idea behind using them in the first place. If every turn in the story hinges around one, neither do they manage to create a surprise element nor help in keeping the story believable. That is exactly what happens in this book. Event after event and either you end up saying ‘It’s a small world’ or you wonder if this is some other-worldly pattern that is beyond man’s, and thus the reader’s, comprehension. Can a string of unfailing coincidences be called a pattern? I don't know! Thus, deeper thoughts about Fate, karma and Time fail to rise. I do wonder. What if the only coincidence was the “travelling painting”, or the Baba’s face and not the scores of others which not just help the story but form the whole story? But that’s a thought for you after you read the book!

Then, many strands of the plot seemed bordering on cliché (I exclude the environmental ones, which are only too real!). Unshaven aimless lovers, fast unto deaths, black sheep in the family, family feuds, teenage love in hill stations, and I could go on. I wish Anjali had done justice to the psychic and mystical sequences by laying them in a story better than what ‘Twice Upon a Time’ enjoys. What a spectacular book the right union would have made!

Most characters could not grow beyond atypical for me. Starting from Amrit to Mannat, to even the well-meaning Veerji, the characters seemed to stand for ideas rather than human beings who I could not see from head-to-toe in my mind’s eye. Even their motives and aims, like Baldev’s (Amrit’s father) resolve to destroy his ancestral village over a family feud seems straight out of a movie. The uni-dimensional characters lack in depth, and I wish we were introduced to their minds through streams of consciousness as much as we are to some of their dreaming. Would have been great to see Amrit’s existential turmoil described better, for instance. Nishi is interesting for the powers that she possesses but not enough to make me admire the author’s skills at characterization.   

And then:

- Why is Arpit ‘wrong’ in picking a glorious academic seat in a college over Mannat when he is not even out of his teens?

- And then, why is he all so suddenly conflicted by those very decisions which even the readers see as ‘practical’ and sane?

- All the re-dreaming and hard work and is this the best closure that Mannat and Arpit could have been given in the book? The last image is vague and unsatisfying to my mind.

As a novel, ‘Twice Upon a Time’ did not excite me in aspects I mention above. It is not the most spectacular piece of fiction on the shelf. Neither is it a precedent setting work of Literature which I love to look for, and which safely go beyond mere touchstones of story, characterisations and language into larger realms of trailblazing trend-setters knocking on codified doors. However, if you enjoy mysticism and its related ideas or, like me, sadly watch the face of your hill town changing expressions in the face of development, you may want to pick this up for a light Sunday afternoon read. 

Title: Twice Upon a Time

Author: Anjali Bhatia

Publisher: FingerPrint

2014