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I finished reading the most exhilarating book I have read in some years. I am of late sticking to the usual dollop of murder mysteries. And this book has inspired me to open the lid of my laptop and write a review. To begin, it’s a Swedish – English book, called ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.’ I would suggest this book to anyone who loves mysteries like I do (and there are few of those). I bought the book on Thursday and by Monday night had managed to read only till page 150 or so, and I had read waiting for my cabmates to come, while having breakfast, while on the pot, the usual. And Monday night from about 10 pm to 5am I finished the 554 page book. It’s written by Stieg Larsson, a Swedish journalist who died before he could see what a success his trilogy had become. I hope I read what was the first book of 3. He was 50 when he died. I am saddened when I see talented people die. I feel the fact, that I will never be able to read a new Agatha Christie or a new feluda, desperately. Getting back to the book, its about a 36 year old disappearance case of an heiress. The head of the dynasty Henrik Vagner was mentoring the 16 year old Harriet to take on the powerful Vangar dynasty, when she disappeared from the island on a day when there was no way to leave the island because an accident had blocked the bridge which meant that the people then present on the island had probably killed her. Being a rich, resourceful and a persevering man, Henrik began to try and solve the ‘locked-room’ mystery. [To tell you the truth I love such stuff, the locked room mysteries. And that’s why I loved Miss Marples, whose suspects were always within the village]. The investigator called to investigate this mystery is Blomkvist, a financial journalist who has just been convicted of libel against the perhaps-rogue company called Wennerstrom. So the story is 2 part. The mystery of Harriet, but also of destabilizing Wennerstrom. Before I get into the plot I want to talk about the delight I found in reading it. And I find delight in making discoveries and assumptions.

This is the second Swedish origin book I have read. The first one being ‘The Savage Altar,’ by Asa Larsson another murder mystery. I delight in them because of what I discover of the interesting Swedish setting. [I am used to reading English, American and Indian books and take for granted the glimpse of nation it gives me for I am otherwise acquainted with these nations too. Whereas, I had no idea of Sweden. And the Glimpse I got through this book is so fresh. To read of a place where the corruption is so minimal, and religion is an active part of one’s life. It’s not utopia but the authors are not disillusioned yet with their government. As an Indian reader I felt like the authors were lying. Or that they are covering something up. Its either that or the fact that the voice of Swedish – English is a little subdued and cold, educated, formal, the law of the land is just and order prevails (and wher the temperature goes as low as -37’C), whereas the Indian – English voice is always political, chaotic, warmer, reminiscing, and has this, this… third – world quality (where the temperatur goes as up as 50’C).

Assuming Steig’s language is characteristic of English speakers in Sweden, it is quaintly sprinkled with ‘O.Ks’ and ‘anon.’ I don’t know if this is his style and if he used O.K in life, because the word is used frequently in place of ‘alright.’ I relate O.K to a more informal way of speaking and I have to check if O.K originated in Sweden. His tongue is not as fluid or smooth as a native speakers and at places I feel he has some difficulty in making his characters speak in English, (They are all speaking Swedish in the book and translating that to English, may have made the language of the book so exotic). And I had last and only heard ‘Anon’ in Shakespeare and I know for a fact that its now archaic, and was delighted to hear it being spoken in the book. Also, Steig googled a lot and once a character “pulled up the google search engine , and typed in the keywords [magda] +[murder]. To her surprise, she made an instant breakthrough in the investigation.”

In what was so distant and exotic, seeing lines like this made me feel very secure in the fact that we are all global and over the years no matter what our governments behave like, the modern men still have similar methodologies of research J. Of course I am simplifying things and the limitations of my language will not let me put forth what is in my heart. I have always found it difficult to translate the heart.

For me there was an instance where reality and fiction co-incided:

1.The journalist Steig was writing about Blomkvist, another journalist. Steig might have been speaking through Blomkvist and portraying himself as slightly younger than himself and better-looking thanhimself and portraying the true Steig and not what people see him as.

2. I a mystery addict was reading a book, written by another mystery lover, and this struck me the most when the investigator was reading Sue Grafton, whose every book sits in my book shelf.

Going back to the story, which is actually 3 part (I lied earlier), there is Lisbeth Salanader, who is the girl with the dragon tattoo and the author plays with us and we are immediately scared for her life, but she is the Hero of the book and I don’t want to reveal anything because I want people who are reading this to read the book and not let what I say spoil the surprise that is Salander.

It’s available at Crosswords and with me, please buy it and if you know me, please borrow it from me.

Before you fly out and die

Leave me a little note goodbye

Of Longing and forbidden desire.

Spreading to my wings

 

Only if you return with a soul

Knock on my high window

And Wait for me in your tomb

I’ll come to kill (love).

 

But hush my love

For a nightly vigil burns

For they hate you

You vampire you

 

 I killed you once

And drank your blood

And cried and swore

But only within me.

 

The gargoyles that guard

Mock my tears

For I decry my birthright

And mourn my vampire lover.

 

And I feel like falling in love again now but only with the impossible ones and so that it doesn’t really matter. And I want to purge and keep myself tied to some unknown but ever-punishing altar of penance. And all that was green, if ever there was has dried and its winter within me. And even love is forced. I had not known that 26 is this withered.

Nothing touches me now. If I died tomorrow I wouldn’t fear or care. For we all know that death is all-encompassing and no memory exists thereafter. But it’s not only this, but also my life. I can’t get excited about anything now. I do get numb and more defeated. And I cry easy. Easier than earlier. And I am more on the verge all the time, on the verge of rage, extreme emotion, sainthood. And I exist only in this un-feeling superior detached self which can see all and teach all but feel nothing. Its cynicism of course, but it’s even beyond that. I have never lived life, life has lived me and where before there was some direction, some guidance, some will, some philosophies, now there is a null. And incompetence makes me cringe and cringe and cringe. And I see as if from very far and I expect nothing and get nothing and if I died tomorrow I wouldn’t fear or care. Nothing touches me now.

Just 2 roads to my blue kitchen

Surrounded by falling autumn leaves

Wallpapers peeling to reveal my innards

Fine veins of fortitude burst open

And bleeds on the lace white tablewear

Patterns of death form indelible stains

Leave me a little note goodbye

Before you fly out and die

Longing spreads to my wings

Of forbidden desire.

 

If you return with a soul

Knock on my window

Wait for me in your tomb

I’ll come to love.

 

But  hush my love

A nightly vigil burns

For they hate you

You vampire you

 

 I killed you once

And drank your blood

And cried and swore

But only within me.

 

The gargoyles that guard

Mock my tears

For I decry my birthright

And mourn my vampire lover.

i have been spending a lot of money lately. however, given the current state of economy...thats a scary thing and i am going to revert back to being a little kanjoos. A lot of pujo clothes have been bought and 3 perfumes. 2 Dior and 1 CK. And I feel so rich and pampered. I always knew I will be able to love myself the most. However, I rarely smell myself....right now sitting in Confucious, I can smell me...and soon i wont be able to...and there is none around who will say "you smelling nice!"

musings

Sand-filled day dream froths over
like my scented tea cup in this mid-afternoon
and new places blind me white
and I scatter and run over like bees

My life (for my premankur)

And what kind of dream is that

Purple turtles

Turning into a rich lady’s wrinkles

Crows tapping a tune on her face

My summertime quilt freezing me

And before I wake up I dream a dream

And what kind of dream is that.

My happier friends back home

Happier, gaier, Caffeine-addicted.

Defy age and march on

And what kind of dream is that

The young yet cynical insides

Turn out to the first wrinkle

and wake up to a middleage.

And what kind of dream is that

Silly girls play with helium still

And love turns into ‘Ok’

Passion into nonchalance

And what kind of dream is that

Life carries on step by step

Soul-mate turns to cinder

July turns into autumn

And what kind of dream is that

And what kind of dream is this?

 

 

 

time is moving

only too slow

and my intestines rot

with every passing minute

without work

Orange blossoms cling onto my morning skin. My very intelligent dog  lies, panting after a walk with her father, my father. My mother is trying to time the tea, so as to coincide with my coming out of the bath. My sister enjoying the sleep i awoke from. My extremely disgusting cabmate gives a missed call. Orange blossomed haze helps me refocus. Till i reach work and the day begins to unravel.

twilight

Greener Grass on the other side

Mowed down by dirty kids

Heavy clouds have moved over

My house glows of the evil within.

kiss the girls

Pink stairway to Shelob’s lair.

Paved with honey and milk

Glazed with 1000 prisoner hair

Rose red blood downs made of silk

Shelob, mighty Shelob walks on knives

its sharp edge pulling closer the dirty net

1000 pretty milk maidens mock their own lives

With dead eyeballs brushed under the carpet.

Pearls (‘o wisdom)

Drop

From your palms (rough)

From your lips (strangely white)

Your skin smell of melons (bodyshop)

Your hair smooth and curling (dove)

Pearls (aforementioned)

You drop carelessly (as careless s you are with money and..tax)

I pretend not to notice (cos you love more those who loved you less)

I have a wooden box (mahogany)

Filled with your mouth, your brain, your heart and soul (as for your body.....)

Along with your pearls.

My wooden box is heavy and aches with the posthumous love ( you know I am just kidding myself)

Your pearls (of love, caresses and unconditional affection)

Pink and grey (like the salt water ones you loved)

Rest within my melancholic box. 

My Morrison

Rebound

let me

lie on that piece of your skin tonight,
the rest of the world seem so bright.
dark skin, dark hair.
let me lie with you tonight.

will you refuse,
if i let my mouth linger
on your breasts.
will you pull at my hair,
will you urge me on,
or will you push me away?

will you cringe?
if my ungainly broken heart
calls your name out.
will you reply.
will you shut the door.
will you.....will you..
lie with me tonight?

let me seek refuge tonight.
in your hard soft mouth,
lover be mine
once tonight
and morning we can breathe again.

let me seek refuge in your
cold warm island tonight.
shelter be mine.
once tonight.
and morning we can be friends again.

To You, Love!

I am after all like you are

But just weaker.

You would have put it in perspective

And moved on better, healthier.

 

I just sit and read the

‘rebound’ poem I wrote for you

And wish you had then

Not said no.

Edweena on Roshni

I wander lonely on streets of slate. Cold, like everything that surrounds me! 

Happy I am not, yet unhappiness it can’t be called.

I struggle and fight yet conquer none! 

I walk aimlessly because I fear being walled.

I cry without reason, and for valid reasons my tears have gone.

I hope for things that can’t be got.

I fear being weak when un-strong I am not.

I live, laugh and continue to love,

But how, why and who I know not!

I need strength I need weakness.

I need a prick; I need a slap, I need a cut I need a slash. 

I need something to make this frozen piece of flesh react!