On living in dark and terrible times

I took off for home extremely excited - I couldn't wait to see my family and be in my room again.

Then I came home and discovered that the world was exploding with news of Peshawar.

That we are capable, as a race, of such monstrous and atrocious acts feels incomprehensible... I used to think that we are "beings of Light." That deep down in all of us there is a spark of goodness and even greatness that is the essence of humanity. Now, I am tempted to agree with Golding - that we are barbaric and monstrous at heart, that we have a 'Beast' within, and that without the constraints of civilization we would tear each other apart - perhaps we are less 'civilized' than we think because we are tearing each other apart. And yet, I look inside myself and I see empathy and compassion. I am an ordinary human being, and if I have these qualities, so must everyone, or almost everyone else, right? But is it possible for individuals with empathy to turn into mass murderers who attack the innocent? What kind of circumstances or environment could possible turn anyone even remotely 'human' into the perpetrators of such acts? If 'humanity' is humaneness, then does it still exist in our society? If there are vestiges of humanity, how do we cling to the dying embers in a world that seems to be devolving into utter, howling madness?

God help us.

Why do I wear a bindi?

Hello everybody,

I am sorry to report that I have fallen behind on NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Very behind. I was getting along swimmingly until schoolwork caught up with me. Two exams in one week and I fell smack out of dreamworld and very firmly into this one. You might have heard that Buffalo is having some very heavy snow days, so I do have a chance to catch up now. The trouble is that I'm going to have to get back into the 'groove'. The 'mood'. You know, immerse myself back in the world of my novel until I can write in it convincingly again. I can't really catch up on NaNoWriMo anymore (seeing as I missed 12 days out of 30), but that was never really the point anyway. Now that I'm well on my way, I want to take it slow and just do my best. I don't intend to stop writing The Glass Slipper again, but I am going to go slower.

In the meanwhile, I interrupt this programming to bring you a cultural broadcast.

I wear a bindi - i.e. a little sticker-dot on my forehead that looks like this:

Disclaimer: This is not me. This is Deepika Padukone, a Bollywood actor.

Except that mine is usually even smaller, and I wear it with regular western clothes. And I'm nowhere near as good-looking, of course.

Since I grew up in a very cosmopolitan area in a large city, was educated in English-medium schools throughout my life, and belong to a relatively affluent urban class, this is a little unusual. Most of my friends don't wear a bindi unless there's a cultural or religious occasion they have to attend (sometimes not even then). So even in India, people asked me 'Why do you wear a bindi?' My answer was generally a simple 'I like wearing one' or 'I like how it looks on my face.' But since I've come to the US, the questions have increased  in frequency, and I try to give more sophisticated answers, because most of the time people here don't know what a bindi is or why (some) Indians wear it.

Do I know why we wear bindis? I know why I wear it. I have an idea of the religious/cultural significance, but that's really only partially the reason for me.

I didn't really grow up making sure I put a bindi on my face everyday. I did wear bindis, but it wasn't really something I felt a compulsion to do everyday or all the time. I started wearing bindis regularly in the 8th grade. As a confused, doubtful and angsty teenager, it was merely a desperate ploy to convince myself of a number of things: the world really is black-and-white; I am the same person I was two years ago; I believe wholeheartedly in religion and God; I love my country and its people; I understand and respect all the traditions I follow. It was a very personal thing - a display of pride in my culture and heritage, a pride and faith that I was trying to cultivate to replace the emptiness inside. I didn't really think that much about it; I was just trying to be religious in the best way I knew how, apart from praying. Everything was changing - I felt as if the ground was slipping away from under my feet - and my bindi was my foothold.

I have grown a lot - literally and figuratively - since then. As I have evolved, so has the meaning of my bindi, for me. In the past 5 or 6 years, putting on a bindi has become a habit for me. I don't really think about it anymore - I do it the same way I brush my teeth - automatically. But I do think about it, and sometimes I ask myself the question 'Why do I wear a bindi?'

There is of course the religious/cultural significance, which is why I originally began wearing it. 'Traditionally, the area between the eyebrows (where the bindi is placed) is said to be the sixth chakra, ajna, the seat of "concealed wisdom". The bindi is said to retain energy and strengthen concentration. The bindi also represents the third eye.' That explanation is a shameless cut-and-paste from Wikipedia. Do look up the rest of it, it's actually pretty interesting.

Then there is the significance it has taken on for me. As a student in the US, studying Economics and English, I sometimes feel torn between my passion and what is undoubtedly a good education, and the feeling that I'm moving further and further away from my Indian 'heritage.' Sometimes, when I'm reading Shakespeare, I feel ridiculous. Why on earth am I studying English literature when we have so much rich vernacular literature of our own that I should be exploring? Why am I not reading Kalidasa instead? Of course, even if I were to read Kalidasa, it would be in English, which would not be quite the same. Why don't I know Sanskrit? Why don't I know my 'mother tongue', Telugu, as well as I know English, for that matter? Is it not a rather sad thing that I'm far more comfortable with English?

I struggled a little before deciding that I wanted to major in English as well as Economics. Mostly because I wondered whether it was a pragmatic choice - but there was a tiny part of me that screamed 'traitor!' I eventually realized that it was foolish to deny my passion and love for language - even if it sometimes feels like the wrong language - just because I felt like I was becoming too 'Western'. What does that mean, anyway? And do the two (English/a 'western' education and my local heritage) have to be mutually exclusive?

My bindi is, for me, truth be told, a rather tenuous connection to home and all I associate with home. It is a way for me to feel rooted, and Indian. It is a proud declaration of who I am and how I am unique. I may be wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but I am not American. I like America, but I am not American. It is a way to assert the mish-mash of cultures, language and thought that make me who I am. I grew up on Austen and Rowling and Disney, but also on Carnatic music and Bharatnatyam and Bollywood. I am who I am, and I'm done being confused and ashamed. I'm allowed to love classical Indian music and dance and have an extensive knowledge of English literature at the same time. But of course, no one ever said I couldn't. I don't mind people seeing or even asking about my bindi, but I don't wear a bindi to prove something to other people. I wear it for me, for how comforting it feels to touch the dot on my forehead and be instantly reminded of home, and the colour and chaos that made me the colourful and chaotic person I am today. My bindi is a part of me now, and the pride that I was attempting to simulate all those years ago is very real today.

My Cousin Rachel by Daphne Du Maurier

I've never read Daphne du Maurier before. In fact, I've hardly ever read psychological/ Gothic thrillers before - with the exception of Jane Eyre (and Northanger Abbey, if you count a satire of the Gothic romance - it didn't work for me, because obviously you need to be familiar with what the author is satirizing). This is really not my cup of tea - I suppose I could occasionally read, even enjoy psychological thrillers, but the Gothic romance is not for me. It always, for me, conjures up images of howling wind and rain, and gloomy marshes (or moors). Not for me. I prefer to laugh.

My Cousin Rachel reminded me constantly of Jane Eyre. I read later that Jane Eyre and the Bröntes were a great influence on du Maurier - it certainly shows. The evocation of atmosphere, the friendless, dependent woman, the unequal romance (age and otherwise), all bring to mind Jane Eyre. But My Cousin Rachel is a very different book from Jane Eyre.

Others have said that du Maurier has a way with words. I was too engrossed to particularly notice, which means she certainly does. The brilliance of My Cousin Rachel is neither plot nor suspense - it is atmosphere, even more than character. In fact, I'd say the atmosphere was a character in itself, playing strongly in shaping the reader's feelings and mindset. The amazing ability to conjure up mood is what makes My Cousin Rachel more harrowing than the plot might suggest.

I would say that the plot is not extraordinary or very suspenseful. With the heavy doses of foreshadowing, and Ambrose's letters, it becomes rather obvious what has probably happened, and is happening. The narrator, Philip, is an orphan adopted by his older cousin Ambrose (he is also a stupid, obtuse dolt). Philip is Ambrose's heir. Ambrose, who suffers from bad health in the winter, travels to warmer climes every winter. This winter, he travels to Italy, where he meets the titular 'Cousin Rachel', who is constantly referred to as such, and is half-Italian. He enjoys her company, and, as you can probably guess, he falls in love with her and they marry. Rachel is the widow of Count Sangaletti, who, on his death left a large number of debts behind. She is quite impoverished when she meets, although not too impoverished to be able to reside in a large villa, in the best English fashion, where impoverished means that they live in a large house instead of a mansion, and employ only a few servants instead of an entire retinue. Anyway, the only one surprised (and unhappy) at the marriage is Philip, the poor dolt. The reason that I keep referring to him as such will become obvious as I progress.

Now, I did not start out hating Philip. He is sympathetic enough in the beginning. Even when he failed to foresee Ambrose and Rachel's marriage, I was still sympathetic. After all, we are sometimes most blind about those closest to us. I didn't even hate him when he is extremely jealous of Rachel, because it makes perfect sense for the orphaned, unsociable person with only one true friend and relative in all the world to be jealous of someone who could potentially take that one friend away. And of course, there is the new uncertainty about his rights, and whether he will still inherit the estate. Philip hates Rachel, and with good reason. This hatred grows stronger when Ambrose dies in Italy, before he can return home. Ambrose has sent home ambiguous, mysterious letters hinting at something dark and terrible. "She watches me constantly." - he writes in one letter. And in his last - "She has done for me at last, Rachel my torment." Now anyone with half a brain would infer that there is a high probability that Rachel either killed Ambrose or caused his death somehow. At this point, still possessing half a brain, this is exactly what he believes (actually not exactly - the character don't yet know that Ambrose is dead here, but Philip is extremely worried), despite the strong opposition and disapprobation of his godfather, who believe that these are the delusions of a sick man (they say he died of a brain tumour). On receipt of this letter, he leaves immediately to see Ambrose. I was still with him. Of course Rachel killed Ambrose. It seems obvious.

Where things start to change is when Rachel arrives at the estate. Almost overnight Philip's attitude towards Rachel changes. He throws caution to the winds and allows himself to like her. Even here things made sense. I was surprised myself at how likeable Rachel turned out to be. But of course, she cannot be a complete shrew if Ambrose fell in love with her. The genius of du Maurier here is that we are not shocked at Philips 180 degrees change in attitude, because we experience the same thing. I was conscious of wanting her to turn out to be completely innocent. du Maurier even succeeded in convincing me, along with Philip, that those letters truly were delusions.

SPOILERS ahead. Read at your own risk.

When, however, Philip, discovers further letters (and letter fragments) from Ambrose insinuating the same (and more) things about Rachel, I was bought back to Earth with a jolt. At around the halfway point of the book, Philip finds a coherent, logical, fully conscious letter from Ambrose explaining that Rachel is an extravagant spendthrift who does not seem to have quite the same moral outlook as they do. He writes that she is constantly with Rainaldi (an Italian who is Rachel's man of business), and they seem to have secrets from him. Oh, also, he thinks that he is being slowly poisoned by Rachel. Surely this is explicit enough to make anyone suspicious.

Not Philip, though. He buries the letter. He dismisses it out of hand. He denies it. You'd think the love and care and respect of decades of affection would outweigh a recent infatuation. Yes, Philip, who is twenty-four to Rachel's thirty-five, is totally besotted. He plans to make over the estate to Rachel when he turns twenty five, when it comes fully into his possession from his godfather. He plans to continue to reside on the estate as Rachel's man of business. Yes, he is that foolish and besotted. He continuously ignores every scrap of evidence that Rachel is not what she seems, as well as the good-natured, sound advice of his godfather and his daughter Louise, who is Philip's childhood friend. He grows angry at her when she talks sense. Again, you'd think long-term ties would outweigh short-term infatuations, but no. Not so, my friends. The world is a traitorous place. Expect a lifelong friend to choose the older, sophisticated vampire over you.

When Philip begins to show doltish signs, you hope he will snap out of it, because he was quite promising in the beginning. He even had a semblance of intelligence and sense. This hope is steadily defeated, with Philip's moronic-ness just growing with the passing of the pages. It is not just that Philip ignores caution about the woman he loves. That makes sense. It is that he outright ignores and defies strong evidence that Rachel is a manipulative witch who murdered Ambrose. Loyalty to the friend who bought him up with such affection and love does not trump infatuation, when it should. That is what made me hate him more than anything else. This betrayal of the father figure in his life, after his death.

My annoyance with Philip fought with my liking of du Maurier's writing and hampered my enjoyment of the book. I do not know if he was meant to be exceedingly unlikeable. I looked it up on Goodreads, and it looks like I'm not the only person who thought Philip was an ass. I do know that I spent a majority of the book wanting to hit Philip, or throw something at him. I'm lucky I was able to rein in these violent impulses, because my book is from the library.

Anyway, towards the end of the book, when Philip finally realizes that he cannot deny Rachel's villainy any longer (after he finds poison seeds in her belongings - she begins poisoning him as well, after he leaves the estate to her - that is what it takes), he still has Louise (his childhood friend) to rely on, despite his egregious mistreatment of her (I might have left him to suffer the consequences of his actions). Surprisingly, though, Philip, after discovering that Rachel is a murderess (although he cannot find concrete evidence), deliberately allows her to walk on what he knows is a dangerously unstable bridge, and she dies. This amounts to manslaughter. This surprising violent tendency actually makes an appearance earlier in the book, when Rachel refuses to marry Philip after leading him on, and his fingers close around her throat. That is the first indication that Philip is not quite a reliable narrator, and that he, also, might not be what he seems. Although (again from Goodreads) most people seem to believe that Rachel did murder Ambrose and was about to murder Philip (including me), the ending is supposed to be ambiguous. Philip himself is unsure about her guilt, and is therefore racked with guilt at his retribution. The question we are supposed to ask ourselves is: was Rachel guilty, or was she the victim of the suspicions of two jealous and possessive men?

I quite firmly believe that Rachel is guilty. However, when I think about Philip's unreliability as a narrator, I begin to feel a little doubtful. I would personally have preferred an ending where Philip took her to court after finding evidence that she is guilty. I would have liked to see the interaction between the two in a drawn out court battle, and I would have liked to see how Rachel changed. What would Philip's feelings be at having to accuse the only woman he ever loved of murder? At the end of the book, strangely enough, Philip still loves her in a twisted way, even having murdered her.

Part of what is amazing about this book, apart from the atmospheric detail, is how du Maurier changes our mind two, three times about Rachel. I was quite as firmly convinced as Philip at one point of her innocence. I liked Rachel. I wanted her to be innocent.

At the same time, while Rachel is the subject of the books, and of Philip's obsession, by the end, we still don't really know her. We don't know anything of her past, of how she was with Sangaletti, her first husband. We don't know how she became the way she was. We don't know who she is - murderess, or twisted victim of circumstances, or person with fatal flaw, like a Shakespearean protagonist. There are inconsistencies in her character - kindnesses, nice touches that don't fit in with what we know and believe. But then Captain Hook liked flowers and wanted a mother.

On the whole, I enjoyed reading My Cousin Rachel. When I was done, I thought that I hadn't really been frightened by it, or shaken by it. But I woke up three times yesterday night, and each time I was thinking about Rachel and Philip. Obviously I was more affected than I realized. A story that does not leave you is the mark of a master storyteller. While I still don't think that Gothic romances are my cup of tea, I do want to read more of du Maurier, particularly her famous Rebecca.

I read My Cousin Rachel for an online book club at https://theoldfashionedgirls.squarespace.com/ and https://theoldfashionedgirls.squarespace.com/the-ofg-book-club/2014/9/14/my-cousin-rachel-the-first-half.
Do check it out.

In which I am not sure what I am writing about and talk of many things

I have heart like a sponge, with easily accessible heartstrings. It doesn't take much to squeeze it, or tug at it, and it absorbs emotions (even, or particularly, those of others) quickly. I have a shield, comprising distancing and diversion techniques and a carefully developed skepticism (a sense of humour helps too). But really, when caught unawares, I'm a sucker for hard-luck stories and the many and varied tragedies that take place in this most reprehensible world. The ill-fortune of a total stranger can (and has) cast a shadow on my entire day.

You may (reasonably) think I am exaggerating. I am not. I have a rather terrible capacity for empathy, that, when allowed full rein, has kept me up nights. I am an idealist; I want the world to be full of sunshine and rainbows and Julie Andrews in Sound of Music. My natural inclination is to think that the world is full of good-natured folks like me, that it is a dazzling, wondrous place of opportunity, where issues like racism, sexism, dire poverty and war are things of a distant past. When the world belies this (as it does often), I first deny it as long as possible, then grudgingly accept it. Much pain has been felt at the contrast between what 'ought' to be and what is. Gradually, my unfailing optimism and belief in humanity have been reduced to something like wary neutrality; I give people and situations the benefit of doubt, but I keep in mind the possibility of both positive and negative outcomes.

Is this a good thing? I think so. I think I still have a positive outlook. I do not believe that matters (or people) are hopeless or unchangeable. I may believe that things are difficult to change, but I don't believe it's impossible. I also think that it is important to be realistic, to try to gain an idea of how things 'really are' if you want to change things. Change-makers may be idealists and visionaries, but they have to have their feet planted firmly on the ground to move things. It is of no use to pretend that the world is progressing, and happy if and when it is not. You can ignore what you do not wish to see, but that will not make it go away. I do not believe in 'focusing only on the positives' - I believe it gives you a false picture of reality. It makes you complacent, and it makes you believe that there is no need for change - or that there are enough people working towards change (in my opinion, there are never enough). That said, I do not believe in focusing solely on the negatives either, and if you are powerless against a situation, perhaps it is better to push it of your mind and focus on more positive things. I don't believe in cynicism - it is rarely of much use, and saying that you think things will never change, or that someone who is working towards change is accomplishing nothing (or worse, is a hypocrite), is the perfect excuse to sit back and do nothing. Besides, it is never 'nothing'. If you positively affect the life of one person, it may be nothing in the context of the billions who live in this world, but it is certainly something to that person. Besides, what if that person grows up to change millions of lives? Improbable, but possible. In which case you would have created the most wonderful ripple effect.

I'm not sure what I was aiming at with this blog post. I started somewhere and I ended somewhere. I may even have gotten a little preachy. Forgive me any insufferable moralizing, and if this is directionless, remember that I am a somewhat directionless young person too, and look kindly upon me, I beg of you. As to my Glass Slipper story, if anyone was following it, I'm sorry for the long gap and this unrelated post (although if you're following this blog you must be used to long gaps and rambling posts). I haven't forgotten about it, and I do know what happens in it, but I've started the next chapter numerous times and only managed to get somewhere today. I am a little lost, and a little scared, so this will take time. Beginnings are always easy and smooth for me - I love doing them. Most of the time I have endings too, but the middle is quite a challenge. I have never before made a serious attempt to tackle the middles though, and I am now. So I ask, kind readers, for patience (and that you not forget the existence of my little story by the time I manage to continue it).

A Tangled Web by L M Montgomery

Hello everyone,

Please check out my review of L M Montgomery's A Tangled Web for the newsletter Shiny New Books at http://shinynewbooks.co.uk/reprints02/a-tangled-web-by-l-m-montgomery/. Also check out the website which is a lovely 'quarterly recommendations magazine, bringing you reviews of the best new books in hardback and paperback, from big name publishers to tiny independents, and features from writers, publishers, readers, and more.'

Stepping into adulthood: the end of freshman year

Forgive me the pretentious post title, but that is exactly how it feels - as if by living somewhat independently for the past year, I have started to grow up. I feel like a vastly different person from the high school graduate a year ago - although surely one doesn't change so much in the space of one year?

My outlook has tempered a little since my breathlessly excited post last August, but I still love college. I feel as if I'm slowly coming into my own, and gaining confidence in my abilities. I feel free and happy in college. Classes, homework and tests feel far less like millstones around my neck. I've at least partially achieved what I never could in IB - the balanced perspective that tells me that a failed exam or an unfinished project would hardly be the end of the world. I perform far better without the immense pressure of the critical voice in my head asking stupid what-if questions. I've decided I take life far too seriously - and ironically, I've found that when I keep that in mind, I become closer to the person I want to be than when I let it eat at me that I'm some distance from who I want to be. One of my teachers gave me this quote when I was leaving school: You're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. (AA Milne, Winnie the Pooh - and thank you, Deepa ma'am!) I'm starting to believe it.

Spring semester was a lot busier for me than fall semester. But I didn't mind, because most of my classes have been very interesting, and I've had some really good professors this year. My 'Intro to writing poetry and prose fiction' class was a blast. I've really enjoyed it, even if I have realized that writing poetry is not for me. Professor McCaffrey is a sweetheart, and his generous reception made it far easier to let go of my writing inhibitions, of which I have plenty. World Civ class reminded me how much I used to love history before I dropped it in IGCSE and IB. I might have been a little happier in IB if I'd taken history instead of business, but it's a moot point now. Reading primary and secondary documents from different periods of history and researching the Renaissance for my project have been fascinating.

Calculus has been a bit of mixed bag. The professor (Robert Busch) had quite the personality - not only is he a really good teacher, but he is also extremely engaging, and very, very funny. He is probably the funniest teacher I've ever had. Some of this stems from the fact that he isn't hesitant about doing outrageous things - like smearing chalk powder on his forehead and cheeks and shouting at the board (a war cry, see, before tackling calc).

But I did terribly on one exam when I relaxed a bit too much, and I still haven't gotten over it. Also, the realization that I will never quite be a math genius even if I do like math, pinches a little.

Geography of Economic Systems was super easy to get through - but still quite interesting. The professor, Deborah Naybor has an amazing story (check out http://www.capitalistchicks.com/?q=node/347 and http://www.averagegirlmagazine.com/members/Archive/0504Inspiration01.pdf). She is also extremely sweet, and I seriously considered going to Uganda with her this summer. It didn't work out, unfortunately, but I'm hoping I can go next year.

So I've had a wonderful but busy semester and I'm totally ready for summer. Being home is strange, though. When I came home for winter break, it felt as if the four preceding months had been a trip and I was home for good. Now, being home feels temporary. I suppose it's a sign that I've acclimated to living on my own and university, but I'm struggling with it a little. The more I get used to living in the US, the more I feel irrationally frightened that I'm becoming somehow less Indian. This has always been a struggle for me. I feel strongly rooted yet alienated because of how Western my outlook is. Even before I went to the US it was like this - after all, my consumption of books, movies, everything - is predominated by the West. Some days I would feel suddenly ashamed of how I think and express myself in English - it would feel wrong, somehow, that the language I'm most comfortable with is English and not Telugu. There is this niggling fear in the back of my head that the longer I stay and study in the US, the more Americanized I will become. Don't get me wrong - there are a lot of wonderful things about Western thought and culture - but I cherish my cultural heritage. I've resolved to start reading far more Indian authors this summer - and not just those who write in English (I mean translated regional literature). I want desperately to learn Sanskrit, and hopefully I'll find an online course that will allow me to do so. After watching the classic Missamma last winter, I want to watch a lot more black-and-white Telugu cinema. I also want to volunteer, and find an internship. I might never have managed to do all I planned to do in the summer before, but I'm always optimistic.

Most of all, it's scrumdiddlyumptious and gloriumptious to be home.

I don't know what to call this

I know that it is rather shabby of me to promise to post a piece of good news everyday and then to proceed to disappear for three weeks. On the brighter side, I have learned something about myself: I don't function well with rules, even self-imposed ones, on something I do entirely for pleasure. I love blogging. And while the simple set up I had for the Chronicle was neither too imposing nor too demanding, it still didn't work for me. I didn't like having this force in my head telling me that I had to post everyday because I had promised to do so (however short-lived). I want to post only when I feel I have something really worthwhile to say, and that I can put it well. Of course a blog is just an informal setting, but that is just the way I am. I'd rather not blog than blog something just for the heck of it.

That said, I think I will still post news if I find it inspiring or heartening, whenever I come across it and feel the need to share it. In fact, I might write about news I find interesting too, even if it isn't strictly good news (an interesting fact or finding, for instance). But I think my strength might lie in writing reviews and personal reflections. So I will go back to my old 'format' (if you can call it a format at all) of writing uber-long posts that I feel certain contain something of interest or value, when I feel I am able put things across particularly well. I am very vain about this, you see: I don't like any writing of mine appearing half-baked. It needs to be as polished as I can make it. I'm all for a degree of informality, and certainly of honesty, but that has nothing to do with making sure your writing flows well and sounds good, does it?

Anyway, a little contrary to what I've been saying here, I don't really have anything in particular to say in this post. I just wanted to make an appearance to show you guys that I haven't dropped off the face of the Earth or anything - although if you've read my blog for a while you'll know that sudden, long breaks between posts aren't really all that surprising, and that this one has been comparatively short. I'm in the last two weeks of this semester, and there are finals coming up. It is entirely possible that I will once again disappear and only re-emerge once I've reached India for my summer holidays and all work is safely out of the way. I will be reviewing L M Montgomery's A Tangled Web for the Shiny New Books newsletter then, which I'm very excited about! Check out the website guys, it's pretty awesome - I found it because I read Simon's blog (he is one of the co-founders). I asked if I could write a review as a guest contributor and he very kindly said yes, so...

Can't wait for the holidays! I do wish more of you had taken my polls. I had 2 respondents. It was pretty sad.

The Good News Chronicle Day 8

Spring is finally here! And if you are in Buffalo, that will be good news enough.

On that note, sorry for the hiatus. I had a few exams on Friday, a really busy Saturday, and really just not enough mind space. But I'm back! And I'll try not to let any more gaps seep into my Chronicle.

I've found a truly awesome piece of news today, on what has become one of my favourite sites for good news: http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/. An Italian designer has created WarkaWater - 'towers made of bamboo and fabric... to harvest potable water from the evening air.' He was inspired after a visit to Ethiopia, where he saw 'how women and children are forced to walk miles every day for water'. The towers were designed by Arturo Vittori's VittoriLab. They cost approximately $550 each and can harvest 100 litres of water a day.

Sounds too good to be true? Check it out here: http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/inspired/amazing-towers-in-ethiopia-harvest-clean-water-from-thin-air.html
and here: http://www.smithsonianmag.com/innovation/this-tower-pulls-drinking-water-out-of-thin-air-180950399/?no-ist

Ok, so I've been doing this for a week now, and I'd like to know: how are you liking this Chronicle? Also, please, please, please, answer the polls on the sidebar to the right, below the Search bar. If the answer choices aren't visible, let me know and I'll clarify them. I've tried changing the font colour but it hasn't worked. I would really like to know what readers think of the blogging choices I've made.

The Good News Chronicle Day 7

Today is the 20th anniversary of the Rwandan genocide. While that is probably a terrible way to begin a 'Good News' post, there are two reasons I mentioned it:

1. While I do not believe in focussing on tragedy, I do believe in deliberately shaping the present and the future by keeping in mind injustices committed in the past and ensuring that catastrophes of this magnitude do not occur again. Also, I think these people deserve a prayer and a moment of silence, if only to remind ourselves of the power of human resilience and persistence in the face of horrific circumstances, which leads me to my second point:

2. 20 years on, things have improved. Grace Hightower and Coffees of Rwanda employs over 500,000 coffee farmers in Rwanda. This vast venture is helping people rebuild their economy and regain their livelihoods. Costco buys 20% of Rwanda's premium crop. Starbucks is another major buyer. Rwandan president Paul Kagame believes in 'trade, not aid' and under him, the Rwandan economy is growing at about 6% annually. President Kagame's goals for 2020 are: 'to boost GDP sevenfold, find paying jobs for half of Rwanda's subsistence farmers, nearly quadruple per capita income to $900, and turn his country into an African center for technology' (fastcompany.com). More than half the population is under 18, which means that Rwanda has a huge human capital opportunity. Kagame is actively recruiting investors and brainpower: The Presidential Advisory Council consists of experts in sectors ranging from 'life sciences to telecom to economic-development consulting'.  There is still a large population in dire poverty, and Rwanda has a long way to go, but things are definitely hopeful. In Kagame's words:

"We will not forget the genocide, but we will not be defined by it, either."

Sources/Read more at:

http://www.fastcompany.com/1208900/rwanda-rising-new-model-economic-development

http://dailycoffeenews.com/2013/03/26/grace-hightower-launches-rwanda-coffee-line/

http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/civics/coffee-helps-rwanda-move-forward-20-years-after-genocide.html

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/08/magazine/paul-kagame-rwanda.html?pagewanted=all 

The Good News Chronicle Day 6

Severe spinal cord injury leads to a permanent loss of function and sensation because the connection between the brain and the lower body has been lost. However, researchers have now found that 'by using an electrical device to stimulate the spinal cord below the site of the injury, it is possible for paralyzed people to assert limited control over muscle movements' (Good News Network). This means that there may one day be a way to further restore function in these people.

Read more at:
http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/health/spinal-cord-injury-may-not-mean-permanent-paralysis.html
and
http://brain.oxfordjournals.org/content/early/2014/04/07/brain.awu038.abstract
and
http://www.philly.com/philly/health/topics/HealthDay686587_20140408__Milestone__Therapy_Produces_Leg_Movement_in_Paraplegics.html

The Good News Chronicle Day 5

Oregon State University Researchers have discovered a method to use the sun to produce both the materials for solar devices and the energy to power. This could significantly reduce the carbon footprint of producing solar materials. It could also reduce the cost of solar energy.

Read more at: http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/earth/science/breakthrough-discovery-uses-sunlight-to-create-solar-devices.html

The Good News Chronicle Day 4

Afghanistan has had what Reuters calls a 'landmark election' (presidential) that was largely peaceful, with far fewer Taliban attacks than expected. Out of 12 million eligible voters, 7 million turned out to vote (58%), far more than the 4.5 million who voted in the last election in 2009. Six officials trying to rig the vote were arrested, along with people who tried to use fake voter cards.

I don't things are going to magically change very soon, despite my penchant for optimism, but let's hope that this is a glimmer of a new beginning, and that someday, those 'few' minor attacks (including the death of dozens in weeks preceding the election) become the exception rather than the norm.

Read more at: http://www.reuters.com/article/2014/04/05/us-afghanistan-election-idUSBREA331N920140405
and
http://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/civics/relief-in-afghanistan-after-largely-peaceful-election.html

Reflections on New York

A month ago now (time flies), I went to visit my dad, who was in New York on a business visit. I reached the night of Feb 28th. I was in New York until the morning of March 3rd.

I was tremendously excited. First, because I was going to be seeing my dad in New York. Second, because I would be seeing the Lion King Musical on Broadway, which my father has raved about a number of times.

The night of February 28th, we ate in an obscenely expensive Indian restaurant (Nirvana). I guess you can chalk it down to my need for Indian food, and my dad's desire to pamper me silly. I was very excited and very talkative. I'm not always garrulous, but if you know me, you know exactly how I am when I'm in a chatty mood. Anne Shirley has nothing on me.

We had booked tickets for an afternoon show on the 1st. We had a heavy breakfast, and wandered around the streets a bit, with a vague notion to go to Macy's, where there was a spring sale (Spring! Ha! I was wearing approximately four layers of clothing, and my father refused to take off that ridiculous black headband you see in the photos below - even for photos. I had to resist the desire to guffaw inelegantly whenever I saw the words SPRING SALE emblazoned across store windows). I saw quite a lot of Times Square, and promptly lost a glove as soon as we set foot in Macy's. Again, if you know me, this will come as no surprise: since the start of 'spring' semester here in Buffalo, I've lost a pair of gloves and a muffler, one of those things that looks like a monkey-cap, an umbrella, earmuffs, and God knows what else that I can't even remember. This is why I hate the winter here - all the stuff you need to take care of at all times. Apart from the bitter cold and the crazy wind, of course.

Anyway, we promised ourselves we'd come back to check the lost and found in Macy's (located on the eighth floor - maybe they hope people won't take the trouble to go and check, so that they can sell off that stuff too?) We went into the Minskoff theatre. I was going to see an actual musical. On Broadway. I'd wanted to see a Broadway show for years.

The Lion King musical was truly spectacular. The music was evocative, and more elaborate than in the movie; it had far more African languages, and the live performance made it more powerful - particularly The Circle of Life. The props were brilliant, and the rendition of the stampede scene was innovative and impactful. It was like seeing the movie a different way. The boy who played young Simba was perfect - playful and active. The only character I couldn't quite accept was Timon. Most of the actors said the dialogues with the same intonations as in the movie, so it was like seeing it come to life. Timon, however, delivered the punchlines in a somewhat different manner than in the movie. Not that it was bad, just that I kept expecting him to say it a certain way, and he didn't.
The settings and the props deserve special mention because they were elaborate, vivid, colorful, intricate and magnificently done. The largest prop was an elephant that was carried by, I think, four people.

At Grand Central Station

We walked around the predominantly Broadway streets after that, explored Times Square a bit, and went inside Grand Central Station. I saw posters for Wicked, Les Miserables, the new Aladdin musical, and plenty of others that I didn't know of. I think August Osage County was playing too. It was a bright, exciting street. I'm glad I don't attend college in NYC, because I have a feeling I know what I'd blow all my money on if I did.

One of my dad's oldest friends lives in NYC, and we went to his house for dinner. I ate lots of good, homemade Indian food, watched Mulan, and generally had a cozy time before heading back with my dad to our hotel. Unfortunately, there was a bunch of drunk, raucous guys on the metro with us; they rather spoilt things for me. They were stupid and loud and vulgar and just plain horrid. I tried to ignore them, but for some reason, I couldn't, and I wondered yet again why some people feel the need to be so completely inebriated to enjoy themselves, and why on earth it is that people like to swear so much. I believe firmly in the power of language. I think we should use words with care and respect. When they're flung around, they lose most of their meaning; and yet they retain something. When it is profanities, I feel as if everything you say becomes so much harsher, even if you don't really mean what the words you're speaking are supposed to mean. Call me a prig, or naive; I wish people had some standards in speech, even if it is the 21st century.

I thought that there would be so much to do in NYC that we'd be running around trying to catch everything. My dad wasn't really interested in the museums though, and surprisingly, that really cut down things to do the next day. Both of us had already seen the Statue of Liberty, and didn't want to waste an entire day on it. We thought of taking a tour bus, but they worked out scandalously expensive if we only wanted to sit in them for a few hours. They only sold day or two-day passes. Sometimes it seems to me that everything in this country is designed to make you spend more.

We ended up roaming the streets for hours. We did check the lost and found at Macy's. Unfortunately, I didn't recover my glove. I still have that single glove. I was too miserly to buy another pair since winter was almost over (or so I hoped), but I keep the one, and used this technique: bury right hand in deep pocket, wear glove on left hand, and cover nose with shawl using gloved left hand. Making do this way is generally my form of atonement whenever I lose something, which means I make do a lot.

We checked out the Empire State building, but didn't go inside. Again, both of us had been inside before. Plus, with so many taller buildings around now, I have to admit that I didn't understand how much of the skyline we'd see from the top, anyway.

In front of the Empire State building

It was a pretty cold day, and the sky was grey in a rather dismal way. I got to see a lot of the city's downtown in a way I rarely do on usual tourist trips, because we walked so much. I got a general sense of the city, its architecture, and got to see things up close. When I visited NYC in 2007, I was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the skyscrapers, and how you can see nothing but building whichever direction you turn, and however high you look. This time, I felt more closed in. Maybe it was the weather, but I felt a little claustrophobic. NYC is a fascinating city, but I wouldn't want to live in it (at least downtown), boxed in by all that concrete with only that tiny square patch of sky. I need space.

What caught my interest this time around was the buildings themselves, rather than their size. They are extremely modern, of course, and yet the inordinate use of red brick gave it a rather old-world feel in a very unique way. Or maybe that's just me, because we don't seem to use that much brick in India.

After hours of wandering, we decided to take a cruise: far cheaper than a bus tour, and we'd still get to see the skyline, as well as the Statue of Liberty. As we got near the docks, the city began to get dirty; I mean literally: there was sewage water, a bit of a stink, and garbage. I have to confess that I was shocked; sewage and garbage had no place in the image of busy, efficient NYC that I had. Clearly, Mumbai is not unique in this regard.

On a cruise, in front of the Statue of Liberty, which you can see a glimpse of in the background

The cruise was nice. Our captain also acted as a guide, giving us an audio tour via speakers. I saw Wall Street, Manhattan, the red-light district, the rich residence-streets (which I don't remember the names of), everything from afar. We also saw the building where Leonardo DiCaprio and Hugh Jackman live (they are neighbors), and the captain warned us that the water would be icy cold, in case anyone got any crazy ideas. He gave us brief histories of everything, including how Wall Street got its name (there was an actual wall at some point), and where immigrants used to be processed. We rushed out to get photos when we got close to the Statue of Liberty. I have a photo where you can clearly see it, but I look better in this one, so obviously I posted this one.

We were exhausted with all our walking, so we went straight back to the hotel after the cruise. I was rather depressed at the prospect of going back to uni the next day (not to mention that they had cancelled my flight that night, which meant that I'd have to fly back the next morning, missing two classes), but I resolved to forget it as long as I possibly could, which is generally my defense mechanism, and also why I'm always late for class on Mondays (don't tell me that Sunday nights aren't traumatic experiences for you, too). We watched Larry Crowne on my dad's laptop, which is watchable, if somewhat trite and pointless. I ate the fried rice that my dad went out into the cold to get for me, delayed bed time as long as possible, and woke up the next morning with that feeling of loss you have when a much anticipated event flies by much too fast. I was a little late (of course), and we when got down to the lobby, I couldn't find my passport, so we emptied my entire bag. Of course it was inside the entire time, and I got a round scolding for just throwing it in anyhow instead of keeping it accessible. I suspect that this is the point at which I lost my earmuffs because I never saw them after that.

It was a wonderful trip; I was excessively pampered and it felt so good to be with my dad. Does anyone else get this feeling of safety and comfort with their dads? Whenever I'm with him, I feel like he'll take care of any eventuality, like there's nothing to worry about. It's an awesome feeling. That trip was a gift; my dad didn't have to spend so much on air tickets so that I could see him in a different city for just a weekend. But he did, because he wanted me to enjoy myself, and hopefully also because he wanted to see me (kidding, of course he wanted to see me, who doesn't)!

The Good News Chronicle Day 3

London-based FastCompany has created the 'Ooho' an edible water 'blob' that is a substitute for ecologically unfriendly plastic water bottles. Anyone remember the blobs served in the bar in Bug's Life? That's what these look like.

Let's hope these come to fruition, and replace water bottles, which are absolutely toxic to the environment in terms of waste. In the meanwhile, remember to segregate waste and recycle.

Read more at: http://interestingengineering.com/the-future-of-bottled-water-lies-in-an-edible-water-bottle-blob/

The Good News Chronicle Day 2

Hello everyone,

On today's Good News Chronicle, we have:
Kenguru, an electric vehicle designed especially to serve disabled people on wheelchairs. It allows independence and mobility.

Kenguru was developed in Hungary, and funded in Pflugerville, Texas, US by Stacy Zoern, a lawyer and wheelchair user who got tired of the difficulties faced by people in wheelchairs.

Read more at: http://interestingengineering.com/kenguru-improved-mobility-for-disabled-people/

The Good News Chronicle and a Serialized Story

Hey everybody,

I have two ideas for this blog in addition to what I already do. I will continue to post book reviews and general reflections, but I also want to start two series of posts:

1. The Good News Chronicle: I am of the opinion that our news sources are overrun by tragic and catastrophic events. In other words, our 'news' seems to be almost exclusively bad news. This seems to me unfair. Of course we need to know what's happening in the world, but surely there's some good news somewhere? Why are we so disproportionately shown the terrible side of things? Sensationalism? I don't know about you, but I have no desire to become cynical and apathetic. I believe in hope and idealism, because it isn't the cynics who change the world; it is the idealists and visionaries. With that in mind, I have decided to consciously look for the good things. I will post one piece of good news everyday - it could be about an organization helping people, about a medical or scientific advance, a newly invented ecological alternative, acts of kindness - anything that makes you smile and think - ah, humanity is alive.

2. Serialized Story: I'm sure you all realize by now that I enjoy writing. This semester, I'm taking a Creative Writing class, which has been a lot of fun so far. With a view to develop my skills, and also to decide exactly how much and what kind of talent I possess, I have decided to begin a story here, on my blog. I have begun original stories and novels before, but they haven't always developed very well. So for this, my first really serious attempt at a long story (maybe even of novel length, who knows?), I have decided to recast a very well known fairy tale in my own mold: Cinderella. My Cinderella concentrates not on fairy godmothers and perfect princess, but on one extremely intelligent young woman who is determined to make it out of a very bad situation: at almost any cost. It will not have much to do with the original fairy tale except for the premise of a fatherless woman forced to live under the thumb of a cruel stepmother. We'll see how it goes.

For an example of what my Good News Chronicle will look like:

Scientists have found that 'Earth is not the only orb with oceans.' (The Economist) In 2005, American spacecraft Cassini saw water shooting into space from cracks in the surface of Enceladus, one of Saturn's moons. This may mean that Enceladus has an ice-covered ocean on its surface.

Read more at: http://www.extremetech.com/extreme/179834-saturns-moon-enceladus-has-a-huge-ocean-of-liquid-water-scientists-confirm
and
http://www.economist.com/news/science-and-technology/21600083-planetary-science?fsrc=scn/fb/wl/pe/planetaryscience

I am aware that 'good news' today was more interesting and speculative than 'good' per se, but I thought it would be a good start. I personally prefer events of large impact to individual acts of goodness and kindness.

Tell me what you think of both ideas in the comments below, or on Facebook or Google Plus.

Those halcyon days

My uncle, my brother and I on a trip around California in May 2007

I have a chronic Peter Pan syndrome. I cling to childhood - to Disney, 8 o' clock bedtimes and my beloved children's classics. It hurts when I don't enjoy something I liked as a child - as if I've suffered an irrevocable loss - as if I've lost a piece of that childhood I'm trying so hard to hold on to. I have a slight, irrational terror of the adult world. When I'm confused by life, childhood seems to me a golden dream - and adulthood a cold, somewhat dreary reality. A significant part of my struggle as a teenager was, I think, my developing adult intelligence fighting against the child I steadfastly refused to let go of. It was so much more comfortable to think in black and white, and of right and wrong as two firmly demarcated, unshakeable categories. To believe blindly and faithfully that everything the 'elders' told you was unquestionably right. To believe in a world full of sunshine, where the good thrive and the evil are swiftly punished, is the privilege of a child with a happy, wholesome, slightly closeted upbringing. Amidst an age group where everyone seemed to be in a tearing hurry to grow up, I was the exception. I had no desire to watch R-rated movies; I still listened to Disney songs. Reading dark, depressing, layered literature as an eleventh grader made me wish I could analyze Heidi instead. I preferred Tom and Jerry to anything 'bawdy'.

The reason I found it so hard to let go - why I still sometimes feel a yearning that's almost physically painful for a time when everything seemed far simpler - is that I had a perfect childhood. I was gloriously happy. I was smart and bright, cheerful and imaginative, and everybody loved me. I devoured book after book, and my parents encouraged me, buying me whichever book I wanted - after checking that it was age-appropriate. I was a huge dreamer - I day-dreamed on the school bus home, sitting on the steps in front of my house, before going to sleep, while in the lift - everywhere. Huge, grandiose, colourful dreams that involved me saving the world, or conquering it as an artist, a singer, a writer, a scientist - whatever caught my fancy that particular day. They generally ended with me giving marvelously eloquent speeches that everyone cheered on. I also had dialogues with famous people, fictional people, literary characters, even dead authors. I befriended Anne and wrote letters to Jawaharlal Nehru (after reading some of Glimpses of World History). I was, you see, capable of anything. There was no doubt that I would change the world, after winning laurel after laurel. It was only a matter of deciding exactly what I wanted to do.

My life was exciting, because I recast every little incident in dramatic hues in my head. I was convinced that everything that happened to me taught me indispensable lessons and shaped my life in ways that biographers would comment on when I was famous. As you can see, I had a slightly swollen head.

It wasn't just my head, though. I lived in an apartment with large open spaces, and I had many friends. As a kid I played outside for hours. We had innumerable games that always ended with the 'denner' (I'm not certain how we arrived at that word. I guess it could be taken to be equivalent to the person who's 'it' in a game of tag) chasing everyone else. We played 'make-believe' and pretended that the route from the basement into someone's balcony was a 'secret passage'. We created dozens of clubs. With one went we went so far as to elect a leader (we passed around pieces of paper with all the members' names in them, and everyone had to tick who they wanted) and make medals and trophies to be awarded to the winners of subsequent games. Unfortunately, we abandoned the whole enterprise soon after. I fear the oldest members of the group got a little too old.

My brother and I were the closest of friends. As really little kids, we would wander around hand in hand. I got terribly offended when a friend suggested I go to her house to play without him, because he always broke her crayons. "How would you feel if I asked you not to bring your brother?" (She didn't have a brother so this argument really had very little impact on her). The curly-haired little brat was the apple of my eye. I told him the stories from all the books I read, and he listened open-mouthed. He would fall asleep with his hand curled around my finger. When he got to be what he considered too old to do this, I felt bereft; I would sneak my finger into his warm hand after he had fallen asleep, and watch in satisfaction as it curled around my finger. He would tell me about the animals and people and machines he had seen on National Geographic and Discovery; I would listen, my mind unfairly wandering off to whatever book I was presently reading. I read aloud to him from Hilltop Hospital (anyone else adore these?). Our favourite story was the one about Ruby the Vampire bat, where the twin ambulance drivers Ted and Ted, have very funny back-and-forth dialogues. We memorized Mulan word for word. We played, fought and talked on long drives to holiday destinations. I felt genuinely sorry for people without siblings.

I had everything. The world was my oyster. Was it any wonder I fought aggressively the necessity of waking up?

My roommate and I

Days often pass with just a few glimpses of each other and a hurried smile and a 'Hi', and maybe a 'How was your day?' - to which she'll say 'Good' and that will be the end of our interaction for the day. Mostly we each just lead our own lives, hardly crossing the lines into each other's territory, unless it's to borrow or lend something or request that the lights be switched off.

But sometimes she will ask me if I can help with her ESL (Engish as a Second Language) HW (She is Chinese) and I will spend an hour with her, correcting her sentences and suggesting topic sentences. I will receive a very grateful 'Thank you' and will retreat to my side of the room, feeling benevolent and generous. Sometimes she will say, 'Have you done this in Calculus yet?' or will ask for help understanding the bank's customer service representative. I am always glad to help.

Our conversations can never run very deep. They are stilted and halting, as each of us tries to make ourselves understood. We can never quite share an experience, or talk about a topic of common interest, because our ability to communicate stops just short. We try to talk to each other, stumbling over the commonplaces, and laughing a little uncomfortably when one of us doesn't understand the other. Our conversations run along strugglingly for ten minutes, and then both of us smile and retreat back into our worlds.

She is my almost-friend. Not an acquaintance, because I know her better than that and I like her; I'm pretty sure she likes me too. I've had acquaintances, and I've had friends, but an almost-friend is a new experience. A new experience I'm quite happy to have.

A Civil Contract

I really enjoyed A Civil Contract. It is very different from Heyer's usual. I read it on the heels of The Grand Sophy, and there's a large contrast. The Grand Sophy is uproarious fun, with an unlikely lead (for her time) and lots of light-hearted humour. I think its one of Heyer's best, but so is A Civil Contract, in a very different way.

A Civil Contract begins with the unexpected death of the irresponsible Lord Lynton in a hunting accident. His son, Adam Deveril, who is army-mad, finds himself called home to face his father's legacy of debts and near-bankruptcy. Upright and sensitive, but with little knowledge of estate management or agriculture, Adam tries to learn as much as possible in very little time, but soon finds that the situation is bleak. His mother, who is selfish, weak, and frankly quite annoying, has her own - I'm not sure what the word is: settlement? allowance? - but his two sisters need to be taken care of. The elder one, Charlotte, is sweet and vapid, like Frederica's sister in Frederica (I don't even remember her name!); the younger one, Lydia, is irreverent, young and naive, and a lot more taking than her namesake in Pride and Prejudice. Charlotte has a suitor, Lambert, but Lydia hasn't even come out yet. Adam, at his wit's end, and considering selling the ancestral home, Fontley, is told by his business agent, Wimmering, that his best (and only) option is to marry a rich heiress. Adam, who is in love with a beautiful, ethereal creature named Julia, is aghast at the notion, even though he knows that he can now never propose to Julia (as he has nothing to offer her).

Lord Oversley, Julia's father, is sympathetic to Adam's plight, but is unwilling, nevertheless, to let his daughter, in effect, marry a pauper. He does, however, think of the same solution that Wimmering does, and speaks to an extremely rich merchant friend, Mr. Chawleigh, with an eligible daughter. Mr. Chawleigh's goal in life is to have his daughter Jenny enter the ranks of the elite and live it up among the rich 'nobs'. He is overbearing, garrulous, and his manners are 'vulgar', but his heart is in the right place. He goes to see Adam, and oblivious to any and all hints, proceeds to elaborate on Jenny and a prospective alliance. He judges Adam to be a decent gentlemen and asks him to consider the proposal. Adam, dazed and unwilling at first, soon realizes that he truly has no other option if he wants to save Fontley. He agrees, and soon he and Jenny meet.

In a typical romance novel, Adam would come to realize that his love for Julia was nothing but puppy-love, and would fall head-over-heels in love with Jenny, after resisting through the initial half of the novel. The reader will be puzzled about this futile resistance to something that seems obvious, but the romance genre has a formula that is rarely broken. Jane Austen, and only Jane Austen, ever makes a romance that is far more than a romance - and that inspired half these clichés in the first place, I bet. Yet, somehow, even now, when this formula pervades the romance sections in the bookstores, you read Austen, and clichés couldn't be further from your mind.

I digress. The point I was trying to make was that A Civil Contract is not your typical romance. Jenny is plain - and I mean actually plain - not attractive in an unconventional way to the hero - and she is bordering on stout. She is practical, with a sense of humour, but unromantic. Julia, on the other hand, is sylph-like, romantic, innocent, beautiful, and I hated her guts. I don't know if she was supposed to be so detestable, but I thought she was self-involved, stupid and extremely impractical. I know practicality isn't supposed to be precisely an attractive quality, but I find the the kind of 'ingenuity' or 'innocence' Julia displays repellant. I felt like smacking her on the head atleast a dozen times through the novel. However, the men are clearly stupid, because instead of embarking on this worthy endeavor, they line up at her feet. Adam is blinded by Julia's ethereal beauty and the contrast between her and commonplace Jenny. He is kind, and tries to be charitable, but he cannot help comparing the two. Jenny, who had no expectations of love, and has no illusions about his feelings for Julia (even though Adam, to his credit, behaves very honourably to them both) does not think she has a right to complain. She, who is married to him, and therefore has a far greater right to anger, makes no complaint, while Julia makes a big fuss, dramatically telling Jenny that she has been betrayed (Jenny and Julia studied at the same boarding school, and incomprehensibly, are friends), and fainting at the sight of Adam at a gathering where all three concerned parties are present, along with plenty of onlookers. Jenny, who really has a little too much humility, tries her best to cover up this faux pas, trying to show society that all is normal between them by driving with Jenny, and inviting her to events. Meanwhile, Julia goes on behaving like an immature drama queen, looking anguished and playing sad music whenever Adam is around.

Why he sees no fault in this while Jenny is falling over herself trying to make their marriage work is beyond me.

That said, Adam really is a very nice protagonist. He is sensitive, kind and tolerant, and while he is a little unfair to Jenny, he really does try to get along with her as well. Also, he is not a 'rake' - at least Heyer doesn't mention it, if he is - which is a huge plus point in my opinion. I am sick and tired of historical fiction authors making their male protagonists 'rakes'. No, it does not make them attractive. And it infuriates me because the female equivalents, while intelligent and independent and suspiciously modern, are 'innocent' and fall ardently in love with one and only one man each in all their lives. I'm not saying that they have to make Victorian females 'fast' or flirts, but why the double standard? You never see Austen making her male leads 'rake' equivalents, and they are plenty attractive.

To get back to the point, Adam is a wonderfully nice gentleman. It really isn't his fault that he is burdened with duties he has never been prepared for, and it is easy to excuse his occasional displays of temper. I can see how it would be hard to find Jenny pleasing when her father dresses her like a peacock and makes her a 'walking advertisement for a jewellery shop', and constantly interferes in their life, particularly by giving them extravagant gifts, which the proud Adam particularly hates. Despite these substantial obstacles, however, Adam and Jenny come to an understanding, and therein lies the beauty of the book.

Jenny is 'commonplace' and she knows it. She has no charm or attractiveness, and is not an eloquent speaker. But she is practical, hard-working, generous and kind, and she has a wonderful sense of humour. I found her infinitely preferably to Julia, although I did wish that she would stand up for herself more often. After all, it is because of her that Adam is able to save Fontley, and she has every right to expect decent treatment. Adam himself seems conscious of this and even reproaches himself: 'I take all and give nothing.' But this is more Jenny's fault than Adam's because she is all too willing to buckle to Adam and to try to please him, even though he is not in the least dominating or unkind.

Adam does, however, gradually come to see Jenny's value. She is an excellent 'housekeeper'; she is very kind; she has, as I've already said around three times, an excellent, if rather understated sense of humour. Their relationship grows into a warm companionship, as they begin to feel easy and less conscious in each other's presence, and begin to actually talk to each other. Jenny gives birth to a baby boy, and the process of her pregnancy really brings them closer together, because Adam begins to forget Julia in his concern for Jenny's comfort and safety (which Julia finds vexing, and I found immensely satisfying). Even towards the very end of the book, I expected Adam to fall passionately in love with Jenny, after all, because which 'romance' novel doesn't end that way? But the ending is far more beautiful than if Heyer had put trite words of passion in Adam's mouth, because it is touchingly real. Jenny is in love with Adam; how could she not be, when he is handsome, kind, sensitive, and has a sense of humour? Adam, however, does not feel an undying passion for her, but rather a companionable love, more of a warmth and a comfort in her presence, and a consciousness that long years with Jenny will be very pleasant and harmonious. He knows that Julia would never have been half the mistress of Fontley that Jenny is; he realizes that he may occasionally have tired of Julia if he had married her. But there is no grand realization of all-consuming love, no pivotal declaration. Although Jenny feels a pang at the thought that Adam will never love her the way he loved Julia, she takes comfort in the realization that what they have may be far more valuable; a deep and abiding friendship.