The Circle: Are secrets lies?

As they talked about the book, the two Dutchwomen seemed disturbed.

It was the latest book by Dave Eggers titled ‘The Circle’ – and they were going to discuss it at their book club meeting that week.  I looked on as they expressed concern, worry, and fear in their native language. Sensing my curiosity, one of the ladies kindly offered to lend me her copy to read.

The book was unputdownable.

...

Tell me, dear reader, would you like to be watched every moment?

What if there were little cameras everywhere and your every moment recorded?

What if you wore a camera like a pendant in a necklace and your interactions with others recorded?

What if these recordings were broadcast all over the world?

What if people or watchers all over the world sent you smiles/frowns depending on these recordings?

What if you could never delete all these recordings?

...

This is a story of a young woman, Mae Holland, who joins ‘The Circle’ – a big internet company which allows a campus culture and the freedom to explore dream ideas. Mae is overwhelmed as she considers herself extremely privileged to be an employee of such a company. Soon she gets tangled into the web of info-hungry internet ideology. As the story progresses, she ends up becoming ‘transparent’ – her every moment is recorded on camera and her every interaction is visible to millions around the world who send her immediate comments and smiles/frowns. The only privacy she is allowed is when she goes to the bathroom and when she goes to sleep. The Circle resembles an enormous greenhouse where humanity is observed and any unacceptable behaviour quickly weeded out. 

Mae is a hardworking girl and has an accelerated growth in the corporate hierarchy. She has a spirit of adventure which is tapped by the bigwigs at The Circle. They lead her to believe in the importance of transparency and how it would lead to reduction in crime and encourage more accountability. They convince her that to have secrets and to hide facts from the world is to lie. Their own secret agenda, however, is to bring the world under the Circle scanner so that they have knowledge about the past and present of every individual. And knowledge, as we all know, is power.

Mae’s best friends and parents warn her about her quest for transparency and refuse to cooperate with her. The events that unfold as she adamantly continues to be The Circle’s famous face are quite dramatic. She has sexcapades with a mysterious character who warns her about The Circle’s policy and the risks it poses to humankind, a friend is cornered, another collapses.  

...

The reason that the book is disconcerting to most readers is that one day, in the near future, this may come true. Eggers has succeeded in making fiction resemble future reality.

The language is clear, precise, not laden with jargon as one would expect from such a novel.

Eggers makes effective use of Socratic dialogue to present various viewpoints about the underlying issue of the debate between privacy and transparency.

To those of us who use social media and have lived on the threshold of the internet boom, the novel is not only a thriller-entertainer, but also an eye-opener.

Thank you, Mr Eggers.

...

The Circle

by Dave Eggers

Knopf/McSweeney's, 491pp.

Flowers on the Doorstep

Flowers.

On our doorstep. 

Yesterday.

No secret boyfriends. Or girlfriends.

Puzzling.

On looking closely we find a message.

Message:
This plant is a small symbol of mother nature's gift to us. We invite you to join earth hour by taking care of it.
Pledge to switch your lights off from 8.30 - 9.30 pm on Saturday 29th March. Register your pledge on www.omanearthhour.org

"Be not Afraid"

 

 “NO...No...No! Please keep them away....Mum take me home...please!”

Alan screamed as he shielded his ears with his hands and ran to his mother.

Everybody looked at Alan wondering what had scared him while other children were merrily playing with balloons, or sticking their fingers in the birthday cake, or admiring the birthday girl’s dress.

“It’s the balloons” Alan’s mother explained “He’s very scared of them.”

“Balloons?” we asked.

“Yes” she said “It’s difficult to understand other people’s fears, isn’t it?”

(At a birthday party at a toddler group in the Reading town centre) 

...

“Owww... Oh my god... I can’t look down... are we there yet? How much longer?” my sister asked with her eyes closed.

“C’mon, see the scenery ... its beautiful” we urged her to admire the cows grazing below and the conifers rising up like needles.

“Sorry, I can’t look down... are we there yet?” she said with terror lining her voice.

“It’s such a waste bringing you here... we thought you would love the landscape.”

“Yes, the landscape is lovely... but I can’t look now... not from this height” she said.

 (In a cable car at Mount Titlis in Switzerland)

...

“You are doing great... now try floating with your arms stretched out in front while you lift up your feet” says my swimming instructor, who also happens to be my husband.

I cling on to the swimming board, unable to let go.

“No I can’t ... I will surely drown if I do” I despair.

“I am here to save you if you are drowning, so just let go” he said. Day after day.

One day, I did let go of the board.

And swam and survived!

(At a swimming pool in Singapore)

...

There are several types of fears and phobias. Some imaginary some real. 

Most of these are psycho-social and make us feel vulnerable. 

Only we ourselves can overcome our fears.

We can draw strength from a line that is repeated several times in the Bible:

"Be not afraid!"


...

A Fall

It was a comical sight.
I was going down a slope at full speed on my bicycle day before yesterday. I turned round a corner to find a car parked there. I braked hard, lost my balance, and fell down. 
I fell down in slow motion. Firstly I rested on my right palm, then right elbow, then right arm, and then the right side. 
The bicycle, clueless after losing its rider, decided to fall on top of me.

I dusted my aching behind as I raised myself up after pushing the bicycle aside. 
Then I saw them - a girl and a boy and their parents.
They were supposed to be jogging along the jogging path when they saw me fall. 
When the children saw me, they pointed out and giggled.
When the adults saw me looking at them, they quickly turned around, pulled the children and went their way, pretending that they did not witness my embarrassing fall.   
I am sure they laughed to themselves as they went along. 
I laughed to myself about what had made them laugh.

Holi Hai!

Dancing to the rhythm of the dhol, girls dressed in white kurtas and colourful dupattas enter from the curtains on either side of the stage amidst a burst of bright bougainvillea flowers. They shower flowers at the little Krishna (Karthik) in the centre and at each other as if playing a game.

Some boys in white kurtas enter, playfully colour each other, and also tease the girls.

As the music fades, the children sit in a semi-circle and pretend to have fun.

Enter a non-Indian boy, Ivar.

Ivar:  Hi! What’s happening here? Why are you dancing?

Ayman: We are celebrating the Holi festival.

Ivar: Is it a HOLY festival? (He displays a card kept on stage and spells out H-O-L-Y.)

Bhairavi: It is a Hindu festival and it is called HOLI (She displays card kept on stage and spells out H-O-L-I.)

Ivar: That’s interesting. Tell me more about this festival.

Shashank: Holi is a spring festival and is also known as the ‘Festival of colours’.

Do you want to hear the story of Holi?

Ivar: Yes! (Stands on one side and watches what happens on stage.)

There was once a Demon King.

(Enter Britt, who plays the Demon King.)

He had special powers and was an enemy of the gods.

He was cruel and killed people.

Smruthi:  The Demon King had a son, the Prince, who was different.

(Enter Arush, who plays the Prince.)

The Prince did not like his father’s evil ways and became a follower of God Vishnu.

The Demon King became very angry and decided to kill the Prince.

Anna: The Demon King had a sister named Holika.

(Enter Brinna, who plays Holika.)

Holika had magical powers and could not be harmed by the flames.

 A huge bonfire was lit.

(The girls and boys turn around a display board kept in the centre of the stage with a card-paper bonfire stuck on it by some  mums.)

Shashank: Holika dragged the Prince into the fire. The Prince prayed to God Vishnu.

Holika went up in flames and the Prince was protected by God Vishnu.

(Enter Pratyush, who plays God Vishnu. Holika pretends to burn and sits behind the flames. God Vishnu leads the Prince outside the fire.)

God Vishnu also killed the Demon King.

(God Vishnu kills and drags the Demon King to the curtains.)

Holi is celebrated as the triumph of good over evil.

On the night before the festival a huge bonfire is built.

This reminds people of the wicked witch Holika, the King’s sister who led the Prince to the fire.

Bhairavi: Next day, the real fun begins. People play tricks and throw coloured water or powder on each other.

Girls (to Ivar): Would you like to play Holi with us?

Ivar: Yes, of course!

(All gather in a circle and throw flowers at each other saying “Holi hai!”.

Lastly, all the children arrange themselves in a straight line and say “Happy

Holi” and take a bow as the music fades.)

(This presentation was put up at school on 20^th March by the little actors and their enterprising mums. Some children were allergic to Holi colours so we used flowers.)

Something to Do

On Tuesday, Anna and I had nothing special to do. 
So we walked around the house with Blackberry III, our cat, and took some pictures.

Bougainvillea - a touch of colour in the desert. 

Signs of spring

Springing a surprise?

Verdant confusion

A solitary bloom facing the sun

Amazing maze

Hide and seek

Reaching out to the moon

Simplicity

The parrot's storehouse

Another burst of colour

Treehouse - a view of the city

Blackberry with the house on the hill

Summer bounty

A Most Peculiar Situation

People talk about the missing plane

Was it hijacked or did it drown?

Relatives and friends wait and watch

Day after day more speculations abound. 

My wife and I had kissed goodbye

On that fearfully fateful night.

But I visited my girlfriend instead

Though I had booked a seat on that flight.

Most peculiar is my present situation

For I hide in my girlfriend’s apartment.

Whiling away in guilt and shame

These dark days of bitter torment.


(Inspired by a text message from a friend, BJM.)

A Poli for Holi

The pretty young thing in the photo wore heavy makeup, Indian gold jewellery, and nothing else.

The text said, "This Holi, I am not going to wear a saree and a choli."

Now we all know that photography is an art and when we talk about good art, we do not talk about morality.

Certainly not when it is around the time of the Holi festival.

The festival has a reputation for people behaving appropriately inappropriately.

(Is the above statement allowed grammatically? Who cares? It’s Holi!)

This photo of the pretty young thing, by the way, somehow found its way into my WhatsApp messages – forwarded by a group called ‘Naughty at Forty’. There were also other nice pictures from friends – colourful palms arranged in a circle, a burst of colours, and yes, Puran polis!

We had always enjoyed Puran polis during this festival of colours.

In Muscat, however, we would have to make them ourselves. The only difficulty was that I had never learnt to make them.

...

“Mama, what have you done today for the first time in your life?” asked my daughter as I drove her home from school.

“I don’t know” I replied, my eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Is there anything you would like to do for the first time in your life today?”

“Yes, Puranpolis!”

...

I looked up a few recipes and compiled this simple one.

Ingredients:

1 cup channa dal

1 cup jaggery

1 cup wheat flour

1 tsp cardamom powder

1/2 cup water

3 tsp oil

Salt to taste

Ghee, if preferred.

Method:

Soak dal in water for about 3 hours. Cook till soft. Drain. Mash.

Mix dal, jaggery, and cardamom powder in a pan and stir on low heat till the mixture is evenly roasted. This is our ‘puran’.

In a bowl mix wheat flour with water, oil and salt. Knead to make the dough.

Make equal-sized balls of the puran and the dough.

Roll out the dough ball and put the puran ball into it. Enclose like a dumpling. Then roll out again to make a ‘poli’.

Roast on both sides.

Spread a teaspoonful of ghee on each poli.

Happy Holi!

 

If

In one little town, guests are considered gods and welcomed with a cup of tea.

When times are hard, the host says in despair,

“If we had milk, we could have borrowed sugar and made tea, but we don’t have tea-powder too!”

... 

In another busy town, a dinner guest complains,

“If the soup had been as warm as the wine, and the wine as old as the fish, and the fish as young as the maid, and the maid as willing as the hostess, it would have been a very good meal.”

 

Rose Petal Cookies

English flowers have a unique charm.

They bring brightness to a land blessed with unpredictable weather.

While we lived in Reading, I found the weather too cold for comfort sometimes. So I taught myself baking.

The house would then fill up with the aroma of freshly baked cakes, cookies and bread. It also served to warm up our tiny kitchen.

I borrowed books on baking and taught myself to accurately measure ingredients. I experimented with brown sugar, white bread and black forests.

Six months and many culinary disasters later, I could expertly turn out a pineapple upside-down cake and bake cookies in a matter of minutes. I could even make bread rolls fit for the dinner table.

One day, as we took a stroll under the bridge at the Reading West station, we found some fragrant wild English roses. They were so good - one would want to eat them.
Why not?  I thought.  
I looked up a book and found an amazing recipe which I have tweaked a bit. It’s worth sharing as we spring into the season of flowers.

Rose Petal Cookies

60 gm icing sugar (reduce a little if you wish)

125 gm plain flour/chappati atta

100 gm butter

Petals of 1 sweet-smelling organic unsprayed rose

Zest of 1 lemon or orange or vanilla essence

(Makes 12)

Sift icing sugar and flour together.

Cut butter and the rose petals into small pieces and lightly rub through dry ingredients until mixture resembles fine bread crumbs.

Add lemon zest and blend with fingers until it forms solid or heavy dough.

Remove from bowl and knead into a cylinder shape.

Wrap in parchment paper and place in refrigerator for 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 175 C.

Line baking tray with parchment paper.

Remove dough from fridge and cut into thin slices.

Bake in the oven for 10 minutes or until lightly brown.

The Purr-fect Cake

A girl wanted a cat.

She wanted a ginger cat on a cake.

She wanted a ginger cat on a birthday cake.

She was a simple girl who knew that not all wishes come true.

She made a drawing of a cake with a ginger cat on top.

Her parents went to Naella, the cake fairy.

Naella waved her magic wand and made a purr-fect cake just like the one in the drawing and the girl was happy.

 

At the little party, the girl’s friends thought the cake was "awesomely awesome".

“I want a piece of the cat” – Bhumika.

“Me too” said all.

“I want a piece of the mouse” – Naya.

“Me too” said all.

“I want a piece of the red wool” – Vidya.

“Me too” said all.

“I want a piece of the green wool” – Daniela.

“Me too” said all.

“I want a piece of the yellow wool” – Elisya.

“Me too” said all.

“I want a piece of the cheese” – Mara.

“Me too” said all.

So everybody got bits of the cat, bits of the mouse, bits of the cheese, and bits of red, yellow, and green wool.

The birthday girl got a bit of happiness.

 

 

The Copy of a Copy of a Copy...

Art, they say, imitates life.

That makes every artist a copycat.

And when life imitates art,

Have you ever thought about that?

 

 

 

(Photo courtesy: Google Images)

Just Keep Walking

Our daughter was excited as she pulled on her socks and shoes.

She had had a long day at school with the on-going Book Week and after-school activities.

Still, she is happy to go walking for 4-5 kilometres every day in this week.

...

To inculcate the habit of walking among children, the Dutch Committee had organised the Walking Event last week.

The email announced that the children would walk in different year groups. The very young children would walk with a parent. The older groups had two supervisors each.

The supervisor’s folders contained attendance sheets, route instructions, route maps, and first aid plasters.

If the children walked four out of five days, they would get a medal. For some children, it was the first year of participating in this event, whereas for a few other lucky children it was the seventh year. Their medals would indicate the number of years they had participated.

There was spacing between the groups so that they would not bump into each other because all the groups took the same route. Each day they took a little break halfway down the road.

The  4-5 kilometres routes were different on each day. One day, the dotted route on the map snaked through a wadi and climbed a hill. Another day it meandered through a lush green garden or wandered along the main paved street near a luxury hotel.

Friendships were formed along the route and the children had many adventures.

Parents walked along with babies in strollers and babies on backs. Children sang along to some marching tunes. They helped each other by tying loose shoelaces, holding hands on difficult paths, and waiting for those who lagged behind.

The photographer of the event popped up from nowhere at intervals trying to capture “the moment”.

At the end of the event, the children were given ice lollies and medals.

The Women’s Band of the Royal Oman Police played as the children savoured their moment of glory.

 

Endearingly Human

We sat on the lawns of the University of Mumbai in groups discussing Women’s Rights on that International Women’s Day some years ago.

I was sent there as a representative of the technical college where I worked.

Many eminent women were there to speak on that occasion. They had all made a mark on the society. They all wore starched cotton sarees and glided among us lesser mortals with inherent grace and power.

There was one lady, a Mrs. K, among them who caught my attention. She was stunningly beautiful, wore a blue saree, a big red bindi,  had long salt and pepper hair tied in a long plait, and had kohl-rimmed eyes that looked right into one’s soul.

I heard whispers that she had once worked as an airhostess and was now the chairperson of an NGO.

When her turn came, she spoke with authority. She touched the hearts of most women present there as she elaborated on issues like rape, dowry and child marriage. Amidst a deafening applause, she returned to her seat.

The next speaker, a powerful political leader, stood up to speak.

However, I was so captivated by Mrs. K that I couldn’t take my eyes off her.  Somehow, for me, she had become the epitome of Indian Womanhood.

She sat there, attentively listening to the next speaker.

Then she did something incredible.

She picked her nose!

In front of all those five hundred women.
Throwing all caution to the winds.
Ignoring all norms of genteel manners.

She quickly picked her nose as if it was the most natural thing to do while sitting up on the stage with all those important women.

I found that gesture endearingly human.  She gave me a reason to smile on the way home.