Don't stop believin' ...

Some part of me is still in shock. And this may not be a coherent enough post because inside of me is a jumble of thoughts and feelings and emotions and the churn is chaotic enough for the words to come out all messed up - but my friend Aparna's thoughtful post (you can read it here at http://findyourspot.blogspot.in/) finally got me writing about Cory Monteith's death.

I'm a Gleek - out and out , no holds barred, no shame in admitting that I love the often cheesy, corny, and sometimes downright insane plot lines coupled with the musical shenanigans of this seriously talented bunch of 'stars'. They're all 20 - somethings playin' at being your typical high school teens and they manage to pull it off oh so well (atleast I think they do)! And the music is, well, it's a constant play on my everyday playlist. And now there's the sad, sudden and totally shocking in a nausea inducing manner news of Cory Monteith being discovered dead in his hotel room - and I've been trying to deal with the news and my own reaction to it for the last 3 days. After all, why should I care? I never knew the man or had any likelihood of knowing him in any manner except onscreen through Glee and anything future roles he might've ended up playing, we weren't friends or acquaintances or even remotely connected beyond the Glee watching of Finn Hudson and his journey through high school and self discovery. He was just another celebrity in a world filled with celebrities and in the last 2 years there have been enough of them dying (RIP Whitney, Jagjit sahab, Dev Anand sahab) for me to feel so connected, as if I've lost someone I knew and I know that I will miss them.

But then, Cory wasn't simply just another celebrity -  he was a small town guy from Vancouver with a troubled childhood, a history of substance abuse and a great singing voice who managed to make it big with Glee. He didn't have famous parents or a lineage to back his acting/ singing skills, he didn't know anyone who knew someone who knew someone - he was just another guy playing bit roles who sent in an audition tape and then a second one with vocals so that he could win a spot on the show no one knew then would prove to be a worldwide phenomenon. On Glee, he played Finn Hudson, a jock turned singer who crests the highs of jock-dom and popularity with the lows of being an integral part of what's seen initially as a club of misfits and nerds ranked super-low on the social index. His journey with Glee is so much a journey of teenaged self discovery - from changing dreams and priorities to sex and love and breakups and make-ups and unexpected friendships and betrayals, bad choices and the kind of profound insights only teenagers get at times. Finn is like this weird glue that holds the club together despite difficult odds - witness Season 4 and the initial loss at Sectionals - and his stepping into Mr. Shue's directorial boots was like finally seeing him grow up and start to come into his own - like a boy turns into a man kinda transition. And now, he's gone.

Cory was 31. That hits wayyyyyyyy too close home for comfort.
He was 'my generation', had no elite-celebrity-upbringing or sense-of-entitlement/lineage whatsoever and was making his way up the fortune and fame chain with sheer talent and hard work. He had a drug problem but was working towards getting better - and his off-screen presence was so quiet so as to be almost non-existent. He was talented, motivated and seemed focused on making something more out of himself than another in the mold of a Charlie Sheen/Li-Lo/Culkin styled disaster. And then he died - and this isn't what he deserved. This finding of his dead body in a hotel room and suspected overdose - no way Jose - this just isn't how the guy who poured so much intensity into the opening lines of 'Don't Stop Believin' that he made it sound as if he was singing his own life's story instead of an epic Journey hit is supposed to go. This isn't just Finn Hudson on Glee who's dead, this was an incredibly talented boy from next door Canada who was beginning to make it - who had a family and friends and a girlfriend who loved him - onscreen and off of it.

I'm no psychic so I won't say that I'm channeling Cory as I write this - but in his death perhaps is the message that it doesn't take much except hard-work, genuine talent and self - belief to make your dreams come true. That drugs are not a recourse to turn to at any point in your life because while you may choose rehab later, there's never telling when and how the years of abuse might come back to bite you in the gut (literally) and that too at a point in time when you really do not want to give up on life and dreams. That life does move on beyond the angst of here and now, and it does get better - as long as you don't stop believin' !

R.I.P. Cory. You will always be missed.
Kids - don't do drugs.

Old Shoes

They died today.
Those old shoes - those well worn, scuffed, much abused companions of so many journeys. In the minute that I looked down to see what was wrong with my stride, I saw how they'd come apart, ripped at the seams, beyond saving.

Grey with a smattering of pink thoughtfully placed - like dawn's rosy hues breaking the dark of a receding night. The grey was for you; white dirties easily, black was too boring and the all pink/ all blue shoes were deemed too girlie for 'your girl'. The grey was a happy compromise, made stylish by the pink that was for me - for the 'babe' I was rapidly turning into (according to you anyway - really! You wanted me in torn jeans and grunge tees forever???). We paid a bomb for them at CP's Reebok on a regular weekday evening made memorable by the splurge on shoes and the impromptu dinner date you took me on to celebrate.

"Think of them as an investment in health", I said.
"Yeah well, I'll make you run a mile every night then - we'll start a couples only workout plan", you quipped. And so were born the shoes that died today.

As I looked at them, surprised at their sudden demise, I began to notice things I really hadn't paid much heed to before - the cracks in the seams, the eroded rubber on the tips, the near vanished treads. Even the fabric looked as if it was held together by sheer will - that of a pair that didn't want to go just yet. A pair that had seen its days of a thousand strides - in mountain climbs and river crossings, at the local park and atleast 3 different gyms in the city. In a million steps, big and small, within the city and without. In rain and shine alike, at Corbett, Bhagsu, Goa, Mumbai and practically every place I've traveled to in the last 5 years - my tireless champions of tired feet, my constant companions in every mile of work and play. They looked like they'd been through the wringer - and all the signs of impending demise were there. Its just that I took them so much for granted that I never noticed the cracks and the scuffs, the ripped seams and the holes in the fabric. And that they held for me, a last happy memory of our last shopping trip together - a memory I think I didn't want to let go of.

Perhaps, that, then, is the true nature of pain. It molds itself to us, much like those shoes fit my feet - as if made to exact size. It walks with us, a constant companion that we grow so accustomed to that we take it for granted, it carves out its own niche in our hearts and becomes a quiet part of our lives - in waking breaths and sighs of sleep alike. And even through the passage of years, even when it starts to lessen, we don't realize that it's time to let it go - that we're ready for the pain of past memories and times to fade, that it is no more a fitting companion on this journey we call life and that the time has come to bid it adieu. Until, one day, we have an epiphany - some of us do and move on; some of us don't and hence carry around the corpse of that which should've been cremated years ago.

I was en-route to the gym when they came apart at my feet. I turned and went to the nearest shoe store and asked for a pair of their best and sturdiest workout shoes - the kind that would survive a daily dose of cardio+strength and a mishmash of exercises and tasks. A fresh pair in black and peach, to be tasked with walking, running, climbing, pacing and fitting itself to the shape of my foot over the years to come. And as my feet said 'Hello' to their new best friends, I asked the salesman for a favor - to drop those old, dead and gone forevermore grey and pink shoes into the nearest garbage bin (and maybe take along with them, some of the vestigial attachment to the memory of a certain shopping trip).

And then I promised myself that I would learn to let go of that which has lost all meaning in the here and now of my today and the promise of my days to come...that, perhaps, will be a story I'll write another day.

Growing up in Delhi

The year was 2002 and I was on my way home from college, walking my usual route through the park to reach home. It was a bright summer afternoon with its usual crowd of fellow commuters and roadside public. Just another day, until I saw them walking. Saw them look at me and slow down their pace.

The entrance to the park was the typical 3-line maze barrier, designed to limit entry/exit to one person at a time - and when I saw them look at me and slow down, somehow, in that split second before I entered the barrier, I knew what they intended to do. For once you're in the middle of the maze barrier, you can take exactly one step forward or back - you cannot walk sideways. You're trapped. 

I'd already entered the maze and so had they. And I remember the look in their eyes as I met their gaze. I knew what I had to do - and when they reached out to grab me, trapped by walls on either sides, I swung my handbag as a weapon and lashed out blindly, arms and legs flying any which way, aiming for one assailant's groin with my knee and trying to scratch the others face with my nails. And the bag as a shield worked terrifically (which is why, till date, I always carry over-sized handbags to work and play). And I screamed like a banshee all this while, hurled invectives, spouted venom, cursed like the Punjabi that I am - anything vile that came to immediate recall was deployed as my third weapon. I had not time to think or be scared - only to defend and fight with every inch of my being. They fled. One of them made a move as if to come back and I threw stones and continued screaming. And then, I ran out of the park as fast as I could. Thank god for adrenaline and comfortable shoes - I ran like I'd never run before until I reached the local marketplace and then collapsed.

I was lucky. So goddamned lucky - that they weren't carrying knives, they didn't seem to have planned this out much in advance, that my split second hunch had armed me, that I chose to wear comfortable clothes and sneakers, and that, when the time came, I fought and probably scared the shit out of them. But most of all, I was lucky in that my assailants were kids. They were street urchins - One must've been around 13-14 years of age and the other looked to be 9 or 10. And when the adrenaline wore off, taking with it my exultation at being able to defend myself, the 'What If 's hit with a vengeance and I shivered in the bright noon-time sun. 

I dialed for a male friend to come and get me from the marketplace - merely stating that it was an emergency. Called D, who was waiting for my usual I've-reached-home-I'm-safe ring and told him that I'd speak with him later (because I needed to get home before the tears and full blown hysteria came). Reached home, cried my eyes out, decided not to tell the folks but to change my commuting route and take the longer way home using only the main roads. And worked out other DIY safety rules. 

I've never talked about this ever since that day. Or about the time when I was walking 8 year old sister home from the day care center and figured two burly men were following us in the rapidly falling twilight - I used my extensive knowledge of gallis and street lanes to evade them till I reached Nani's house and then called for mom to pick us up on her way home from work. And to poor, perplexed Sim, who was wondering why Didi insisted on playing this game of running, stopping, hiding and dodging, I explained that we were indeed playing a game, a sort of Aliens-are-after-us pretend game of Hide and Seek. Thank god for my li'l girl's active imagination, hyperactive athleticism and supreme belief in me - she followed orders to run, dodge and hide uncomplainingly and without tantrums. And we reached home-base without any aliens or bad guys.

There are more incidents like these than I care to recall, and one which I will never ever speak about. Growing up in Delhi - you learn to 'manage'. You learn to 'cope'. You learn to live with constant fear as a woman and you learn to figure out your own 'jugaads' . You learn to live within the freedom of the 7am-7pm parental curfew. You learn to dress within the acceptable confines of over-sized tees and baggy jeans (T and the girl gang, and the rest of you who thought that was me being geeky chic - nope! It was one more safety rule that I devised to blend in and not draw unwanted and unwarranted male attention ). D - now you know why my dressing style changed when I reached Mumbai - for once, I could wear what I liked without an inordinate amount of fear over what might happen.

And why did I choose to not tell my parents ? Because there was nothing they could've done - short of restricting my freedom of movement completely and asking me to wear a burqa. And for two folks who'd always considered their daughters as treasures and raised them without a gender bias, I did not want to make it painfully obvious to them  at the end of the day, they'd raised two members of the weaker sex, who, outside of the chaardiwari would always be lesser citizen of this goddess worshipping nation. I knew and I'd make sure that Sim knew when the time was right - and that was enough.

Delhi is home - I grew up here. School's here, Nani's here, Connaught Place and my memories of Nirula's and India Gate and chasing balloons at Children's Park and of Beating Retreat and morning walks and after dinner jogs (Papa walked and I jogged to keep up! ), the usual drama of teen angst and tree-lined avenues and the ruins of Indraprastha and history at the turn of every corner. And the flag flying from the ramparts at the Red Fort. My roots are here.

And so is the fear that I've grown up with. And that I live with every day.

(Excuse the typos - this is one piece that has been years in the making and now that I've poured it all out, I have no wish to revisit this one)

It's time - Part I

I see them as twin tragedies - the Newtown ( Connecticut, USA)  shooting and the horrific gang-rape in New Delhi (India) last week.

Beyond the distance (literal) separating the two, the nature and scope of the actual events, the differences in language, culture and nationality -  the reason I see them together is because both are events that finally seem capable of forcing change and bringing about much needed reforms regarding gun purchase and ownership

The need for gun control (US) :

In the US, the 'Right to keep and bear arms' is enshrined in the constitution. This may have made sense at the time the aforementioned constitution was written but bears a rethink in today's world. For a new country, in the late 18th century, just beginning to take cognizance of its future, the Right to bear arms was seen by the early American settlers as a means of self defense, protecting their lands, property and  families from the threats of invasion, insurrection and even 'tyrannical government'. Justified and easily understandable given the fact that there was little organized law enforcement in those days and you simply had to fend for yourself (or come together in a 'local militia' setup). But the world has come a long way since then while clearly, the law on purchasing and owning guns hasn't.

Law enforcement  even today cannot guarantee 100% safety for everyone. Which means that much of our safety is still in our own hands - owning a gun gives one atleast some sense of safety and control over the threat of homicidal intrusion. But where gun ownership differs in scope and impact from other means of self defense is in the very nature of its use - once fired, a bullet is a projectile that does deadly and often irreparable damage to whoever is in your line of sight. If that person is someone intent on causing deadly and irreparable damage to you, defend yourself by all means - like any sane, rational person intent on living, who can think clearly would do.

But what if the person at the end of your barrel is a child - and the above-mentioned adjectives no longer apply to you. What if there are voices in your head telling you that that child who smiles at you in passing is an evil demon intent on causing you pain? Or that your own mother is actually an alien in disguise who plans on conducting experiments with your mind? What if, in the confines of your sanity, rationality and logic, every person around you is clear and present danger? And you want to live, you want to defend yourself from the demon, the alien and the people out to kill you. And you have a gun in your hand.

What if you have been mercifully spared the voices in your head - but the real world is a harsh and cruel place and you are unloved, unwanted, an outcast, a reject and a freak. You do not fit in, and everyday is a nightmare of being reminded over and over again just how much of a misfit you are. Society hates you - and shows you that in words and gestures every day. And for once, you're tired of the shit thrown on you by everyone and for once, you wish the shoe was on the other foot and with their backs against the wall, cowering in fear, the others - the cool ones, the jocks and the divas and the rest of them who're normal and flaunt their normalcy and obvious societal acceptance in your face - begged you for their life. Because there they are - in your line of sight, a trigger away from death, and the power to let them live or die is on your hands. You have a gun in your hands.

I'm only outlining two but there are countless other scenarios like the above where the question of 'What if this person has access to a gun ?' literally becomes moot. There is a need to bring about wide sweeping reforms restricting the right to gun ownership for those who simply have no business owning a gun. There is a need for stricter purchase regulations, to curb the menace of straw purchasing. For a country that won't let you drive unless you have a permit obtained after passing driving tests , or let you buy painkillers and anti depressants without the proper prescription, isn't it ludicrous that guns can be bought OTC at the nearest WalMart? In an era of fake identity papers so that teens can drink and go to clubs where they would otherwise be denied entry, all it takes to buy a gun is the money and a flash of the aforementioned ID !

Stop handing out guns as if they were just a piece of candy - the 'Right to keep and bear arms' cannot be a god given right for one and all but a privilege to be earned by those who prove themselves capable and deserving of it. Look at the numbers America - see how you compare with countries like UK, Australia, France, Germany and Japan. Without gun control, you are sitting on a powder keg that's an inch odd away from blowing through the proverbial rooftops - do you really need to see more innocents lose their lives in countless other Columbines, Tucsons, Newtown, Virginia Techs (and others)?

Nancy Lanza was an avid gun enthusiast - she loved guns and shooting and even taught her sons to shoot. But what if she had a passion for, let say, collecting snakes - Pit Vipers, Rattlesnakes, Boa Constrictors and King Cobras. Would it have been okay for her to keep 5-6 deadly reptiles in her house (in cages of course but with timeouts for interactions and playing) and to encourage her sons to play with them? Would her neighbors be okay with living next door to her, trusting in her judgement and ability to keep her pets locked up safely as the only thing between them and an Adder ? There is a reason why certain 'hobbies' are deemed unsafe and unfit to be practiced within one's house. And self defense doesn't need for you to keep a small arsenal at home. A handgun alone, when waved in the face of an unwanted intruder will buy you enough time to dial the authorities - and if needed, shooting to incapacitate can be accomplished with the same. You do not need a whole cache of rifles and guns (and you most certainly do not need to have your kids pose with them at home) at home to convince people that you mean business when it comes to your safety. You like to shoot - keep the rifles et al locked up at the target range. And stop toting them around kids as if they were a normal piece of furniture reasonably expected to be found in every home - guns are dangerous and deadly weapons and they are certainly not a normal household item!

(http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2251994/Trigger-happy-families-After-school-massacre-horrified-world-meet-U-S-homeowners-armed-teeth--ready-kill.html)

Make criminal background checks mandatory for potential buyers. Make some sort of psych testing/evaluation mandatory so that you identify potential purchasers who have some form of MI. Make recording of criminal activity (regardless of age) in secure databases mandatory (to hell with protecting privacy for repeat juvenile offenders) and stop expunging records - make it mandatory for a potential buyer to obtain certification from local law enforcement stating that they have checked necessary records and databases and are able to certify that the person has no previous record of criminal activity that would preclude them from purchasing or owning a weapon. Make them register the weapon with the local precinct upon purchase. Make it illegal for a first purchaser to pass on the weapon to someone else without proper permissions from local authorities. Make it illegal for individuals living with children to keep more than one gun at home. Have child services visit and understand the kind of safety measures in place to ensure that the weapon is not accessible to kids.

Gun control is not the only answer to reducing senseless violence and preventing the next epic disaster - but it's a start.

(More to follow on MI (and funding for treatment), parenting and child privacy - before I turn to the absolute and utter mess my own city's become and the Delhi Government's knee jerk measures for tackling the burning need for better safety for women.)

I'm a O88-C13-E83-A63-N60 Big Five!!

and :

64% liberal, 36% conservative

Go figure!

Book Review: Rapture

Author : Lauren Kate
Genre : Young Adult/ Fantasy

I'm glad I didn't buy this one - I chose to read an online version simply so I could finish the 'series' and have the lamest lovesick couple in YA fiction be over and done with. And I so wish I'd made the same choice last year with regard to the first 3 books in the series.

Strictly recommended for reading by those who have somehow managed to survive the first three books in the 'Lucinda - Daniel - I will always love you / choose you' quartet, this last book actually boasts a fitting end to this long winding tale of 'star-crossed lovers'. The plot, by itself, is intriguing - Lucifer, enraged by Lucinda's choice of life over death-by-starshot (in her Egyptian incarnation), has decided to restart history by taking time back to the pivotal moment of The Fall (When those angels who either chose to follow Lucifer or made no choice at all, were given the right royal heavenly boot out of Heaven). Daniel, Luce and the rest of the motley band of angels and those-who-side-with-all-that-is-pink-and-pretty must locate the site of the original Fall (because duh! that's where the falling angels would fall a second time dummy! Lucifer evidently couldn't be bothered to pick a better spot this time 'round)and then somehow stop Lucifer from literally restarting the start of the world-as-we-know-it.
(Gee! I feel amazing going about my daily chores these days, knowing that all existence could be wiped out any moment now because someone higher up decided that 6000 odd years of human existence just weren't worth one silly girl's choice of existence over aforementioned death. If only they would give us some sense of a timeline on this coz then I wouldn't really bother with laundry you see!)

Anyway, back to the book, leaving the snark aside, the plot in itself is actually quite interesting. Come to think of it, the overall plot and premise of the entire series in quite intriguing (which is why we chose to read the books in the first place. Yay! Redemption!). An angel and a mortal girl , cursed to fall in love over and over again because every time they 'kiss', she dies (damn! so much for women's lib...), only to be reborn .....and , you get the drift! Only this time (in the first book) something changes and she doesn't die - the author keeps giving out some helpful hints as to why 'this time it's different' - it's either because Luce isn't baptized or because she isn't aware of the 'true nature of her love for Daniel'. It can't be baptism because how do we explain the Egyption and Chinese incarnations so anyway, on to - Rapture!

While the plot is juicy and oh - so - full of possibilities, what completely kills this book (as it does the 3 preceding it) is the author's complete inability to bring out its latent promise to fruition. The prose is ham-handed and heavy and dialogue is weak and terrible in places - somehow I don't think Lucifer would ever, ever , be caught saying “And you don’t even know the half. Without you, I went on to invent evil, the other end of the spectrum, the necessary balance. I inspired Dante! Milton! You should see the underworld. I took the Throne’s ideas and improved them. You can do whatever you want!" or " I could give you the greatest kingdom never known — we work hard, then we party."

That's just one of the many inane, cringe-worthy sentences that this book is filled with. But Kate has her moments of brilliance too, especially some of the descriptive paragraphs make you wonder if they were actually written by someone else - maybe a copy editor who figured it would be nice to contrast the otherwise dull and drab language with an occasional piece of well worded prose.

The characters, the life of any book as anyone who reads knows, are curiously empty (again a carry over phenomenon from the last 3). Especially the lead characters of Daniel and Lucinda have just no depth at all! All Daniel wants to do is to 'be with Luce' and all Lucinda wants to do is 'to kiss Daniel'. Love, somehow, is reduced to nothing but kisses and the feel of your lover's arms around you. I thought Bella Swan (Twilight) was the weakest lead I'd read in recent YA literature - Lucinda Price makes good 'ol Bells seem a positive delight by comparison! Which of course, turns the likes of Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasly into sheer tough love!

And the real heroes of the day , the fallen angels , especially Cam and Gabbe have barely any page time to speak of, which is too bad because throughout the series, it is the like of Arriane, Annabelle, Roland (and Miles and Shelby) who, along with the aforementioned two, keep the engagement quotient high. Each of the supporting cast infact, somehow manages to come across as more developed and 'characterized' than the lead pair.

The end is actually kind of nice and works well within the overall scheme of things. However, there are the usual hits and misses with the prose and 'The Throne' doesn't really need a personification (unless showing God as a 'Woman' is Kate's subtle apology for all the suffering poor Lucinda's been through life after dreary boring life, as mentioned above).

All in all, the occasional well worded prose and the overall plot-line are all that elevate 'Rapture' from a 2 star to a respectable 3 star rating. That and the fact that this ends the whole series and finishes it neatly.

I do wish though that someone with the writing skills of a Richelle Mead/ Cassandra Clare or even Stephanie Meyer would pick up the exact same plot and overall premise and then show us (and author Lauren Kate) how it's really done !

P.S. - is throosh a word???

Nickleback

"How the hell'd we wind up like this....why weren't we able.....to see the signs that we missed..."

Like the time you hit me so hard my head snapped back and hit the metal railing behind and we had to get all those scans done. What was it, that argument, over the red dress I was wearing and you weren't happy but I loved it so and it was my birthday and that was my birthday dress and as I caught admiring glances, you voiced protests and dire threats in an undertone and then as I argued back, you snapped and you hit me. And you swore it was the wine and the weather and the fact that I'd be leaving town again in a few days for a few months and it was driving you crazy and you loved me and you snapped and you were sorry oh baby please I'm sorry please forgive me and you'd never ever raise your hand on me ever again. And then a few months later, we sat in a park and argued and you snapped and you hit me again. And then I hit you back. And just like that, we became the couple that fought with fists and not just with words...

Or the time I went out partying with the class and the seniors and spent the entire evening nursing a solo drink, glued to the phone explaining that no I wasn't dancing and no I wasn't having fun and no all I wanted to do at my own freshman dance was to sit in a corner nursing a solo drink and talk to you and baby oh baby please don't leave me I love you so don't let me go stay with me a minute or two. And the minutes turned to hours and everyone laughed and drank and sang and danced and I talked to you till the battery ran out on the phone and the money was gone. And then when I called next, you were so worried for me you yelled and said why couldn't I have borrowed someone else's phone and called you and that I was a heartless bitch who was just playin' with your heart...And to punish me, you went for your freshman dance but swore you were home watching TV and I called and some girl picked up your phone and then it went off and then the next morning I was a crazy bitch for doubting you and no that wasn't a hangover just a headache brought on by watching TV all night...

Do you remember when I met a friend and we took that picture of us smiling, arm in arm because we were friends and you looked at it and said "You're sleeping with him aren't you?" and I was taken aback and before I could even process what you'd said my silence was held as proof of guilt and then there was that list of all my guy friends and folks who were practically family and knew me since childhood and had climbed trees with me and scraped knees together and studied for exams and classroom projects and shared high school gossip and broken hearts and teenage angst and nurtured dreams and fueled ambitions and cried over the occasional failed grade and held on through 20 years of life and for you, they were all men I'd slept with...and you made me tear that photo and you made me erase each number and you took me away from my friends and my family because oh baby you loved me so and you couldn't bear to put me in danger and the wicked world was a dangerous place and the only place I would ever be safe was in your arms and you held a knife to my throat and slashed...

The bills we ran up and I paid for, the fancy wedding and the gifts you wanted for your family that I paid for and the joint account with my money that you withdrew before walking out the door and the money you want now for freeing me from this farce of a marriage. And my dreams and my hopes and my love and my trust and all of me that I poured into you my heart my lifeblood my soul that went down the drain like milk turned sour.....and my inability to trust myself or anyone else again and my rage and my tears and my sleepless nights and my nightmares and the days when everything is lost and I am broken and beyond repair .......all this and more......

I WANT MY NICKLE BACK.

Book Review - The Red Queen

Author : Philippa Gregory
Genre : Historical fiction

Warning : spoilers ahead!

I love historical fiction - even the kind that takes occasional liberties with history in favor of fiction. And I've read enough of Philippa Gregory's works as well as those by a few others to say that 'The Red Queen' left me sorely disappointed.

Set during the tumultuous times of the 'War of the Roses', 'The Red Queen' is all about Margaret Beaufort - the woman posterity now knows as the 'Tudor Matriarch'. Right from childhood, Margaret is filled with a sense of divine purpose. As a child, she believes herself to be 'special to God' in the manner of Joan of Arc. As the last remaining heiress to a tenuous Lancaster connection through descent from the 'other side' of John of Gaunt's bed, it is impressed upon Margaret at an early age that she must marry well. And she does - following her mother's diktats much against her own will that would see her settled an abbess, she marries Edmund Tudor (another with royal claims through the 'other side' of Catherine of Valois' bed). Their only child, Henry Tudor, goes on to claim the crown as Henry VII thereby uniting the Houses of Lancaster and York under a common sigil - the Tudor Rose.

With so much drama, intrigue and politicking (not to mention the battles and murders et al), all that you really come away with is the feeling that Margaret, far from being the iron-willed, purposeful founder of England's most enduring royal dynasty, is really just a petulant child. The book is filled with a near constant refrain of ' for is it not God's will that I should be the Queen / Queen Mother and write my name as Margaret R (for Regina)' and other such allusions to the lead character's 'divine destiny' that whatever little sympathy you have for the child Margaret, forced into a loveless marriage first with Edmund Tudor and then into another with Henry Stafford, dissipates quickly to be replaced with a growing sense of irritation and boredom. A far cry from either naivete or increasing shrewdness, all that Margaret comes across as is a whining, miserable and peevish girl who grows into a cantankerous woman filled with a sense of hatred towards whom she sees as usurping her 'god given' and 'divine' right. At the worst moment of her life, when she is mere inches away from a certain death as a traitor, she believes that she is being punished by God for the sins of those she chose to ally with (namely Elizabeth Woodville and the Duke of Buckingham). She, of course, is always as pure as driven snow and believes herself to be above the sin of being greedy, power hungry and envious of others while constantly being thankless towards the comforts of life afforded to her with a remarkably tolerant husband in Henry Stafford.

Jasper Tudor, the only man who arouses admiration and even love in the devoutly pious Margaret, and whom she sees as the only hope for fulfilling the destiny intended for herself and her son, flits in an out of the pages as the fortunes of the House of Lancaster (and therefore those of the two Tudors) wax and wane with every battle and change of alliances over the years. Henry Stafford , whom Margaret sees as weak-willed and cowardly, arouses sympathy as a man who is trying to stay true to his ideals of right and wrong and searching for a tenuous peace in these times of war. He is also kind, caring and gentlemanly towards his wife, who of-course, would rather he were a boorish lout who treated her with contempt and violence (as men were wont to do at the time) as long as he had a passion for war and a willingness to fight for the increasingly feeble minded Henry VI. Her third husband, Thomas Stanley, whom she marries for convenience, turns the tide for her son at the Battle of Bosworth Field by choosing to refrain from fighting alongside the armies of King Richard III. Stanley is the consummate politician and shrewd aristocrat - he (and it is hinted his entire family) has perfected the art of 'staying on the winning side' and it is for this that Margaret marries him.

The real heroine of the book then seems to be the mysterious Elizabeth Woodville, Queen of Edward IV, who elicits an incessant stream of hatred and envy from Margaret and who is referred to by her as sinful, shameless and a witch. Indeed, Margaret's constant focus on Elizabeth as the source of all her 'misery' and 'misfortune' makes one want to find out more about this alluring character, herself the subject of Gregory's previous book 'The White Queen'. It also makes one wonder just how much of the hate is really borne out of a grudging sense of respect for a woman who, as a commoner, dared to marry a King, and through every turn of history, emerged with her fortunes (and those of her family) mostly intact.

For those who have read previous works by Gregory - do not expect the same richness of scene as afforded by 'The Other Boleyn Girl' or even mild shards of sympathy for Margaret as for Jane Rochford in 'The Boleyn Inheritance'. At most, Gregory's Margaret arouses some pity and an overall longing to slap some sense into her ungrateful, ill-behaved and forever lamenting character !