How long? A poem by Ramabai C. Trikannad

Ramabai C. Trikannad, my late grandmother, was a writer, columnist, poet, and a deeply spiritual woman. She read a lot. Classics were her favourite. She wrote about family life and parenting in newspapers in the mid-20th century. One of her columns was called Cat 'N' Bells. She also published a book of short stories called Victory of Faith and Other Stories, 1935. I have most of her published and unpublished writings including a hardback of her short story collection. Once in a while I read her poems and stories and what she said more than half a century ago resonates with me even today. How Long? is one of her poems that I like very much. 

Inconsistent, changing — weary yet restless —
We dance to the rhythm of nature.
Hoping, fearful — lest we lose them —
We try to hold and keep the things
Our fancy rests upon.
We strive and strive — not towards the Eternal —
But for the empty shows of life.
Thus, while in silence Mother smiles and watches over us,
We jostle and struggle on.

In some quiet hour
The heart draws back from all the world.
Whence — to where? To what purpose
This fruitless, aimless hurry and rush?
How long before delusion is destroyed and freedom gained?
For a moment, for a single moment,
Before the mind drops again
Into the ever intricating web of fancies and desires,
From the solitude of the heart
Comes the cry: “O Mother! How long?”

© Ramabai C. Trikannad

A Woman on a Roof by Doris Lessing, 1963

A review of a short story by the British novelist for Friday's Forgotten Books at Patti Abbott's blog Pattinase.

There was a fine view across several acres of roofs. Not far off a man sat in a deckchair reading the newspapers. Then they saw her, between chimneys, about fifty yards away. She lay face down on a brown blanket. They could see the top part of her: black hair, a flushed solid back, arms spread out.

© Wikimedia Commons

It’s not everyday that I read a short story that can be interpreted in different ways by different readers. A Woman on a Roof (Encounter, March 1963) is one of those stories that leaves you nowhere long after you have read it, talked about it, and argued over it. But it won’t make this story any less tantalisingly charming.

The premise is simple: three men are working on the roof of a building on a hot June day in London when they see a woman sunbathing on the roof of an adjoining building. She is almost naked.

Harry, the oldest, is forty-five years old. Stanley is young and newly married. And Tom is only seventeen.

As the three men sweat it out on the roof and at times in the basement of the block of flats, to escape the wretched heat, they can’t take their thoughts away from the nearly naked woman. At least Stanley and Tom can’t.

The characters
Harry is mature and circumspect and with a son as old as Tom, he prefers to look the other way and do his work. He humours the other two, especially Stanley.

Stanley is the loudest and most affected. He sounds annoyed with the bare woman but you know he is annoyed with himself. He tells the others that she is a bitch for no apparent reason other than that she is tormenting him. He’d rather she wasn't lying lying around naked like that, for him to see and agonise over. He is married and there is not a damn thing he can do about it. He knows it and you know it.

Young Tom is quiet and reserved even though he joins Stanley in whistling and shouting loudly across the roofs. He dreams of the naked woman every night. He thinks she is lovely and that she belongs to him. Tom also happens to see more than Harry and Stanley. He likes to think of it as a secret between him and the woman.

Tom's report was that she hadn't moved, but it was a lie. He wanted to keep what he had seen to himself: he had caught her in the act of rolling down the little red pants over her hips, till they were no more than a small triangle. She was on her back, fully visible, glistening with oil.

Final word
In the story the mysterious woman appears oblivious to the presence of the three men and their whistles and catcalls from across the roofs. Of course, she knows they can see her but she doesn't give a hoot. She sleeps half-naked on her roof through a whole week. This angers Stanley even more.

Doris Lessing, the British novelist, playwright and poet who passed away in November 2013, has crafted a very clever story. She plays around with human emotions subtly, not just those of the workmen but also those of the readers. Through the naked woman, she brings out the best and the worst in the three men, particularly Stanley and Tom, who first love her and then hate her for what she is doing to them when, in effect, she isn't doing anything at all.

Lessing holds back more than she gives and still doesn't leave the reader unfulfilled. Her prose is simple and lucid. She doesn't beat around the bush. She comes straight to the point. I liked A Woman on a Roof mainly on account of the story, which is a real tease, and the brevity of words. I'd never read anything by Doris Lessing before. This was a good introduction to her writing.

Reading Habits #13: Back of the book

My copy of the book

First question

Does the synopsis on the back cover help you decide whether to read a book or not?

In my case it does if I don’t know who the author is or if I'm familiar but not quite or if I'm reading his or her book for the first time. However, I’d make an immediate exception if the book is a western or espionage in which case I couldn’t care less if the back cover was ripped off.

It doesn’t if I'm really familiar with the author and I have read and liked his or her books. To give you an idea, I won’t turn the book over if it is a P.G. Wodehouse, Jack Higgins, A.J. Cronin, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Oliver Strange, John le Carré, Agatha Christie, John Irving, Louis L'Amour, Kurt Vonnegut or Erle Stanley Gardner because I have read and enjoyed many of their novels and know exactly how they will tickle me.

Second question

Do you have a favourite or a memorable blurb or summary, one that you remember?

I remember only one and it has stayed with me since I read the novel when I was sixteen. Not surprisingly, it is a western—The Marshal of Lawless by British writer Oliver Strange whose ten books take you through the adventures of his hero James Green alias Sudden, the Texas outlaw. He is not an outlaw and earns the nickname because he is fast with his twin guns. The ‘Sudden’ series is my favourite western.

This is what the back cover of The Marshal of Lawless says.

“Being Marshal of Lawless is plain suicide!” That's what they told the young fellow who applied for the job. They figured that anyone who had hocked his horse, his saddle and his guns to get money for liquor, was not the kind of man who could hold down one of the toughest towns in the West. But then the young stranger redeemed his guns and strapped them on. Lawless looked again. “Gentlemen, hush!” said one inhabitant. “A man has come to town!”

One of the reasons why I like James Green is because of his near flawless character. He is just, brave, honest, friendly, caring, intelligent, and a dogged fighter. His quest for two men who cheated the man who raised him makes him bitter but he doesn’t show it as he quietly goes about fulfilling a promise he made to the dying man. Nor does it stop him from going to the aid of people in the towns and ranches he visits, and making friends along the way. His deeds speak for the kind of person he is. Green is modest as he seldom reveals that he is United States Deputy Marshal. In short, he is a man who wears a badge on his pocket and honour on his sleeve.

How about you?

For previous Reading Habits, see under ‘Labels’.

Rest in Peace: Mrs. Doubtfire

More than a comedian: July 21, 1951-August 11, 2014

The day I launched my blog

Some time in August the 3Cs completes six years. I can’t recall the date. I was a few years younger and wiser and saner. But I remember it was in 2009 that I decided to launch Chess, Comics and Crosswords with fanfare and fireworks. It was a memorable day. Someday I will tell my grandchildren about it. You tell yours.

It was a gay and festive evening. Throngs of people gathered at the seaside venue, standing on their toes and pushing and jostling each other for a glimpse of the rare event the like of which they would never witness again. Not in their lifetime, not in this century. The mayor was going to cut the ribbon and give a speech on the creative hazards of blogging. Somewhere a band played Here Comes the Blog to the music of Wedding March. The air was rent with cries and laughter. The sky lit up with pyrotechnics, confetti, and colourful balloons. Young boys and girls went around with trays of food and drinks, and distributed little flags with 3Cs embossed in red and gold. They were sold at a discount by the sponsor. This was greeted with loud cheers which soon turned to loud jeers. There was no sign of the mayor.

As time passed the crowds grew restless and they rushed forward, pushing against the ropes that held them back. The few skinny khaki-clad home guards who were manning the ropes with their little bamboo sticks couldn’t hold them back. They dropped the ropes and their sticks and ran for their lives. I took cover behind one of the giant speakers just in time as two empty coke cans and a food tray whizzed past my head.

The situation became tense and there was pandemonium. The police had to use water cannons to disperse the crowds which made them even more angry as they were already drenched from the rain. There was much cursing and gnashing of teeth. Riot police stood nearby. They wore helmets and bulletproof jackets and carried batons and shields. They looked like they meant business. They were itching to smash a few heads and break a few bones. I prayed it wouldn’t be mine.

At one point, the situation looked so alarming that an aide to the mayor who huddled next to me wondered if it wouldn’t be wise to call off the launch. He was worried about the political fallout for the mayor who was running for the chief minister’s office. I looked at him grimly and said no. I had consulted an astrologer who had assured me the day and time was just right. God knows when the next auspicious moment would come.

A police inspector crawled up to us and said the mayor’s convoy had come under attack on the road leading to the venue and there was no way he was going to make it to the launch alive. He was whisked off to a safe place, into the basement of a hospital on the corner, where he was cowering behind a car and refusing to move out even under police escort.

As I peered over the speaker, something came flying out of the air and smacked me in the face and knocked me out cold. When I came to I found myself alone in the dark and on the floor next to my computer. I looked up at the screen and read “Welcome to Chess, Comics & Crosswords!” I must have dozed off and fallen off the chair. I pulled myself up and reached for the cup of tea. It was cold. I logged off and dropped my head on the keyboard. My first post could wait.

*    *    *

Thank you everyone for all your support and encouragement through my blog years!

The White Fruit of Banaldar by John D. MacDonald, 1951

An interesting story with a twist in the tail for Friday’s Forgotten Books at Patti Abbott’s blog Pattinase.

The auctioning of the five planets marked the end of one part of life, the beginning of a new, for Timothy Trench.

September 1951

The White Fruit of Banaldar is a science fiction tale by John D. MacDonald and was published in the September 1951 issue of Startling Stories. It is about man’s curious nature and his innate desire to posses the very thing that is out of his reach.

Timothy Trench is a tall, young man with an entrepreneurial streak. He wants to buy the planet of Banaldar that his former employer, Transgalactic Development, is putting up for auction along with four other planets. He has a vision for Banaldar where he once worked. It is a beautiful earth-size planet with green hills, rolling seas, and a climate fit for man. After much pleading and begging he manages to raise two thousand mil-pesos from reluctant investors. The auction takes place in Mexico City, capital of the world. However, his hopes and dreams are soon dashed when he is outbid by Morgan, leader of the Free Lives, a group of seven hundred men, women, and children who live the way they were meant to live—naked.

“What are you going to do on Banaldar?” Timothy asked hopelessly.

Morgan turned. “Do? We live naked and eat berries and hunt with stones and clubs. What do you think men are meant to do? Live like this?” He included in an expressive gesture all of the glitter and bustle of the capital. “No. We live in caves and we fill our bellies and breed our children and sleep well at night.”

Timothy still has a chance of acquiring his beloved planet. As the second highest bidder he is entitled to the planet if Morgan does not develop or populate it at the end of three years.

The young man has little patience. He takes off for Banaldar almost immediately. When he lands on the planet, he finds it deserted and uninhabited. He searches far and wide but the Free Lives are nowhere to be seen. And then he sees them—hanging in clusters in five-hundred foot giant trees he thought were long dead. The Free Lives have undergone physiological changes. They are like pale fruit. They are white, soft, and bloated. They have green stalks entering the backs of their necks. Their eyes are almost closed and they look deeply contented. They sway helplessly in the breeze.

As Timothy stares in fascination at the new form of the Free Lives, one of the monster trees casts its hypnotic spell on him and begins to nuzzle him at the back of his neck and nibble at it with a million little needle-like teeth.

The White Fruit of Banaldar is traditional science fiction until you come to the end when John D. MacDonald takes you by surprise with an element of horror. I didn’t see it coming but I was a trifle disappointed with the end. As I see it, though, horror is not misplaced in science fiction, especially when you don’t know what’s out there. All in all, a nice little story told in JDM’s inimitable style.

The Laurel-Hardy Murder Case, 1930

After you read this don’t forget to hop over to Todd Mason’s blog Sweet Freedom for more reviews of Overlooked Films, Audio & Video.

Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy decided that they needed a rest. They had been looking for work since 1921.

If the tagline of this classic Laurel and Hardy movie brings a smile to your face, this short film directed by old L&H hand James Parrott will have you in splits from scene one.

Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy are sitting on the docks with their legs over the side. They are at peace with themselves and with the world. Laurel is trying to catch fish while Hardy is trying to catch forty winks. That is, if Laurel allows him to. Laurel is swinging his fishing tackle—a ball of string tied round a piece of wood—over his head, with the harmless intent of dropping it into the sea and baiting the fish; instead, he hooks it into his friend’s hat and tosses it into the water. And that is just the beginning of their troubles and our laughter.

Matters between the two friends would probably have taken a turn for the worse, if such a thing is indeed possible, if a fish-wrapped newspaper didn’t catch poor Hardy smack in the face. As he pulls the damp and smelly paper away, a news item catches his attention—Ebeneezer Laurel has just died and has left behind a vast estate. Relatives of the wealthy man are advised to gather at the Laurel mansion where the will is to be read.

Hardy, who thinks for both of them, usually with disastrous results, is convinced that Laurel is the long lost heir and that they, mind you, not Laurel alone, are going to become millionaires. He promptly throws his friend’s ingenious tackle into the water.

It’s another story that the only Ebeneezer Laurel our Laurel thinks he knew broke his neck a long time ago.

When Laurel and Hardy reach the mansion on a dark and stormy night, they are greeted by a devilish-looking butler, police detectives, and half-a-dozen claimants to the property. The chief inspector informs the pair that he had planted the notice about the will in the paper so that he could bring all of Ebeneezer’s relatives together in one place. Apparently, the rich man was murdered and the police are investigating the crime.

What follows next is the finest bit of slapstick comedy I have seen. Laurel and Hardy, already scared to death, are shown to their room, which just happens to be the one where Ebeneezer was murdered. The room is in darkness and all the furniture is covered in shrouds of white, giving the place an eerie appearance in candlelight. Our friends are convinced the mansion is haunted. In effect, they become their own worst spooks.

As Laurel and Hardy prepare for bed (they wear their night clothes under their suits), they see ghosts everywhere, in the howling of the wind, in the cat that darts across their bellies, in the bat that hides under their white blanket and takes to the air with it, in the wooden clothes rack that Laurel inadvertently drags through the hall. Each ghostly episode is followed by a fresh round of terrified screams both from Laurel and Hardy and from the assorted guests who run helter-skelter and fall over each other, to the irritation of the police inspector and his gun-toting men.

The film seemingly culminates with the real murderer, a man disguised as a woman, and his accomplice, the butler, luring all the guests one by one into Ebeneezer’s office where a trapdoor swallows them. But then, a film about Laurel and Hardy must end with Laurel and Hardy and it does so in a nice little anticlimax. You won’t see it coming.

If you like slapstick comedy as I do, then this film is for you, for there is no one better at it than Laurel and Hardy. They mean well even if they are not “there” most of the time. Their humourous appeal lies in their utter innocence and in the acceptance of their lot, as they chase one dream after another with little more than a smile to gain.

Highly recommended.

Incidentally, in 1934, MGM released Oliver the Eighth whose plot was loosely based on this film.