Blurb on "The Girl Who Played with Fire" by Stieg Larsson

Lisbeth Salander, ‘The Girl Who Played with Fire’ is drawn in super human proportions by Stieg Larsson. In many ways, she reminds me of Lucy, the prodigiously gifted niece of fictional Dr. Kay Scarpetta of Patricia Cornwell's books. Gifted with great looks, mathematical and technical talent and athletic body, Lisbeth, much like Lucy can survive improbable situations with all the odds against her. However, besides this little weakness, the book reads well, capturing and retaining reader’s attention. There is plenty of gripping action, pathos, romance, and mystery to keep readers of varying interest engaged. I was intrigued and interested enough to have put the first novel in series, ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ on hold at the local library.

Forbidden Love - Part I

Ok - I admit - I have been reading soppy romance books lately - enough to prompt me to invent one. Here is part one of the forbidden Office romance - even the title is soppy...

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If true love comes your way after the die of commitment has been cast, what are you to do? Should you just stand aside and watch it pass by, like a prisoner in the cell, condemned to watching the magical summer dissolve away? Should you dare to experience it, maybe extend your hand and touch it, feel its satin touch, taste its honey sweetness, just that once? Should you risk it all, leave all that is known; abandon all your commitments for this love which may turn out to be as transient as a desert bloom? Thoughts swirled in her brain as she listlessly drove the well trodden path back home. Her straight forward, practical personality that had brought her this far in life was anguished over these thoughts. Her soft, usually pliant features looked tortured. This soap opera episode can't be part of her life, thought Jane. She smiled at the irony of it all - even her name was an antithesis of dramatic - "Plain Jane" as the kids would tease her when she was little.

Life in a telecommunications lab in the New Jersey suburb had always been far from dramatic. Jane had always prided herself for her expertise in the field - working on algorithms that visualized the IP and data communications flowing through multitudes of routers and switches and hubs through New York City. Her love of gardening, cooking and family rounded off the professional accomplishments. Could life be any more perfect than this?

When she least expected it, a wrinkle in life crept in. Professional discussions on technical merits of data collection at random interval versus regular interval would stretch into theoretical discussions about software design and then morph into philosophical discussion about life in general. Sometimes in large group, and sometimes in one on one setting, as these conversations continued, she started finding him vaguely interesting in a non-romantic way. There was so much in common between them - books, music, movies, TV shows, thoughts, and life experiences. Jane remembered wistfully of the innocent early days of their friendship - the shared morning smiles of greeting, the glow of joy upon seeing his face. A sad smile tugged at her lips as she remembered the guiltless, harmless stage of their relationship that allowed her faithful heart to cultivate the friendship without guile and honor her commitment to her husband. Soon, it was all to change.

Book Review: When Bad things happen to Good people

Thought provoking ideas on the eternal question - “Why me, God?”

Religious though I am, nothing ticks me off more than religious literalists – mixing the words from the sacred text with a large dose of fear of punishment and forcing it down the throat of unsuspecting and in some cases deliberately naive followers. So, it was with some trepidation that I started “When bad things happen to good people” by Rabbi Harold S. Kushner. I was in for a big surprise. Not only was the Rabbi very analytical – following the though process in a very systematic, balanced and logical fashion, he was also very compassionate; empathetic to the sorrows of the world.

Since time immemorial, people have asked the question - “Why me?” I have struggled with it from time to time. Sometimes getting resentful of the joys of others, and at other times fighting with God, arguing with Him, sulking and refusing to talk with Him. So, it was a restatement of my confusion, when the Rabbi poses the question asked by Job thousands of years ago - “If I am good, God is just and God is all powerful, then how could He allow this to happen to me?” If you believe in all three premises – you are good, God is just, God is powerful; then it's impossible to explain all the sufferings in the world. The answer will evade you unless you are willing to give up one of the three beliefs, or do you really have to?

In the remaining book, the Rabbi challenges us to think differently – why do the unfortunate acts have to be acts of God? They could be the consequence of the randomness of the world, consequence of chance and chaos of this universe. We would like to neatly divide the world into black and white, bad and good, holy and evil, rewarded and punished and use some other explanation to explain why bad things happen to good people; but the world around us refuses to be categorized, churning, mixing and chaotic. This randomness and chaos could explain a lot of ill around us.

Harold Kushner brings yet another angle for us to muse about. To think of God as an over-protective parent would be belittling His intention. If God made us in His image, He also gave us the power to make our own decisions and choices. To blame God on the choice made by a drunk teenager to drive her friends home and in the process getting herself and her friends killed would be rather unfair – don't you think?

I'm still contemplating over and considering all these angles and more brought forth in this book. However, there is no denying the fact that I'm more at peace with the world and God than I was before reading the book.

So, ask me again about my role model?

Not too long ago, my son asked me who my role model was when I was growing up. Panicking, because I had none, I racked my brain and came up with "Indira Gandhi". For those not aware of Indian politics, Indira Gandhi was the Prime Minister of India; daughter of Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of India. She seemed like a good choice because she had some of the qualities that I admire in women - independent, strong willed, confident and outspoken. She made a difference in the country - changing it, molding it - for better or for worse.

Later I thought more about the question - is it really true that I had no role model growing up? Granted that I never put posters of pop idols and Bollywood actors and actresses on the wall of my room, nor did I obsessively read about rock divas, or Mother Teresa and her likes, nor follow the path of social activists of my time; but did I really have no role models? Upon further reflection, I realized that the reason I couldn't come up with a name was because I had so many role models at different stages of my life, that it was hard to pick one.

I have distinct memory of my neighbor's daughter taking care of me while I was still in pre-school. I called her "Babba Maasi". Maasi in Hindi means mother's sister. She would take care of me when my parents went out for dinner or movie, regaling me with numerous stories about animals having a birthday party for a little bunny and inventive narratives of my imaginary journeys to various places. When my son was little, I found myself telling him those same stories while putting him off to bed. Role model? Absolutely - I did learn a lot of parental tricks from her - didn't I? Maybe she even put the seeds for the travel bug that I developed when I grew up.

Sister Peter Clever was an Irish nun, who was the Principal at my private school till 1982. She was quite an overwhelming personality – very tall with a serious demeanor, and even more serious erect stature. She would walk the hallways, correcting the students’ behavior and English pronunciation – always firm, never rude. Scared as I was of her, I also admired her leadership and strength.

Then there was my 6th grade Geography teacher. Short and petite, she was an accomplished Bharat Natyam dancer and it showed in her graceful movements. Charming, quiet and poised, she created an impression on me. I made an unconscious attempt to model my walking style after her, even though the other half of me tempted me to act like a tom boy.

Right about the time that I entered middle school, my aunt in Hisar started working as a Dietician at the local hospital. She had an office and a whole staff reporting to her. When I visited my grandmother over the summer break, she would bring me to her office and keep me occupied by giving me odd jobs and teaching me Physics and Biology over the lunch and tea breaks. She showed me that women in traditional Punjabi family that I came from could have careers.

Around the time that I was hitting full fledged puberty, Sister Tara came to my school as the new principal. Short, quiet and soft spoken, but the woman had the nerves of steel. She took the school to new heights of modernization. Elegant in Jacquie ‘O style, she was an epitome of grace to me. She taught us about being ladies and strong through words and actions. I went back to that school as a teacher later on in my life, while she was still the principal and learnt the lessons of “Grace under pressure” from her.

Then there is my Mom. I may think she’s full of flaws – which daughter doesn’t? But, I can’t deny that I admire her strength to tolerate adversity, faith in face of fire and her commitment to her children.

Next time my son asks me who my role model was when I was growing up, I’ll be armed. He’d have to be little patient as the answer may take a while.

Twirl the curls

Having grown up sort of a geek, I never really experimented with my hair till suddenly, a few years ago, as a mother of a two year old, secure and confident in my job and family, I finally decided to expand my "hair horizon". Possessing straight, thick, long hair, I would watch with envy the curls and bouncing ringlets of hair product models. While their tresses looked playful, impish, free-flowing, mine looked bland - slick-straight. What God didn't provide, I decided to get from science - a perm. Or should I?
Bob, my hair dresser, fussing over my hair was non-committal to the idea - "You know that chemicals can damage your hair, even a soft one". What kind of hair dresser would turn away business, I thought!! A good one, I guess.
My husband was no help either - "It's your hair" - he said. What did he mean by that? Did he mean, "Hey, it's your hair, you should feel free to do what you want" or did he mean "I wouldn't do it, but it's your hair. You want to destroy your hair, go right ahead".
Over lunch, I discussed the idea with the girls at work. Christine reminisced about her "Low and tight" haircut in late 80s - shaved on sides and back up to a line above the ears and left longer on the top - "An old lady at the grocery store checkout line saw my partially shaved head, thought I had a brain surgery or something and decided to sympathize with me". She blew a bubble with her gum and continued in her dry matter-of-fact tone - "I put her right in her place and told her I cut it this way because I wanted to". Patty had her own tales to tell about little old ladies giving her grief about her fluorescent pink Mohawk that she sported. I squirmed and moved my pasta around the plate. I wasn't thinking of getting something "this" drastic done to my hair.
After couple days of anguished decision making, I decided to go for it. The next Saturday found me at Anthony Palmer’s hair salon, a little scared, but extremely excited, ready for my perm. Bob explained the process in a clinical tone – he was basically going to roll my hair up in large roller rods for softer curls, douse them in some chemicals, and then rinse it out after an hour or so. I gulped and nodded my approval. We chatted while he worked; about kids – his daughters, my son; politics – democrats are good, we don’t talk about republicans; hair – how he has none and I have quite a bit and how I should never ever blow dry my permed hair; and then we were ready for the rinse and my first look in the mirror.
I could hear the harps playing, the choir of angels singing, my lips lifted up in a smile which transformed to a big grin – it was perfect, just the way I had envisioned it! I shook my head and my wet curls bounced around a little – just like in those hair ads. Back at home, my husband thought I looked a little weird, but “It’s your hair”, he repeated. My two year old cringed as I bent to lift him up, peered closely at my face, finally recognized me and gave me a smile. I couldn’t wait to get to work on Monday to show off my hair.
On Sunday morning, I ran to the mirror to check my new hair-do and screamed – What happened to my curls? They were all gone, well, almost all gone. My hair hung limp, almost straight. My anguished cries startled my sleeping husband who ran to the bathroom to rescue his wife in trouble. He found me sitting on the toilet seat, sobbing my heart out. He suggested calling up the hair dresser. “He’s closed on Sunday”, I hiccupped through my sobs. “Well, ummm…, maybe he has a hot line or something?” he offered limply. I looked up and glared at him. He just patted me on the head – “Honey you still look beautiful!” I moped around the house in my pajamas the whole day, wondering if I should just shave my head and be done with the whole affair.
I dragged myself to the shower Monday morning. As I was towel drying the source of my anguish, I felt something was different. Instead of straight tresses, my fingers found masses of curls. I slowly wiped away up the fog on the mirror – and behold – the curls were back! I screamed with joy! For the 2nd day in a row, my sleeping husband ran groggily to the bathroom to offer his moral support to his anguished wife. Instead he found me hopping around the bathroom, grinning with glee. I vaguely remembered Bob, my hair dresser mentioning that the hair may straighten out while pressed against the pillow, but should bounce back when washed.

To wrap this up – I wore those curls for a couple of month, got bored of them, got my hair cut really short and moved on with my life.

The Ring

For our engagement 13 years ago, my husband gave me a ring with some intricately stylized curly-cue like patterns made of gold welded on to a flat gold band. Cute, except the darn thing got caught in everything - everything! I ruined my favorite silk blouse on it, a very expensive hand woven and embroidered silk saree fell prey to its vicious claws, almost every single stocking that I ever put on got victimized. So, finally I stopped wearing it. I don't think it pleased my husband too much, but he understood my pain. And so I lived my life - ringless - my marital status obscured.
About six years into our marriage, on the early morning of my birthday - really early morning of my birthday - my husband woke me up with a big smile on his face and a blue velvet ring box. With a knowing smile and of course, quite a few gracious comments, I took the box. Surely, here is the diamond ring that I always wanted. I eagerly opened the box - only to find one of my old rings nestled in the blue satin bed. What do you call this? Regifting? No - it can't be that because he didn't even buy that old ring in the first place! And to be woken up in the middle of the night for this? Scowling, I shoved the box back into his face, grunted, turned my back and flopped back on the pillow. Shamelessly and persistently, undeterred by my angry mutterings, he chuckled at his own joke, apologised and produced another ring box - this time a bigger plastic jewellary box. Hmm... I guess I am getting that diamond ring that I really wanted, even though that plastic box was a little disconcerting. I opened it a little more eagerly albeit with a smaller smile. In it sat a big, fat, ugly ring with Java logo on it (See - http://www.useit.com/papers/javaring.html). A JavaRing? You got to be kidding me? What I'm gonna do with it - break into Sun Microsystems building using the accessibility provided by the ring and do what? Steal some office supplies? I wouldn't be caught dead wearing such a nerdy piece of jewellary. I was ready to grab my pillow and storm out of the bedroom, when he grabbed me by my waist, pulled me back on the bed and slipped something on my left ring finger. I looked down. There it was - a slim platinum band with the most perfect carat of diamond perched confidently on it. I looked up and saw at least ten carats worth of smile on his face - beaming down at me.
On a really bad day, all I have to do is look down at it, remember how I got it and it never fails to put a smile on face. Now that I look back, I think the biggest gift that I got from him that day was not the ring, but the moments around it and story about it.