A statement.

Why i loved Known Turf. A review, a statement.

India is no more an underdeveloped nation. No. It is rising up the highest economic echelons and competing in a world as a torch bearer of the future. As we shine the light on the many successes that we have lapped up in the last decade, we fail to pay enough consideration to the internal failures, many of which do not make it to the news as they are not titillating enough to hold a nation's attention. Some that do are soon torn up and forgotten as headlines that are past their age.

India is still a largely 'unequally developed' nation. The diversity that lends India her colour is also the cause of her shortcomings. It is this mismatch of reality that Annie Zaidi points out in her book Known Turf.

Sceptical as I am of books by contemporary Indian writers ( where words such as fuck, OMG and dialogues like - "like, you know", "like, of course" are callously alluded to literature) and bloggers turned authors, this book caught my fancy! Blame it on her bollywood-spersed chapters or a whole chapter dedicated to chai.

A mix of reportage and Annie Zaidi's story behind the articles filed for her magazine, the book is beautifully nuanced. From lighter topics of chai to going into the belly of India to understand the Chambal daakus; from stravation deaths to fractured sufism - the book unfolds in mirthy dialogues and hard stated statistics with a personal touch.

I am currently in The Netherlands, studying. I miss home. Home, however has taken on a whole new meaning. Home is no more, my apartment back in Delhi. Home is no more Delhi. Home is India. I wax eloquent about home with memories, enchanting. The idea of home that I have built up in my head has however, made me shut the doors to many rooms in it. Cobwebbed, they lie hidden somewhere in my conscience. Known Turf has forced me to find the key, wipe the dirt off the doors and take a peek into these rooms, curiously albeit with a bit of fear on what I may stumble upon. I have switched on the lights now in these rooms and hopefully will get to do something to change the way they look.

More about Annie Zaidi @ her blog - http://www.anniezaidi.com/

Rating for Known Turf - 4 stars out of 5

The waterfall

She sat in a corner, curled up. The cigarette lay on the ash tray with an amber glow to it. The embers so orange, so alive; the smoke hovered over it and danced. The room was full. It was bazaaresque almost in its character. The noise had reached an intolerable crescendo an hour back but then dived into an odd melody. Bowler hats and black jackets. Short dresses and darkened eyes. The smoke lingered in the air. It hung over everyone’s head, snaking and rising into shapes portentous.

She waved at him. He came over with yet another cup of tea. This time he hesitated as he placed the cup on the table. He stole a glance as he picked up the remnants of an evening behind him. He looked at her again.

She sat, curled up still, the wall her friend. She stared into distant space. Tears welled up in her eyes. It had been days since she put ink to paper. What had happened? What had snapped that she couldn’t write anymore? What should she turn to for answers? Nothing came. Her mind was blank. Nothing helped. She sat and stared.

Then from somewhere sneaked in a beat. A riff. The sweet sound of piano. It reverberated through the floor, through her body. It brought melody to her feet. But more importantly, it brought back words to her mind. She closed her eyes and the sounds did something. She could see again. Somewhere, a waterfall that had a story to tell. She got up and left.

The blue sweater

The blue sweater

etched in memory,

there it lay.

Ah! such a pretty face, so round.

She wore it with such pride.

Brown against the deep blue,

her face - seethed of

teenage turmoil and ripened views.

The blue sweater

etched in memory,

it moved.

He tore at it, made holes.

Frayed and tattered, it was worn.

He loved it though, got him the girls!

The brown against the deep blue,

his face - it was a beacon of love and smiles.

The blue sweater

etched in memory,

Grew, bigger than it ever was.

Purloined, it became lost and popular.

I picked it out, carefully one day.

It lay in an almost emptied out brown carton.

I hemmed and hawed over it.

Made it my size, made it mine.

My face as it peeked out,

Was there, just there.

I loved it too. Others never noticed though.

And so the blue sweater,

finally settled down. Blue, deep blue.

Against nothing. Rested and peaceful.

Etched in memory,

no more it lay.