Best Time!!

Best Time!!

Sharp at 4.45 unfolds the pandemonium, a sitcom with the comrade of tide, waits for no man. The mathematics of life begins from the kitchen. The quantity in kilograms, liters, numbers, and the amateur ratios and units, raw and ripe spins over the head, and proclaims tyranny and revolt from the pressure cookers, onto the two gas burners, showing a sportsman spirit in the competitive whistling. The kitchen music revolves with the oozing of the fire bands, and the crackers often spill a fantabulous spill over the brims of the oven. The mixer drives, the grated coconut to a whirlpool of ecstasy, and melts the solid, with the sensuous touch. The drums of the cutting pan, enjoys the tuck-tuck of the knife, along with the knots of onion, with silent ghazals of melancholy. The snooze and sneeze with mustard and masala add spice to the whole event, followed by a whirlwind, a fast number of the shaft in the bottle of curd. The chil-chil of salt and sugar, played the music of food of love, and the sugar crystals marrying hot, moves to the in-laws where the shapes and sizes of the past ends for the new fusion. The wet and dry combinations displaced again and again with the pipe play on, play on. The whole poem, faster than slow, yet slower than f/past with all the visual, dominating yellow and white, with borders of green and red, auditory, muffled thuds and flute melodies, and the umpteen numbers of notes of varied pitch in between, tactile burns and wounds, the surge of air resulting from the olfactory sensations, or awakening of the spirit with the fresh brewed coffee, and finally the gustatory images aroused out of the feelings invoked in the reader of the composition. The reviews latest or later and the trial and error game of learning by doing, all complex equations by hearted with subtleties might eventually move to x or y axis . But the time machine, being a machine fails to respect the troubled panorama and the clock hands rush to reach the destiny of the circle of eternity. The narrow treads of water with adhesion adjusts the pace of the actor, thus the quickness baths in liters, brisk pace. Then the fluid rival, ordinarily rides with panting, along with the helpless super wo(man) strives, to seek, to get into  the time-engine, not to allow the next door neighbor to the next seat neighbor to conquer the personal space, on the wingless chariot of time. The other tactile calculator reminds, late, two minutes, reduce the call length, it is 7.30: thus the relationships caught in the spider web of time, words numbers, laughs counted, chats reduced, because it is time. The busy door keeper checks the speed, “slow slow, be fast, fast, fast, fast, fast.” Then the paper, bribes the connoisseur of time to return the passenger’s time; the conductor, supposed to conduct the whole concert , imitates the music of the check-bird-“ down fast, fast, fast, fast”. Sleep alarms my portion pending, awakening show-causes my portion yet to be. Passion rests, dating indolence, emptying the bottle of last drop of blood, ebbs, telling at your disposal. 8.40, this is the time to be free, in the midst of the bustling crowd, relax, on your feet, because the equation is unequal, so no rest space. 9.10, a visual feast of time attacks space and space retorts. Location-bus door. The sound of music comes to a new end in beginning. Thus the beginning begins with the end of end game, where the balance sheet tallies- no profit, loss nil. In time, on time, time over.

Aswathi.M.P

പനിക്കാഴ്ച

Review: Jones- Fielding & a Diary Pride or Prejudice?

Review: Jones- Fielding & a Diary

Pride or Prejudice?

 Eve of New Year:

 Bridget opened her diary, kept pencil, ruler, pen, eraser and sharpener, beside her. She divided the diary into two. On the right she wrote I WILL, ON THE LEFT, I WON’T…. “Stop ..I SAY, STOP…Helen fielding interrupted from the text. Are you going to rewrite my story without my permission,”  heard an oracle. In order to hide the shame, being caught red handed, I said, “No, no..Actually, I was about to introduce your book to make it more popular though it is not of my langue and parole.” There was truth in it, though a compromise.

This story may be the story of some of us, irrespective of gender, class, caste, age or background. Perhaps it may not be our story, but the story that we can or cannot tell since we know Bridget JonesES. Possibly, this may be the story of someone with whom we may have ties, to whom we are learning to be, deeply in love with , or from whom we wanted to escape, escaped, or still, acting coy mistress play,  the rhetoric being existence. This story confessed itself to be feministic, accepting the constant degradation, Chick lit as the mantra of coronation. Thus the story of a young girl, who wrote a diary secretly, discloses the secret wishlists after a year, where the feelings are no more the feeling, where she rests all passions spent. The novel Bridget Jones’s Diary is the diary of a young girl, ( Not Anne Frank).                                     

The novel in the form of diary begins with New Year’s resolutions of Bridget Jones. It is divided into two sections titled ‘I will not’ and ‘I Will’. This may be the right time to read this novel, since we are bunching our desires, promise ourselves with the wills of future, won’ts, as reflections out of past, and weaving the present for the next year, leading from present to PRESENT. So was Bridget Jones, the Chick lit. heroine doomed to carry the ambivalence pertaining to the existence of every (wo)man of 1990s , when the first issue released, especially that of a self reliant woman, a shopaholic, (alcoholic, chain smoker,) glutton, singleton(?), and meets the criteria of a feminine idol-cosmopolitan woman, when she commences her entry. Just after made the decision to form a mature relationship with a responsible male, she fell into the web of Daniel, her boss, with whom she flirts, chats, and tries to date, but reluctantly shies away. The anxiety is the effect of internalized models of beauty which she feels ideal for a man to love a woman. Her concept of beauty is the notion of her infatuation towards the commoditization in which woman is both a commodity and a consumer. She was badly in need of a partner simply for the sake of exhibition and the element of love is second to this. The equation is corroborated when the image of reluctant female is exposed. When the story unfolds, the consistency of the feminine image is broken and she portrayed the struggle of the individual, to have a unique ideology difficult even for her to explain. This lack of the puritan concept, of purity is a part of the post modern sub culture celebrated through the novel especially through the unofficial problem maker/solver meetings of Bridget and friends. Even after making all the rhetoric of wisdom the estimation of Bridget is too superfluous as she felt like being cheated after she discarded the carnal pleasures of the then hero. She again marked the wealth of the man, Mark Darcy,whom she marries at the end as the mark of his dignity and his exterior i.e. the outfit as the proof of his being a gentleman. The logic of these empowered women will reserve practicality when it comes to the bottleneck of a single relationship.

The looking glass of Chick lit. Woman whether mother or daughter satisfies only by the acquisition of commodities even if she is well aware of it as useless as far as she is concerned. Her foundations will always be in her makeup box. But the rigidity offered by the confidence of financial security and independence is in conflict in the presence of mothers of her own age she met in a party. Lonely in a crowd,  ‘a nightmare scenario’ was she, then a marginalized phenomenon in the midst of ‘powerful mothers’. But on another occasion she calls a mother as “a hideous grow-bag-cum-milk-dispensing machine”.

Career is for money, weightless is weight-full in others perception, a rich man will the partner with all riches, shopaholism adds to prestige, thus goes the exposition of femaleness, rather than femininity in the novel.

Still Jones is being placed, especially today along with Diary of stocks. It serves the entertaining purpose, as it satisfies the lust residing in all to peep into the secrets of others- to the calls of the instincts’ bed rooms, nature’s bathrooms, flavors’ kitchens, gossips’ living space, so to speak. A diary serves it all. Thus Fielding, and Jones…( Not Henry Fielding and Tom Jones…It is Helen Fielding and Bridget Jones’s Diary)