and not content with my goliath-sized victory, i advised her to follow dobelli on twitter – dobelli follows no one, he says in an interview.
i am on a news diet. ma calls it ‘cocooned, passive and isolated’. but i prefer the epithet ‘news diet’ .
yes, i do read the newspaper, only not at my home — the in-laws place, at a store, at the music class… i dont seek the paper out. we were once a home of four newspapers and three magazines … btw.
now, my neighbourhood paper that pops in once a week is good enough for me… it tells me about the scholastic book sale, a spot where i can get lovely plants, who’s singing at the nearby sabha, and that my friend i lost in touch with 15 years ago has opened a boutique 10 minutes away — enough news , i say.
i tried to assess a la rolf dobelli, what i have gained by not reading the paper everyday… or by not listening to the booming tones of the likes of rajdeep sardesai
i dont have the distance vision to judge.
i dont know what i have gained. in fact … i may have not gained anything.
i’ve listened to her singing, since my friend in kl was a fan..
in this interview, she says she was greatly influenced by her grandfather who read aloud shakespeare to her when she was a kid; incidentally indira nooyi is her sister.
we are also reading poetry chez mim.
i liked this one by keats to read aloud for firstborn…
There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red-
Was as weighty
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England-
So he stood in his shoes
And he wondered,
He stood in his shoes
And he wondered.
and for myself i love love william blake… tears well up quietly when i read his works…
from auguries of innocence
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill’d with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus’d upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A Cherubim does cease to sing.
The Game Cock clipp’d and arm’d for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright.
Every Wolf’s & Lion’s howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul.
The wild deer, wand’ring here & there,
Keeps the Human Soul from Care.
The Lamb misus’d breeds public strife
And yet forgives the Butcher’s Knife.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won’t believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever’s fright.
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belov’d by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by Woman lov’d.
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spider’s enmity.
He who torments the Chafer’s sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night.
The Catterpillar on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mother’s grief.
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,
For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.