A Room With A View- A Review

E M Forster exhibits his usual mix of depth and lightheartedness in A Room With A View, the story of a young Englishwoman caught in the preconceived notions of society and almost deceived into marrying a man she doesn't love; and again, being made to realise the folly of her ways through an accidental meeting in the most unexpected of places.

Lucy Bartlett goes to Italy with her cousin Charlotte, a woman probably disposed to be kindly, but more often than not getting in the way and disrupting the ideas of romanticism that so naturally obsess young Lucy. Their disappointment in not being given 'rooms with a view' is alleviated when the Emersons offer to give up their own rooms to the ladies in exchange for theirs; an offer that Miss Charlotte Bartlett accepts with reluctance, for how can polished society ever make such a crude proposition? A walk with the exasperating Miss Lavish, an aspiring novelist who gets carried away by her literary ambitions and leaves her companion to her own devices, sees Lucy end up in a church with the Emersons. Further chance encounters with George Emerson and an unexpected burst of sentimentality in the midst of violets and enchanting scenery make the Bartletts leave for Florence abruptly.

On her return to England, Lucy is talked into engagement by Cecil Vyse, an artistic man who endeavours to influence her in every possible way and doesn't make himself too popular with her family. He lacks patience with her friends and their small social engagements, meddles with Lucy's plans to have acquaintances of hers inhabit a villa in the neighbourhood, refuses to participate in the acts of frolic of the family. Frustration mounts as George Emerson comes back into her life and gives her his own ideas; a sudden encounter with Mr. Emerson in the rectory leaves Lucy wondering about her decisions all through.

While Lucy probably makes the right choice towards the end, it does seem to me as if she never does think independently, being easily swayed by whatever she hears. It doesn't do much good to the idea of emancipation of women for sure, and she seems like a figure being moulded in and out of shape all the while by people who think they know what is best for her.

The writing is delightful in true Forster style and after The Longest Journey and Howards End, comes across as less tragic than usual. The society consists of the inevitable characters who take the liberty of making decisions for others, criticising, poking their nose into what is definitely not their business. We haven't really come too far since those years, have we? Maybe it isn't society, but human nature.

Oriental Delights

While I haven't gathered courage enough to let the experimentation go as far as the palate, I must confess I have been much enamored by whatever offerings of the Orient I have experienced thus far.

Saturday evening, I had the opportunity to take in two more monasteries. While the destination was the Burmese Buddhist Temple, the address, a nondescript street somewhere around Balestier Road, a short bus ride from Novena, did not make much sense to our cab driver. The map at the Novena MRT station not being enlightening enough as we scanned it for Tai Gin Street, we asked at enquiries, only to be told that there were quite a few monasteries along Balestier Road and they weren't aware of exactly what we were looking for. So, in the deepening blue dusk, under trees that spread their leafy branches wide open over the milling crowds at the churches and on the roads, in an area that brought back strong memories of our short visits to Bangalore, we waited for a bus.

Through narrow streets, past hardware and lighting shops, paint-stripped blackened walls and unsymmetric cobblestones, lanes that got increasingly reminiscent of home, we made our way on a bus in a spirit of adventure (a grandiose term for something as insignificant as this, I agree, but then we didn't know where we were headed); we got off at the stop by the first monastery we saw, and for perhaps the first time in Singapore crossed the road in the typical Indian way, cutting through the middle, for there was no crossing visible.

The monastery was medium-sized, not the one we'd been looking for, but pretty and inviting in its own way. Incense sticks and candles burnt at several places, and one of the people apparently working there welcomed us as we stood hesitantly outside, explaining the significance of the deities there, telling us about the Laughing Buddha, and then leaving us to wander through the room at the back and look at the glorious statues of the Buddha. The people here, as I have often said, are extremely warm and friendly, and importantly, have ready smiles.

A sudden streak of fortune led me to notice the sign that said 'Burmese Buddhist Temple' as we wandered out aimlessly, wondering where to go next. Off we went down the narrow lane, the much sought-after (for us) Tai Gin Street, crowded by a number of students and worshippers. I wonder if there is some sort of Burmese settlement there, because quite a few streets around bear names from Burma…Irrawaddy, Rangoon etc.

The Burmese Temple is a grand affair. A magnificent marble statue of the Buddha, carved in Burma in 1917-18, sits in state in the hall, inspiring awe and a feeling of incredible peace. A congregation was gathered there, singing verses, as a steady stream of people kept flowing in. We went upstairs to the third storey, where the muffled singing from downstairs wafted up; people sat quietly there, paying silent obeisance to the standing statue of the Buddha. There being few people up there, we were able to see the statue more clearly, and what a piece of workmanship it was indeed! The folds of the Buddha's robe fell gracefully against His strong, reassuring figure, the fingers of the right hand held up in a gesture of blessing. High up near the ceiling were pictures depicting various incidents from the life of the Buddha- Angulimala, dragons, elephants, demons, masses of clouds- it indeed felt like being in a temple back home. The tepid blasts from fans in the sultry evening, the quiet and the calm of minds coming to rest and surrender to a greater power, the irreplaceable sense of well-being: a sense of déjà vu was inevitable, of course. There are some mysteries that no amount of questioning can unearth.

Weekends are also often devoted to Buddhist music. One of the walks through the alleys of Chinatown led to the discovery of a shop that sells Buddhist music and artefacts; I love the Tibetan mantras that I picked up, sung in a mystical, soothing female voice, complemented by traditional wind instruments and drums, and as you hear them, it is hard not to be transported to the heights of the Himalayas, to imagine yourself by a prayer-wheel, monks walking to and fro, clouds drifting dreamily by a red-brick shrine nestled in a nook of a snow-clad mountain rising ambitiously into a lilac, sun-sprinkled sky, wrinkled women in colourful shawls and young women with babies smiling from the windows of stuffy little houses. The mantras are a delight- familiar verses couched in unfamiliar language to suit the pronunciation of their tongue; for instance, Om Mani Padme Hum becomes Om Mani Bae Mae Hom. What doesn't change, though, is the sincerity and the tranquility.

On to more materialistic pleasures, the Orient has always been an infinite source of trinkets, fabric and lore. Precious stones in unimaginable, pretty colours are extremely attractive, even if you are a practical girl with little interest in jewellery. I have already been lured into jades, amethysts and corals. Maybe sapphires, next? Tantalising indeed are the strings of agate, onyx, emerald, pearl and garnet, like treasures tossed out of a wrecked ship washed ashore from a distant century. What surprise is it, then, that they should warm the heart of a person who likes to revel in the unreal?

In broad daylight or at night, when blue glass reflects sunlight or the skyscape glitters with the lights from office towers, when the neon sheen blots out the simple, primitive shimmer of the faraway stars, the world comes back to what we call normalcy, puts on the garment of 'civilisation' and pretends and preens. Beneath it, though, the ghosts still lurk, the songs of the past reverberate and call, the stories strike a chord, and through all our pretentiousness, we thankfully succumb.

 

A Book in Hand

A book is material comfort. Just as much as the inside of it matters, knowing that I have a book stashed away in my handbag is extremely important to me, as vital as having my ATM card (that'll do, you don't really need cash all the time, because NETS works quite everywhere, except at the MRT stations, where having a topped-up ez-link card is good enough, so life is pretty simple here even if you're as absentminded as can be).

Coming back to where I began, I feel incomplete without a book on me, even when I am perfectly sure I shan't have any occasion for boredom or be at a loss as to what to do with time on hand. Of what use is a book when you're going around the city in cabs, visiting monasteries, a mall and a restaurant?

This evening as I tucked my glasses and a thin shawl (for you never know where you'll freeze) into my handbag, my eyes fell on the book on the sofa. Notwithstanding the fact that my bag was already heavy and that I would definitely not need my book on the short outing, I found myself picking it up. I don't know if I should call it an obsession, but I derive an inexplicable strength from books, I get the feeling they'll keep me from loneliness, fear and boredom. No matter what, there is inspiration, succour and relief to be found in the pages of a book. I say this at the obvious risk of sounding incomprehensible; doesn't everybody look for something to cling to and draw strength from? For me, at any given time, it is the book that I'm reading, for I can carry it around with me wherever I go and take comfort in the knowledge of its existence. The extent of my dependence on books really struck me this evening as I wavered for a moment in indecision. Healthy or not, this is one obsession I do not want to get rid of.

Turnaround

Forget the fact that Ferrari are not quite there (an understatement, I agree) this season. They are almost as bad as, and how I hate to make the comparison, the Kolkata Knight Riders this season. So the IPL is not just about glamour and advertising and flashing your face and colours on television every other minute. It isn't about promos, controversies, publicity, and empty talk. Not entirely. Looks like a team missed out on one necessary ingredient- the game. And how I hope a particular person is learning his lesson! (Not that I'd really mind if he didn't; it just doesn't make the least bit of difference to me.)

Ferrari are biting the dust too, yes, and they'd better snap out of it pronto. While it might be politically correct to say seeing Button, Vettel and the rest of the upstart co. on the podium is good for the sport, I'll say this: I don't mind seeing them there, but where I'd like to see them is on the third step, behind the two Ferrari drivers. Pipedreams. Don't rub it in. I can hardly wait for the Europe leg to begin.

Pink, Raggedy Stitch

I just knew of Lilo & Stitch as cartoons on Disney Channel, but now I have my own raggedy pink Stitch stuffed toy. When I brought her home, the reactions ranged from shocked to surprised at my taste, and gradually metamorphosed to aquiescence and even affection.

My Stitch (yet to be named), is said to look like she has been run over by a bus, been chewed up by a dog, got caught in the rain, whatever. She has the nicest eyes (with a single curling eyelash each), the flattest nose, the prettiest paws and the loveliest feet. The picture doesn't quite do justice to her. She is a far cry from the alien-like blue Stitch I gave a friend. She is easy to hold in the crook of your elbow and good to keep against your cheek when you're feeling low. She is a real friend (though she doesn't know it).

(This has to be my girliest post ever.)

A Country that Cares

Singapore is a country where citizens really try to make a difference to the way things are run. They are proactive for sure, and when they voice their concerns, it is evident that they are heard immediately and prompt action is taken.

Quite a bit of whatI know of their efforts comes from the newspaper distributed at the train stations on weekdays. 'My Paper' is an extremely praiseworthy attempt at keeping the people of this country abreast with the happenings, and a platform for themselves to alert one another to things of note and be on their toes all the time. You never know who might be watching and chastising you for your misconduct in public, so you always have to be careful about how you behave lest you should find yourself in the newspapers for doing something gross or not abiding by the rules.

From students who vandalise or treat people with contempt to people who refuse to give up their seats on the train to those who need them more, appreciation for people who work hard (recently, ladies who distribute the paper at the stations were lauded by readers or their friendliness), road accidents (of course, there aren't too many of them, because rules here are stringent), or regulations that citizens might have a grouse against, the paper carries reports on them all. And it isn't just regional in nature. While the primary focus is on happenings in and around Singapore, there is quite a lot in it about China and India as well, key players in the world now, and regional superpowers. Recession, business, sport, music, television, cinema, some light, heartwarming writing- indeed a good way to pass time on the train. The team behind the paper is pretty young and enthusiastic, and  I am sure everyone there works really hard on making it what it is- a clean, kitsch-free paper, and a far cry from many of the 'urban' supplements we have back home, which seem to thrive on Page 3 sensationalism or yellow journalism.

What is most impressive is how people really care and try to make a difference. Of course, it helps that those at the helm of affairs also listen to them and try to address their problems. No pompous speeches, no chaotic politics. This is clean, exemplary governance. Singapore is said to abide strictly by its laws. If stringent regulation is needed to keep things in check, so be it. They are a hard-working lot and their efforts show in the precision with which the country is run. Life here really spoils you to the extent that I sometimes dread having to come back home to work in the dust and the grime- and you know what I mean by that. However, we are probably not as callous as we were, and I am sure things are changing for the better. Optimism helps.

The Long Way to Work

Cab drivers in Singapore are an ilk of their own. They can disarm you with their heartiness or put you off with their sullen taciturnity. When you open the door of one of the blue or yellow or white or silver cars, you can never be sure of what to expect.

Sample these:

After a night of work and breakfast at Komala’s at Farrer Park(where we’re almost always the first customers and my roommate was once requested to come in later as they hadn’t opened yet), we found a cab at the traffic signal. The driver was extremely loquacious and cheerful. He had a rumbling laugh rising from the depths of his belly and a deep voice. He pointed out a Buddhist temple to us as we drove down, and launched into a soliloquy (supposed to be a conversation, actually) on poverty in India. He was critical of businessmen buying their wives aeroplanes when beggars languished in poverty on the streets. He couldn’t comprehend why he could get to Delhi in a few hours from Singapore, but had to travel more than a day to get to Gaya from there. He told us about the large number of IT professionals who crowded into the restaurants of Little India come Sunday. (Of course, we didn’t tell him we belonged to that category too). There was something rather amusing about the way he spoke, though, and my roommate wore a very uncomfortable expression as she tried to keep herself from laughing out straightaway into his face. The most priceless moment, though, arrived when the driver, glorying in the magnificence of his country, mentioned the ‘Cocodye’ farm. My roommate looked up at him, puzzled, and he promptly snapped his palms, joined at the heels, at her. ‘Cocodye!’

“Crocodile!” I announced simultaneously, convulsed with laughter, for I’d already seen the Crocodile Farm pass by, and I couldn’t even bring myself to thwart the driver’s eagerness as he looked out of the window constantly, trying to find the place and telling us how you could purchase leather bags there (which made me wonder, on a serious note, if the farm bred crocodiles to kill or for conservation- their website says they practice ‘sustainable utilisation’- something I need to learn about).

Then there was the driver who asked us a question or took directions, and followed up every sentence we uttered with, “Thanks. Thank you very much. Thank you.” Three times. OCD? I hope not. Then another memorable one was a huge fan of Indian cinema who watched Hindi DVDs on weekends and got his daughter hooked as well. He went on about what a safe place Singapore was, and as he dropped my colleague off before me, told him that he would be taking me to a discotheque and not home- whereupon, in two minutes, I received a call from my colleague to make sure I’d got home safe and sound. Another driver, smelling the food we were carrying home to the other girls, asked, “Is that dosey?” They have varying tastes in radio channels, so you never know if you’re going to be treated to some Western Classical or pop or Chinese music, or be bamboozled by an incomprehensible game show (in Chinese, of course!)

Of course, this immense garrulity is limited to a few drivers. They aren’t always comfortable with English, and we’ve even had an instance when one of my flatmates was told that she didn’t know English (needless to say, she was left speechless). Many of them do make conversation, often intelligent talk, and it is indeed amazing how well-informed they are. They know a lot about India in particular, and not just the basic stuff that any interested foreigner would, but also politics. Many of them are people retired from regular day jobs, and it is heartening to find them doing a job which, back home, would be regarded as degrading and inconsequential- what a price we pay for our ignorance!

Unpredictable. That is what they are. And this makes each drive an adventure and a journey to look forward to (even when the destination is office).