Every city of character has that one book shop that defines its past, present and future cultural health. Isn't it strange that these book shops are invariably old, cramped with books, and curated in a way that will always surprise you?
Sarvodaya Ilakkiya Pannai (Sarovodaya Literary Farm – a place that sows the seeds of knowledge) in Madurai is one such place. It matches the ranks of Strand Bookstall in Mumbai and Citylight Bookshop in San Francisco for the sheer variety, quirkiness and general lack of modern bookshop fancy-factor. A place for serious book worms, this!
As I was browsing the Tamil pop literature aisle, several titles such as CIA Secrets, FBI Files and KGB Facts jostled for attention with some serious red books. But my fancy was captivated by a thin volume titled (I translate) “Aliens and continuing Mysteries.”
It was just the book for me and my reading companion for the past three weeks – my dad.
A rather unconventional book to read with my 78-year old father, you might think. But then, there has been nothing conventional about our reading process.
We started with me reading aloud the newspaper to my dad whose vision has been significantly impaired by a vascular problem in his retina. Pretty straightforward stuff.
Only that I never read the newspaper and I found this task thumpingly boring. I started picking out only those items that suited my taste. We farmed the centre pages for opinions, personalities, off-mainstream news and commentaries (our own).
My dad surprised me with how sporting he was about this new negotiated reading. He would cajole me into reading political shenanigans at the centre and state. I would throw a tantrum and insist on fringe, new age, and business news. We would fall somewhere in the middle, facing off with our socialist-conventional (his) and communist-liberal (mine) ideologies in a friendly manner.
One afternoon, when he asked me to read the newspaper, I told him I will read a book I picked up at the airport - Devdutt Patnaik’s “7 Secrets of Goddess.” I had read a little bit on my travel and I guess I was subconsciously testing him, for it carried some explosive thoughts on gender, sexuality, and status of women in society.
“Explosive” was MY pejorative, I soon realised. “Women’s status in society degenerated with the advent of the concept of ownership and they began to be seen as property and chattel,” he said even before I could finish saying “Goddess.” We read on that Kali is untamed nature, her fierce mien a product of the male anxiety about the potency of female sexuality. And that Gauri is domesticated nature, the consort who is docile and giving.
Our after-lunch hours reverberated with such concepts being read out. In our battle of wits, I didn't blink; neither did he.
We moved on from the Goddesses after I realised that my dad cannot be easily shocked. Subversion was replaced by playfulness. Printed words were replaced by digital content.
A random Facebook post on what excellent teeth the doomed citizens of Pompeii had led us to a long research on the city of Pompeii and its fatal randevouz with Mount Vesuvius in AD 79. My parents completely charmed me by feeling genuinely compassionate and sad about the citizens of Pompeii who were insta-killed by the volcano, 2000 years ago.
My dad’s insistence that he looked like Moshe Dayan after his eye procedure made me look Dayan up and we spent an evening reading up about the Israeli Defence Minister and his contribution to the Six Day War in 1967. And other wars Israel was involved in. And Moshe Dayan’s life history. My dad surprised me by his vast knowledge on the war and Israel.
We spent a riotous evening reading “Politically Correct Bedtime Stories” by James Finn Garner, which led my dad to call his barber “Hair Beauty Technician”.
As our reading collaboration progressed, I discovered my father - a bright, curious like a little boy, wildly imaginative, witty and liberal man. I realised with a sense of surprise that for all its apparent conservatism, the household I grew up in was actually quite emancipated where no idea is taboo and no view point is abhorrent. And there was an established process of examining and evaluating concepts that was gentle, tolerant, informed and rational.
No wonder then, that despite my rebellious, iconoclastic youth and life choices, there were never shouting matches at home. No wonder then, that there was so much grace in accepting my defiant points of view for the past two decades.
As my dad and I talked and read non-stop in an unprecedented fashion, I also discovered how much my father’s daughter I am. How similar our interests and intellectual processes were! How much our irreverent sense of humour resonated with each other! How we loved adventures and travel!
It was inevitable that our discussions should stumble upon aliens. “They exist!” I insisted. “Pseudo science!” He disdained. “Look at Geoglyphs!” I said and off we went on another magic carpet trip of reading. “Look at Stonehenge!” I said and we made another stop as our carpet revved its engines.
I bought the book, by the way. I read out to him that night. We both kept telling our mother “10 more minutes,” as she demanded us to go to bed.
The debate on intelligent aliens visiting our blue green planet was unresolved by the end of our reading, although my dad said, just before going to bed: “You are my last born and I don't want you to go to bed unhappy. So yes, dear daughter, aliens exist and they visit our earth often.”
Sarvodaya Ilakkiya Pannai (Sarovodaya Literary Farm – a place that sows the seeds of knowledge) in Madurai is one such place. It matches the ranks of Strand Bookstall in Mumbai and Citylight Bookshop in San Francisco for the sheer variety, quirkiness and general lack of modern bookshop fancy-factor. A place for serious book worms, this!
As I was browsing the Tamil pop literature aisle, several titles such as CIA Secrets, FBI Files and KGB Facts jostled for attention with some serious red books. But my fancy was captivated by a thin volume titled (I translate) “Aliens and continuing Mysteries.”
It was just the book for me and my reading companion for the past three weeks – my dad.
A rather unconventional book to read with my 78-year old father, you might think. But then, there has been nothing conventional about our reading process.
We started with me reading aloud the newspaper to my dad whose vision has been significantly impaired by a vascular problem in his retina. Pretty straightforward stuff.
Only that I never read the newspaper and I found this task thumpingly boring. I started picking out only those items that suited my taste. We farmed the centre pages for opinions, personalities, off-mainstream news and commentaries (our own).
My dad surprised me with how sporting he was about this new negotiated reading. He would cajole me into reading political shenanigans at the centre and state. I would throw a tantrum and insist on fringe, new age, and business news. We would fall somewhere in the middle, facing off with our socialist-conventional (his) and communist-liberal (mine) ideologies in a friendly manner.
One afternoon, when he asked me to read the newspaper, I told him I will read a book I picked up at the airport - Devdutt Patnaik’s “7 Secrets of Goddess.” I had read a little bit on my travel and I guess I was subconsciously testing him, for it carried some explosive thoughts on gender, sexuality, and status of women in society.
“Explosive” was MY pejorative, I soon realised. “Women’s status in society degenerated with the advent of the concept of ownership and they began to be seen as property and chattel,” he said even before I could finish saying “Goddess.” We read on that Kali is untamed nature, her fierce mien a product of the male anxiety about the potency of female sexuality. And that Gauri is domesticated nature, the consort who is docile and giving.
Our after-lunch hours reverberated with such concepts being read out. In our battle of wits, I didn't blink; neither did he.
We moved on from the Goddesses after I realised that my dad cannot be easily shocked. Subversion was replaced by playfulness. Printed words were replaced by digital content.
A random Facebook post on what excellent teeth the doomed citizens of Pompeii had led us to a long research on the city of Pompeii and its fatal randevouz with Mount Vesuvius in AD 79. My parents completely charmed me by feeling genuinely compassionate and sad about the citizens of Pompeii who were insta-killed by the volcano, 2000 years ago.
My dad’s insistence that he looked like Moshe Dayan after his eye procedure made me look Dayan up and we spent an evening reading up about the Israeli Defence Minister and his contribution to the Six Day War in 1967. And other wars Israel was involved in. And Moshe Dayan’s life history. My dad surprised me by his vast knowledge on the war and Israel.
We spent a riotous evening reading “Politically Correct Bedtime Stories” by James Finn Garner, which led my dad to call his barber “Hair Beauty Technician”.
As our reading collaboration progressed, I discovered my father - a bright, curious like a little boy, wildly imaginative, witty and liberal man. I realised with a sense of surprise that for all its apparent conservatism, the household I grew up in was actually quite emancipated where no idea is taboo and no view point is abhorrent. And there was an established process of examining and evaluating concepts that was gentle, tolerant, informed and rational.
No wonder then, that despite my rebellious, iconoclastic youth and life choices, there were never shouting matches at home. No wonder then, that there was so much grace in accepting my defiant points of view for the past two decades.
As my dad and I talked and read non-stop in an unprecedented fashion, I also discovered how much my father’s daughter I am. How similar our interests and intellectual processes were! How much our irreverent sense of humour resonated with each other! How we loved adventures and travel!
It was inevitable that our discussions should stumble upon aliens. “They exist!” I insisted. “Pseudo science!” He disdained. “Look at Geoglyphs!” I said and off we went on another magic carpet trip of reading. “Look at Stonehenge!” I said and we made another stop as our carpet revved its engines.
I bought the book, by the way. I read out to him that night. We both kept telling our mother “10 more minutes,” as she demanded us to go to bed.
The debate on intelligent aliens visiting our blue green planet was unresolved by the end of our reading, although my dad said, just before going to bed: “You are my last born and I don't want you to go to bed unhappy. So yes, dear daughter, aliens exist and they visit our earth often.”
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