And to think you have that pill for a cold.

Because of my propensity to read everything in my vicinity, I chanced upon this gem the other day.

Warning at the back of a strip of Erythromycin Estolate tablets:

Hepatic dysfunction with or without jaundice has occurred, chiefly in adults, in association with Erythromycin Estolate administration. It may be accompanied by malaise, nausea, vomiting, abdominal colic and fever. In some instances, severe abdominal pain may simulate an abdominal surgical emergency. If the above findings occur, discontinue Erythromycin Estolate promptly.

er…is that before or after I have that unwarranted surgery?

Connecting Imaginary Dots

It was the 8^th afternoon of the month of December. Slowly but surely, an entire class attending a lecture on Science, Technology and Law was being put to Death by Power Point. One brave individual, who rallied, was rewarded with a seemingly inconsequential piece of mindless information:

“The International Seabed Authority, under the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea 1982 , has a wing to spearhead exploration of the deep-sea bed. This wing is called the Enterprise.”

Perhaps one must congratulate her keen sense of observation. More likely, one must feel pity for the weird wiring in her head, which made this (un) necessary connection:

ENTERPRISE =

Ergo, Dude, some negotiator sitting at a top level UN Convention drafting meeting was a total Star Trek geek! OMG, V. Cool.

Even more appropriately, perhaps, one must pity the fact that in the sum total of the five lectures that day, this minuscule connection was the only thing that made her grin.

Tall Tales On Books – Abandoned And Unread

I like to think, that I am one of those people who read. I also like to think that I am a modest reader. Sure, I was part of the extremely silly (but clearly superior) bunch of idiots who thought they were way cooler than everyone else in class, because they had read the Lord of the Rings before the movies; but, for most parts I know that though I read, there are just too many freakin’ books in the world, for me to make a dent, any time soon.

But here’s the thing. I usually finish the books that I start. Really. Even if, somewhere within the odd first fifty pages – I get the feel that I really do not want to find out what happened between the chic and the groping tentacles, I still finish the book. Force of habit; a wish to be fair; respect for the outrageous amount my dad probably shelled out for the glossy paperback. Call it what you will, but I nearly always finish my books.

Except when I don’t, and then because of my love for lists, I keep track of them, remember why I didn’t and find out why others did. I am not surprised that I can’t think of that many. But here’s what stands out in no apparent order:

1. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

I bought War and Peace, and Anna Karena together, when I was probably in my eight or ninth grade, from the cute-but-poor-second-hand-bookseller outside my favourite bookshop in Hyderabad. I got through War and Peace not just because of my tenacious will, or because I was full of pity for Pierre whom I couldn’t bear to abandon mid-book/s conflicted and so very puppy-like lost, but also, I admit for what its worth, for the very superficial reason- that I wanted to be able to say that I had read it; that I had read War and Peace. To begin Anna Karenina immediately after that was nearly impossible for me, especially since I knew what happens in the end. I remember talking about Anna Karenina in all-brazen indifference on messenger to my friend once. My exact words are not what I remember. It was probably something very aseptic, Anna Karenina? She dies, right? Or, something akin but I remember my friend’s response and it was, I swear, like I could hear him talk and he said, “she dies, yes” but the sentence didn’t quite end there, as if there was more to that ending that I could…should find out by reading the book. I think I’ll get back to the book…someday, all because of a two lined conversation on it on messenger.

2. Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

There’s no easy way of saying this. In fact I am slightly scared saying it, considering the fanatics I know who worship this book and call it life altering. But I couldn’t get through it. In fact, it is probably one of the few books that I have chucked away physically because I couldn’t stand it. (Another one which comes to mind is Alcott’s Good Wives which gnawed away on all that was special and precious in Little Women but for the record I finished it and wrote an alternate version of it and my mind rests easy on that account.) Getting back, I don’t really know what it was that pissed me off about the book. It disgusted me for some reason, and I take solace on what someone told me about Ayn Rand’s books. You either love them or hate them. There’s no middle ground. I doubtless fall in the latter category and all the purported wisdom of the books is lost on me. Such is life.

3. Cyclops by Clive Cussler

I don’t remember much of the very little that I managed to read of this. I am not a big fan of the Cold War books – “must stop the Evil KGB” kinda lost its charm after the first few dozen books I read in that genre. (One of the really tongue in cheek lovely pieces set in the Cold War period that I really like is a short science fiction piece by Michael C Clarke featuring bumbling Floridian bureaucrats, fake icebergs, and Russian spy ships but that’s obviously another story altogether). Anyways, I vaguely remember something about the Russians in this one. That wasn’t, however, the reason I stopped. There was something about a colony on the moon, which I am totally okay with. But this colony was called Jersey Colony and I just stopped reading after that, because I don’t care if you decided to name it after the State or the cows but after all the awesome names we’ve come up with for astronomical objects, if you are going to have a colony on the moon don’t you dare call it something so very bland! (And this is coming from someone who was completely okay with Planet Bob in Titan A.E! I have a sneaking suspicion that the fact that it came out in Matt Damon’s voice made it seem like a really good idea at that point of time. )

4. The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy

I had read a lot of Hardy back to back by then. I read Return of the Native, I read Tess of D’Urbervilles, I read A Pair of Blue Eyes, and then I got to The Mayor of Casterbridge. And what can I say, except my will gave out. I am not against unhappy endings per se; sometimes I am appalled by the saccharine sweet endings that are cooked up in books (coughharrypottercough). Perhaps Hardy captures life, as it is in some… most cases, but I couldn’t bear the gloom and doom, okay? My very simpleton needs for some hope and happiness reasserted themselves and I abandoned the book before the really gloomy bits began.

5. This Book I Began But Sadly Could Not Finish

This one I really regret. I was taken to one of my relatives’ home, and as my mum and the aunty gossiped their way into the Guinness books, I sat dour faced while my equally unhappy near aged relative fiddled with her thumbs, yawned and generally wished me long lost and staying that way. At last, desperate for some sort of escape, she sighed and said: would you like to see our books? What can I say? I am sure she had nightmares of the unholy gleam that filled my eyes at the statement.

So I got escorted to what I have to admit was a decent hoard of books and because I had no pretensions (and because really how much longer could my mum gossip?) I chose a thin volume of something, which I have but a vague memory of. Sometimes I think it was a play. Sometimes I think otherwise. It had a girl who was engaged to an unscrupulous jerk of an officer, and there was some rebellious individual who barged into her rooms at night. I know it sounds nearly too overdramatic and reeks of the romantic bug but I remember thinking the girl was pretty cool and level headed. Sadly I got dragged away before I could get much further. Years later, when I was dragged back there, I lurked around trying to find the book, but I was bitterly unsuccessful. Even my desperate attempts to get my near aged relative to divulge the name of the book proved fruitless because, get this, she couldn’t remember! As if! If that isn’t part of some devious dastardly plot to…do something, colour me Purple!

Then again, I sometimes think that it’s a good thing that I never finished it. What if, I had hated it? For now, I am okay with the undone memory of the book in my head. I’ve even nearly forgiven that near aged relative. Because there is something in thinking that someday I will chance upon the book again and I’ll get to read it. It’s just one of the countless things to look forward to in life.

In Memorial

I have always prided myself over my ability to see the greys in the world – to look beyond the humdrum understanding of good and bad and play around the assumptions of ‘right minded’ people. The other perspective, the hidden agenda, the looking beyond the façade nonsense of sociology classes wasn’t completely lost on me- the cynic in me noticed and rejoiced at it all.

But right now, for however short a while, I understand, why a black and white perspective would be so appealing. The Mumbai attacks were purported by outsiders and that’s that. I can rage at the government, the security structure, the bureaucratic screw-ups and not have to despair at the thought that a part of it, however minuscule, may have been homegrown. I can watch the news and know for sure, that we are going to win, not just because there are just a few of them, damn it, but because we are in the right and so we must…should win. I can wear white to college today, light a candle in solidarity and observe a two minute silence and convince myself that it means something to do so; that it’s worth something, anything. I can believe then, that something will be done, that we’ll see the end of it because too many innocent people have died and that’s just not right.