“No I’m good for the night, although a shot of espresso might be nice,” Enzo replied

Enzo of the Unknown 

It was midnight of June 14, 2008.

In a run-down warehouse, where the place has been turned into a laboratory, men were working in the factory fervently to purify coca leaves, in turn to produce cocaine to be distributed to the Brazilian cartels, headed by Santiago de Fonollosa, a close associate and friend of Vincenzo Giovanni, the Don of Las Vegas. Santiago was a bald man, with a full beard and known for his collection of business suits.

Vincenzo, better known as Padre Giovanni by his associates, is a gentleman who has a business of casinos run by his family. He was a man with greyish black hair, a small paunch, and his iconic stick, studded with diamonds around the handle. Due to his comradeship for his men, he considered them his extended family. He is a secretive man with nothing known about his background and family, except that he is a respected businessman. His only known vice is that he has a factory for producing drugs and selling it all over the world through his distributors.

Officers of law have raided his casinos and properties to bust him but have failed in many occasions. He was always a step ahead of them every time since he is a strategic person who rotates his operations around Las Vegas. Since he had other Dons and the police as enemies, his men were always hunted down and killed. He met with Santiago to talk business with him.

“I am worried about my men my friend,” the Padre addressed his companion.

“The raids done by the coppers have hurt my business as a whole. I do not know how to fend them off. Even though my casinos are running smoothly, I have this nagging fear of my factory being discovered. I have lost many a number of my sons, who, trying to defend themselves against those pests and my enemies, have fallen short of their lives, just because of information of our doings is leaked out to them. Soon enough I do think that our friendship would be at stake, if I am not able to supply you with the coke on time.”

Santiago replied, “You need not worry about that compadre. I will send you some of my men to help with your production. As for dealing with those jokes of cops why don’t we try to kill an official to send a message to them?”

“It would be obvious if we killed him with our own men. The whole force would be on our tail,” replied the Padre.

“No way can we risk to expose ourselves by committing such a crime. We have to think of an alternate solution that would not draw attention to us….. And I just thought of something…. I think it might work.”

Santiago was looking at him as if he knew what he was thinking.

“You are thinking of making him do it, didn’t you?” he said with a smirk on his face.

The Padre looked at him with a smile and said, “He is perfect for this mission. I know that he will do it for me, since I love him and he loves me too. He would do anything for me and our family, since he grew up with most of them. This will be his moment to show you that my blood runs in him, compadre.”

The two men toasted to each other’s good health and drank wine. Below, the men were now loading containers filled with cocaine onto trucks, which will be transported to other distributors, alerting them of the departure of the trucks soon. Unknown to them, there is a secret eye spying on their activities from afar.

12:24 A.M.

“You want some doughnuts Enzo?” asked Blair Williams, a beat cop on patrol with his partner, Enzo Sinclair, a quiet man who liked to be by his books on a slow day.

Blair was a tall, muscular man with blond hair and tattoos of a Sanskrit writing, a phoenix on his arms and a clean shaven face. He was a good-natured man with more arrests than his partner, who joined the force a bit recently, but made his mark by thwarting robberies, putting his life on the line in riots, getting his place beside the city’s top cop.

Enzo was a slightly olive complexioned man with slicked back black hair and a handsome face. He had a polite demeanor and a gentlemanliness known only to the Italians; a charm so deviously attractive to both men and women. “No I’m good for the night, although a shot of espresso might be nice,” Enzo replied. “Be right back with the espresso junior.”

Blair got into the café and got the espresso while Enzo stayed in the car reading reports of his past cases. He and Blair have the field chemistry of looking out for one another and having each other’s backs and most of their busts and rescue missions have been a success thanks to their field experience so much so that patrolling is like icing on a cake. Blair returned to the car with an espresso grinning.

“The counter girl is a cutie, you want her number?” he snickered.

“No thanks I already got my plate full,” said Enzo with a smile.

They got into their car and were patrolling the shopping complexes when the radio started crackling. “B-22 do you copy? I repeat do you copy?” “B-22, receiving loud and clear. What is the emergency?” asked Blair.

“One of our men have discovered a warehouse where shady men have been found loading containers onto trucks, a mile away from your location. Seems like it is the devil Giovanni’s men at work. I request you to check out the place and report back to us anything you find relevant and standby.”

The radio went silent. Both men were looking at each other grimly with their own convictions. They began riding to the location, Blair feeling excited to arrest the men and shut down their operations, while Enzo was uncertain of what was going to happen there. “Finally!! We’re gonna nail down that son of a gun Giovanni and restore order to our city!” exclaimed Blair.

“Blair, let’s reconsider going after a Don by ourselves and get caught in a crossfire,” said Enzo. “I have a bad feeling that this is going to be a trap for us. Let us discuss strategy before we go gallivanting after them.”

“Why are you so uncertain of yourself Enzo? Weren’t you the one who wanted to gut that slimeball into pieces? Why are you backing out now?” asked Blair with annoyance.

“It is because he is a Don, who has more manpower than the force has got itself so we have to strategize before going after his organization.” replied Enzo, with a grim face.

“Let us wait for backup and lock them up.” “Look at you, speaking like a coward as though you know the best way to counter is to stand by and let those bastards work away at what they do. What happened to all those ‘I will kill him and his men!’ you said countless many times while at work? Was that all a façade, just like you?!” roared Blair with fury.

“I am stating the obvious, Blair. You know it.” Enzo replied quietly. “JUST SHUT UP!!” screamed Blair, punching him in the face. Blood splattered from Enzo’s face as he moaned in pain.

They reached the warehouse and Blair reached for his gun when Enzo said, “Please reconsider this mission.” “I don’t need directions from a coward.” said Blair and stomped off into the clearings. He started scouring the warehouse trying to find a way inside it, when he found that the activities were happening faster, as if to keep up with a schedule.

All of the men were wearing masks and quickly loading the cocaine and filling the trucks with other things to disguise the drugs. He soon called on his radio and said “This is Officer Blair Williams and I request full back-up at a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of the city limits. Found Vincenzo’s men loading up and are almost on the move.” As he said this he barged into the warehouse, shouting “LVMPD!! Put your hands in the air where I can see them!”

He proceeded to round up the men and made them kneel down, with their hands behind their heads. He then started to check out the lab and cautiously made his move around keeping an eye on the men when suddenly he felt a cold muzzle against his skull.

“Don’t move.” was the only command. Blair was shocked as he recognized the voice with wide eyes. “Enzo? What do you think you’re doing? Isn’t it a little inappropriate to play like this?” he whispered. “I told you to wait for a bit. That was all I said, and you just had to bust my face open didn’t you?” said Enzo, as he faced Blair.

“But I will forgive you for that. You’ve got guts to hurt your own man, Blair. But these men would never forgive you for even touching me; you made enemies of them right from the moment you walked in here.” “What are you talking about? I don’t get it….” Blair was numb with bewilderment.

"What are your ties with these thugs Enzo? I know that you’re an honest cop. If it is revenge against me for hurting you I understand; but why would they hurt me for that Enzo?” he asked. Enzo gave him a wicked smile and said, “Let me introduce myself once again: You may know me as Enzo Sinclair, an honest police officer, but in actuality, I am Vincenzo Giovanni Jr., son of the Don of Las Vegas, Vincenzo Giovanni Sr., your adversary.

You have hurt my family for long enough and I cannot allow you to kill any more of them.

My father’s empire is important to me more than you know; hence you, sir, have earned your flight to hell.” said Enzo, as he shot his best friend and partner, loading three bullets into his skull.

Christopher Emmanuel

II BA English

'Valentine has criticized the ways in which privacy acts like a veil to hide abusive domestic relations...'

 Violent Geographies of Childhood and Home: The Child in the Closet

By Kathrin Horschelmann

Abridged by this blogger

Introduction: The ‘Myth’ of the Enchanted Childhood

The myth of the enchanted childhood home has received remarkably little critical attention. The violence that many children are exposed to in the home, in western societies, has remained suspiciously absent from geographical and sociological discussion of both, childhood and the home.

Home: A Site of Terror & Traumatisation

There is little recognition in these portrayals of the fact that for many children home is, at minimum, a site of discipline and control and at worst, a site of terror and traumatization to which one might not wish to return as an adult. Around one-third of children experience physical abuse worldwide, while one in four girls and one in five boys are estimated to experience sexual abuse.

Myths & Idealised Narratives of Childhood

The myths constructed around childhood and home are most devastating for abused children and survivors of abuse themselves. Idealized narratives shield the home from critical scrutiny and contribute in this way to producing and upholding conditions that place children at increased risk of interpersonal, domestic abuse. If the primary focus of adult narratives and of research rests on the home as (ideally) a place of sanctuary, shelter, peace, and care, and if violence in the home is only problematized when it concerns adults, then abused children and survivors face an uphill struggle to make their voices heard!

The Privacy of the Home – Negative Experiences

Home tends to be seen as a place that lends a “sense of comfort” and belonging. Alongside numerous other feminist scholars, Valentine has criticized the ways in which privacy acts like a veil to hide abusive domestic relations. She points out that for many women, home is the context of ‘the most frightening violence of all’. That much of this violence and abuse is already experienced in childhood has, however, received remarkably little attention.

In the US, childhood abuse constituting the most frequent cause of traumatization for women. More than twice as many women report histories of childhood sexual abuse than of (adult) rape, which occurs in approximately 10 % of the general population [...]. In the United States, 61 % of all rapes occur before victims reach age 18; 29 % of forcible rapes occur before the age of 11 [...], usually by family members.

Children – Denied Right to Agency

Notwithstanding children’s agencies in negotiating their place within the social and their relationships with others, children who are abused in the home often have few other places to go! Children need their parents to survive, i.e., to receive food, shelter and cloth, even during and after abuse. Therefore, they likely know that fighting with the abusive parent or attempting to run away may place their survival at risk ... Another explanation is that these children have no place to go or are not strong enough to resist the parent.

Can the Children’s Voices be Heard?

The social marginalization of children and their normative placement in the home further heighten the risks they are exposed to as, in addition to isolation in the home, their voices are rarely heard and their experiences may be doubted by others in nondomestic contexts, such as in schools, communities, or extended families, where children may turn for support and/or where the need for intervention might otherwise be spotted.

Challenging Child Abuse

While social constructions of home, family, and childhood can contribute to the silencing and sanctioning of child abuse, at the same time, it is important to recognize that they also constitute a resource for challenging it. Thus, concerns about children’s vulnerabilities and dependencies underpin many critiques of corporal punishment and harsh disciplining.

Conclusion

Trauma research has shown, for instance, that the mobility and instability which children often experience as a result of disclosure and investigation can be both necessary for their protection and (re)traumatizing. At the same time, (re)attachment to trustworthy adults and strong social support can help on the (long) road to (partial) recovery. Notions of what a “normal,” “healthy” childhood and childhood environment ought to also underpin much psychological research and thinking about therapeutic interventions.

What is this connection of joy? It is to know another as our very own, and to know ourselves as if we were another’s...

Visva Sahitya by Rabindranath Tagore  

[Speech delivered at the National Council for Education and first published in 1907]                             

     Introduction

     All the talents that we possess within ourselves are only for reaching out to everyone else. Through such relationships we realize ourselves, we attain truth. Otherwise, it does not matter whether I am or anything else is.

     Three Links to the Reality of the World: Our link to the reality of the world is of three kinds: the connection made by the intellect, the connection arising out of need, and the connection found in joy.

     Among these, in the connection of the intellect, the intellect grows proud of its truths. The more of truth it knows, the more power it arrogates to itself.

     Next is the connection of need. In this connection, truth joins forces with our own strengths. We use truth to achieve our ends and think we have the ownership of the world. Then we declare that nature is our slave, water, air and fire - our unpaid servants.

     Finally, the connection of joy: this is a connection of beauty or bliss in which all differences dissolve; there remains no pride; we do not hesitate to give ourselves to the very small, to the weak. There the king of Mathura [Krishna] is at his wits’ end trying to find a way to hide his royal dignity from the lowly milkmaid of Vrindavan. Where the connection is that of joy, we are not limited by the power of the intellect or the power of work; we only experience ourselves.

     To put it in one sentence, the connection of the intellect is our school, the connection of need our office, and the connection of joy our home. We do not live completely in the school, nor do we fully manifest ourselves in the office; it is only in our homes that we spread our whole selves out and live. The school is devoid of ornamentation, the office remains undecorated, but we do beautify our homes.

      The Connection of Joy: What is this connection of joy? It is to know another as our very own, and to know ourselves as if we were another’s. When we know in this manner, no questions remain. When we experience ourselves in another, we do not need to ask, why have we liked them. A child laughs at the sight of light or movement. The child finds in that light, that movement, a magnification of its own consciousness; that is why it experiences joy.

     Similarly, to find completely one’s own humanity among other people is the natural dharma of the human soul and in that is its joy. This is why we wish to read the biographies of great men. In their characters we see our flawed and cloaked selves freed and uncovered. We derive pleasure from history when we see our own character manifest in many people, many nations, many eras, many incidents, many varieties, and many shapes.

     Two Kinds of Self-Expression

     Man’s self-expression in the world is of two kinds. One kind is his work, the other his literary creativity. These two modes have always proceeded by side. Man has poured himself forth both in the compositions of his work and in the creations of his imagination.

The more liberal man’s composition of his larger world, the more is he at liberty to express his humanity. To the degree he is inhibited, to that same degree is man’s self-expression impoverished. But the expression of himself in the work sphere is not man’s primary objective—it is merely a by-product. The homemaker expresses herself in her house work but it is not the express intention of her mind to do so. Through house work she fulfils many of her desires; these desires are reflected by her work and illuminate her true nature.

     Occasions to Celebrate our Self-Expression

     There are, however, occasions on which we wish chiefly to celebrate our self-expression. Imagine a wedding day. On the one hand there are all the arrangement to be made, on the other, there is the need to express one’s innermost emotions; on that day people of the house cannot but announce to the world their happiness and joy. What is the way to announce this? Flutes play, lamps are lit, and every room decorated with flowers. Through beautiful music, beautiful aromas, beautiful sights, and dazzling spectacle, the heart spills over like a multi-fauceted fountain. Through all these signs it attempts to spread its joy among others and thereby make it real.

     Puja: The Thinking Person and the Devoted One

     The puja (religious ritual) we perform is done by the thinking person in one way and by the devoted one in another. The intelligent person thinks that by praying I will receive good fortune for myself; and the man of faith thinks that without puja my devotion knows no completeness. The mentality of the calculating person’s puja is akin to investing money for interest, while the devotee’s puja is merely an expenditure. To express itself, the heart hardly notices the losses it incurs.

That is why there is no bar on man’s self-expression in literature. So what is it that we recognize in literature? Man’s plenitude, his affluence— that by which he has exceeded his necessities, that which could not be consumed in his household.

     Now is the time for me to come to the main point—and this is it—to see literature through the mirror of nation, time and people is to diminish it, not see it fully. If we understand that in literature the universal man (vishva-manav) expresses himself, then we can perceive what is truly worthy of observing in literature. Where the author has experienced in his own being the being of all men, whose writing expresses the pain of every man, that writing has found a place in literature.

     Literature: A Temple Built by the Universal Man

     Thus must one view literature as a temple that the universal man (vishva-manav) has built; writers have come from all times and all nations to work as labourers in that project. The plan of the building is not available to us. Every labourer has to use his natural competence to integrate his own composition into the whole and thereby complete the invisible plan. He does not return after seeing the pilgrims–he looks for the deity that all the pilgrims have congregated to see. Walking through a neighbourhood you notice how busy everybody is: the grocer tending his shop, the blacksmith hammering on the anvil, the labourer carrying his load, the merchant balancing his accounts—what may at first be invisible, you may perceive with your heart—on both sides of the road, in every home, in bazaar and shop, in lanes and by-lanes, how the torrent of rasa (relish) floods through so many streams and tributaries, overrunning so much shabbiness, wretchedness, and poverty. For once we need to see literature as embracing all of humanity. We have to see that in his emotional self, man has expanded his practical being so far in manifold and multi-directional ways.

     Conclusion

     Do not so much as imagine that I will show you the way to such a world literature. Each of us must make his way forward according to his own means and abilities. All I have wanted to say is that just as the world is not merely the sum of your plough field, plus my plough field, plus his plough field–because to know the world that way is only to know it with a yokel–like parochialism–similarly world literature is not merely the sum of your writings, plus my writing, plus his writings. We generally see literature in this limited, provincial manner. To free oneself of that regional narrowness and resolve to see the universal being in world literature, to apprehend such totality in every writer’s work, and to see its interconnectedness with every man’s attempt at self-expression–that is the objective we need to pledge ourselves to.

*****

"To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”

Art-Thoughts | Down the Art Lane

Archival stuff have their own magnificent aura, ain’t they?

Well, I’ve always had this quaint fascination for all things archival!

Be it a letter, a memorabilia, a sweet little memento in remembrance of things past, a letter that carries warmth and love from a sweet friend or family folk – written ages ago – or that precious book of cartoons that made our nights all the more livelier, or a Greeting card, or an old VGA-ed Nokia phone – of the 1100 types – and on and on and on!

Well, they have a lovely uniqueness and a cute thisness to them, ain’t they?

In short, they act a point of reference wherein the pastness of the past relates, reaffirms and reconnects with the present, (and future) in their myriad socio-cultural contexts!

Apart from Literature - our daily bread, Music and Painting have always enthused me ever since childhood – as cake for special occasions!

Single-stroke cartoons especially were my added fascination and delight!

Especially on free-time mode during school days, like when Jane Eyre dabbles in painting, when she was at Lowood’s!

So tempted to quoting Jane, from Jane Eyre – [And yes! may I also beseech thee, dear reader, to take some little added time as you browse through this conversation between Jane and Rochester – and to admire Charlotte Bronte’s language here. Super-awesome by all means!]

Here goes –

“Adèle showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours. I don’t know whether they were entirely of your doing; probably a master aided you?”

“No, indeed!” I interjected.

“Ah! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you can vouch for its contents being original; but don’t pass your word unless you are certain: I can recognise patchwork.”

“Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir.”

I brought the portfolio from the library.

“Approach the table,” said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Adèle and Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.

“No crowding,” said Mr. Rochester: “take the drawings from my hand as I finish with them; but don’t push your faces up to mine.”

He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside; the others, when he had examined them, he swept from him.

“Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax,” said he, “and look at them with Adèle;—you” (glancing at me) “resume your seat, and answer my questions. I perceive those pictures were done by one hand: was that hand yours?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you find time to do them? They have taken much time, and some thought.”

“I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood, when I had no other occupation.”

“Where did you get your copies?”

“Out of my head.”

“That head I see now on your shoulders?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has it other furniture of the same kind within?”

“I should think it may have: I should hope—better.”

He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed them alternately.

“Were you happy when you painted these pictures?” asked Mr. Rochester presently.

“I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them, in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known.”

“That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own account, have been few; but I daresay you did exist in a kind of artist’s dreamland while you blent and arranged these strange tints. Did you sit at them long each day?”

“I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and I sat at them from morning till noon, and from noon till night: the length of the midsummer days favoured my inclination to apply.”

“And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?”

“Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realise.”

“Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet not at all brilliant?

There ends the conversation!

By the way, giving y’all some moth-eaten fragments of my own little dabblings in the world of art – as a series, dear reader, that, I’ve tried to secure through the shadow of my thoughts decades ago!

Here goes –

Well, termites had terminated a section of the cartoons, unbeknownst to me even! On that count, felt a tad sad as well! But thankfully, the rest remains! and i'm thankful for that! 

Page 1

Page 2

And some in the vernacular, as well! - 

Page 1

Page 2

Page 3

One more - 

Artsy thoughts to continue....

'Once I started reading through the book, I felt sad that I was not taking care of myself properly...'

Book Review | Ikigai

Reviewed in Class by: Jenisha Elizabeth Thomas, II MA English

Jenisha reviewed Ikigai [by Francesc Miralles and Hector Garcia] in class today.

Over to Jenisha -

Well, I got this book for quite a few reasons. Firstly, blue is my favourite colour, and the cover of this book is in blue as well.

Secondly, the tree – Cherry blossoms! Some of my favourite cartoon characters including Doraemon sport Cherry Blossoms. Even when I create an account, I always favoured using the term ‘Cherry Blossoms’ to them.

Ikigai – or the ‘art of living’ tells us about the secret to living a purposeful life!

The book focusses on various aspects including - the importance of flow in one’s life, the importance of having long and lasting friendships, the reason for living, and finding a source of motivation.

This book is worth reading, especially in today’s fast-paced world. 

It recommends a few salients that include –

Surrounding yourself with good friends.

Having a smile.

Reconnecting with nature.

Giving thanks etc.

I started reading this book only when the lockdown happened.

Once I started reading through the book, I felt sad that I was not taking care of myself properly. Especially the little things that add value to our lives.

Indeed, the book tells us about how to create ‘free spaces’ for ourselves for our growth and happiness.

While I was a day scholar, shuttling between College and home, I was quite an introvert, and highly reserved in my disposition. But as Ikigai says, my good friends helped me come out of my cocoon. We used to sing together, and nurture our friendships, as advocated by Ikigai.

On an added note, Jenisha confessed, ‘Tea is my drug. I finished an entire flask of tea during a recent camp!’ Tea-lovers kindly take note! :-)

To conclude, being a good listener is a very good thing. Conversations with good friends act as a great stress relief, she signed off!

Teacher’s Remarks: Awesome, Jenisha! Yours was a very intense and highly thought-provoking review, interspersed with a lot of real-life anecdotes that made it engaging for all of us! Your confident presentation made it all the more absorbing from start to finish! Keep up the spirit!

Thanks a lot Manimaran for the lovely snaps.

The ‘me’ you see right now, before you, is a clearly groomed ‘me’, and it is NOT the actual ‘me’...

Me – My Soil & My Stories | ELF Inaugural

To laugh often and much; to win the respect of the intelligent people and the affection of children;

to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty;

to find the beauty in others; to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know that one life has breathed easier because you lived here.

This is to have succeeded,

said the legendary Emerson, and this is exactly something that literature does to us, remarked Dr. Tamizhachi Thangapandian, Member of Parliament, South Chennai Constituency, at the Inaugural of the English Literary Forum, Research Department of English.

Excerpts from her igniting speech on the topic, ‘Me – My Soil & My Stories’ -

Dr. Tamizhachi noted that, she considered it a great privilege to be at this prestigious Institution to inaugurate the activities of the English Literary Forum of the Research Dept of English.

I wish to talk on why I am keen on tracing the roots of my writings, and why I’m keen on establishing my identity.

The ‘me’ you see right now, before you, is a clearly groomed ‘me’, and it is NOT the actual ‘me’.

Karisal Kaatu Village is my identity. It’s about half an hour’s drive from the Madurai Airport – A village called Mallankinaru.

I had double promotions from 1^st, 3^rd and 5^th standards – called onnaapu [Ist standard] in my dialect.

It’s from here that I derive the seeds of my writing.

Karisal region is an arid region, dry with black soil, and the climate of my region is – nine months of summer, and three months of rains. So we wait for the rains!

As is often said, The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton, which means to say that, Britain’s stupendous victories on the military front, were solely based on the values and ethics imparted to the school boys in their public school. The Duke of Wellington, who was the commander in chief of the British and allied armies at Waterloo was a graduate of Eton College!

Similarly, I’m true to myself, to my roots, and stick to my roots!

Richard Mulcaster, liberal educational theorist and the poet Spenser's headmaster at the Merchant Taylors' School in London, once observed that, 

it is the learning in a language and not any inherent virtue that makes it esteemed, and English can be as learned and expressive as any: ‘I love Rome, but London better, I favour Italy, but England more, I honor Latin, but I worship English.

In like fashion, I love English, but I worship Tamil, she remarked.

Stating that, Translation is a negotiation between two cultures, continents, etc, she quoted Ngugi wa Thiongo who chose to abandon writing in English and opted for writing in his own mother tongue – Gikuyu instead.

My English is placed in juxtaposition to the coloniser’s English, she observed, and citing her professor who often used to tell her, ‘Stick to your roots!’, she said that, ‘It was indeed my Professor who opened my eyes to the concept of ‘sticking to one’s roots’.

J D Salinger once remarked that, ‘To be able to create a story, you got to know your characters in every way possible’.

‘Such characters I get them only in my soil’ observed Dr. Tamizhachi!

Note: For Past Inaugurals of ELF, & the Lectures given on the occasion by the respective Chief Guests, kindly click HERE

To be continued…