Caught right in the middle of a pandemic

 

It had been a long tiring day already. And it was not even anywhere near noon. In the room next to the living room where me and baby were seated, the elder one, I would imagine, was playing with a fidget spinner, her latest favorite toy, as the teacher on the other side of the laptop screen was heard struggling to get the entire class’s attention. All fifteen of them, scrambled in different directions, distracted by different things. I looked at the clock over the kitchen pantry, and heaved a deep sigh, and looked at the feeding bottle for the 20th time, which seems to work some kind of miracle, and refill itself, every time I need a bathroom break, or just generally need to flex my muscles. It never ceases to flow, as  the almost four month old, sleepily continues to suck from it. My days lately go on in a loop of these chores - feeding, burping, swaying, soothing, changing, cleaning, and repeating this cycle till my eyes dry out and my arms are sore. Don’t get me wrong. For most part, I do enjoy my luck with motherhood for the second time given how less paranoid I am this time round. But when days seem to stretch out in a loop of unending tasks it does sometimes reach the tipping point. Later in the afternoon however, the husband casually saunters out of his work space, sporting his new mane and a pair of boxers. He likes to fancifully refer to this room as his ‘office’, in our pokey three bedroom apartment. Fact is, in the pre-Covid world, this used to be the graveyard for things less used, the countless number of toys of the older one would disappear in this multi-purpose room without a trace like it is operating with some Bermuda Triangle kind of mystery. It is also that room which transforms into a butterfly from a caterpillar everytime a guest announces his arrival. But indeed those days are in the past now. As a result, we have made ourselves so comfortable and have spread ourselves so far and wide, that the walls of our home seem to have lost their prime purpose. They have succumbed to the needs of our family and this pandemic in a way that they  no more contain things designated to them. Hence we are thoroughly  enjoying an open style home plan, and conveniently allowing items from one room to float to the other, rest, languish and even propagate, if there is scope, without a care. And for just this once, I have joined the party instead of being a party pooper as they might be secretly calling me. With a body that craves  sleep at all times, and a mind that glosses over things for most part, I have wholeheartedly embraced  this ‘whatever goes’ policy that our family now swears by. But I am just sorry for that tiny part of my heart that still worries, what would happen, when, at last, the world will return to some semblance of normalcy. When the kid will start her school, the brick and mortar one, not the one where she doesn’t feel necessary to learn her friends’ names. What is the point after all, when you can’t run, chase each other, calling out each other’s names? What will happen, I worry, when all of a sudden, someone will decide to show up, probably with masks still intact, and  I will be panicking over the heap of laundry dumped right in the middle of the living room. Or the coffee table, which hasn’t been honored with a cup of coffee, not once, from the day it had arrived in this household. What a horrible impression I would make, how much my heart would ache, what a terrible tragedy would strike if someone were to catch me in the middle of this pandemic. Gray and raw, in my pathetic little gown, always forgetful, always running for things, always on call for duty. 

This actually got me thinking of all the time I once used to have which  was spent doing practically nothing! It feels almost unreal to think that such a time truly existed. When I could have moved mountains and it wouldn’t have hurt at all. And then today, when my mind races to do tons of things, pursue interests that were abandoned for lack of determination, but for the time, that I would never have anymore. Hence every now and then when I have rebelled against time, each time my mind has won over my body, it has felt like winning a war. And the real test is to see if these interests that took off as pandemic pursuits, can become life long friends. I don’t know what the remaining few months of the year has in store for us. But one can only hope that things will change for better. Soon. The infamous curve will flatten. And once again we will see ‘our people’ face-to-face. Hope is also to be able to talk about things other than the morbid stats and numbers of the great tragedies occurring around the world. Hope is to get that set of aging parents on the very first flight here so that we can look back and laugh at these trying times together. And mourn some irreparable losses with misty eyes. The meet-ups, what would they feel like, I wonder, when we would see one another out of our rectangular screens? How long will it take for the pandemic jokes to cease? I mean the personal ones, not the memes we have been sharing over WhatsApp, which had kept us sane and connected in the early days of Covid. The recipes? Will we be still as gung -ho about trying  them? And the ones like me, would I still be patient enough to knead through a lump of flour to watch it grow into a bun? And I also imagine the day when we would drop those darned masks, and give our tired ears a break. Would we be shaking hands again? Hugging? Oh what a relief it would be, to see a full face,  and not guess the color of the lipstick underneath those covers.  What would I not give to return to that world which I fear we might have lost, after having dumped it in our backyards. I cannot wait to return to those times when we would drag our baggages through busy airport elevators and not worry about rubbing shoulders with strangers in busy trams. And I cannot wait for the time when our only immediate concern will again be to win a good hand at Poker, while we savor the sweet sound of cards rustling, and chips clinking, as we laugh our days  away, and our nights will be far from sober. 

License to Drive

I am sitting in the waiting area of the DMV office of Tampa, Florida. This is the first time, in all these years, I am actually about to take a driving test on the road. But being born in India, I have had possession of a driver’s license, without having to prove my skills behind the wheels. Ever. Just one of the many reasons why I love my country so. 

But this is the real deal. Here, sitting amongst a swarm of people, counting every minute to my test, I had summoned all the 330 million Gods I have been told since my childhood to have existed. What’s the point, I had asked, if not help me on this crucial day? What’s the point of my Dad being the devoutly religious man that I have always known him to be? Or Mom, who despite her relatively pragmatic approach to religion, has always offered prayers, bending down on her wobbly knees, in our dingy 'goxai ghor' - the size of a full-fledged bedroom of the apartments here? Where idols of Gods in all forms, shapes, and sizes, sit peacefully staring at you and scaring the living daylights every time I stand under the aura of that roof. Not sure whether it is its age or that it rests on a slightly secluded area of our rambling old house, the one where a bunch of Dad’s siblings had lived, and left behind memories. Where vivid memories of my childhood were also being made. I think it’s the intimidating history that this part of my home cradles that overwhelms me each time I step inside it. Memories of pujas, kathas, naam kirtans - so sharp in my memory that it takes a mere nudge down that road for them to come tumbling down over me. 

But today, the patchy black cement floor of that room, which always stays cool, even during the unrelenting hot summer months, is all I can think of for solace. Sitting in the DMV office, typing away on my phone, I am oddly reminded of that house of Gods that had seen me through so many milestones. 

I think of them and beg for a good outcome, feeling the palpitations of my heart every passing minute. I quickly take a picture of me to freeze the moment. And hope that the ‘after’ picture of this event will be a happy one. I send a quick note about it to the brother who is slogging it out at work. Except him, none of the believers in my family know of this day which might be a dog-eared page in my life. I wanted the pressure off me. I couldn’t bear the thought of my dad making a trip to the temple and waiting in anticipation. He had done that for a lifetime. Although I know too well how much he would have liked it. But today, I am on my own, is also what my instructor told me while handing the keys to the car and giving me last few words of advice. Despite myself, I did say a little prayer at that point, although as always, not knowing who I was praying to. Before leaving home, I had bowed down in front of the Buddha idol I had bought as a decor piece from some trip I had made in the past. For the last few months, the Buddha is filling in for the 330 million Hindu deities, since I had been too lazy to take their representatives out of the carton I had packed them in while moving homes. Does my confused agnostic self get worried thinking about how this might amount to blasphemy in my father’s eyes? The answer is yes. But then again, when I close my eyes to pray, I am mostly summoning an inner force, and hardly ever the deities that line the top of his chest of drawers, or the one on his car's dashboard, or the idol of Ganesh stuck with a double-sided tape on top of his desk computer. (Ya, they still exist, those boxes.) The prayers I send out to the universe, in the most fundamentally spiritual way, is the closest I get to God or the idea of him or her. 

While I was lost in such thoughts, a guy in black tee and shorts materialized in front of me. Holding a file that carried my details, and as expected, struggling to read out my name. As usual, I stopped him before he completely and irrevocably ruined my name and invariably called it everything else but how my mom had meant it and had deemed it appropriate for her firstborn. The very reason why it took me as little as Google to come up with a name for my own daughter. Couldn't handle the Yanks slaughtering her name in slow-mo while she grimaced in pain like I do every single time they mispronounce mine. 

We sat inside the car. He made an interesting point about how this test does not expect me to show any tricks. It was a chuckle-worthy moment. Probably he meant it as a joke. Probably he did not. I was too tensed to tell. And he added that he would tell me what needed to be done. And very sweetly asked, if I was nervous. And also that, if at all I was, it was a good thing. I was instantly put at ease. Are the Gods already on my side? I wondered. 

I gently maneuvered the car as instructed, towards the right, then the left, making sure I stop at every signal. And generally, drive safely, and give my anxious nerves a break. At that point, my mind was finally cleared off all the cosmic forces I had invoked for this moment, and it was solely focused on the instructions being given out to me. When he asked me to park the car in between two lines, I might have felt a tiny flutter in my tummy, but I pulled that off somehow. The test of the three-point turn, oddly my most favorite thing during practice sessions, was surprisingly precise too. He read out a few more instructions and keenly observed the movement of my eye. I might have gone for an overkill trying to impress him. He, however, maintained a straight face even if he might have wanted to burst out laughing. The next few minutes were just about reinstating faith I suppose when he asked me to simply drive in and around the office. Realizing that now I was at the fag end of the test, my mind got busy calculating the result. The examiner, however, didn't let the outcome show on his face. I was asked to park the car since the test had come to a finish. This time the parking was near perfect since the performance pressure was lifted off me. My roving eyes couldn’t help but sneak a peek into the papers the examiner had been diligently marking on. At this moment I spotted the most coveted alphabet written down under a circle. I instantly felt my heart do a tiny somersault. But I feigned ignorance, lest he changed his mind seeing my excitement. Pushing back a smile that had crept up on my lips, I waited for him to speak first. Stepping out of the car, my eyes searched for my instructor like how a child looks for his parent to show off his trophy. Had he stood there waiting for me, I could have hugged him, causing a little embarrassment for all of us present there. But he had receded to a cooler area, dodging the Florida sun that had shone the brightest. A sign? Well! A cursory glance at me, and the examiner said flashing a smile, ‘you passed.’ 

'From An-Other Land' - Book Review

Tanushree Ghosh’s ‘From An-Other Land’ is an insightful look into the lives of the immigrant population in the US. This book deftly explores what it means to be an ‘outsider’ and to be constantly seen as the ‘other’, particularly, in the current political climate of the country. It also gives the readers both an insider’s and an outsider’s perspective presented through compelling situations and narratives.

The collection interestingly starts at the very point where this journey to the coveted land begins – the airport. Where we see a steady flow of anxious and nervous passengers waiting eagerly for their turn to ‘check-in’ to their dreamland. This community of people is a jumble of students, young professionals, new brides, and even bystanders, whose only motive is to get inspired by this force of people enthused with dreams and aspirations.

The author very skillfully picks each individual story from this mass of people and examines their circumstances, and situations, through the prism of immigration. While a young Meera is forced to leave her husband in a small town in Punjab, to fulfill the family’s notion of success and prosperity. There are people like Tarun and Raji on the other hand, who despite making it in their dreamland, are still faced with problems much bigger than their hopes and aspirations.

All the thirteen stories focused around individual struggles and trappings are unique in their own way and represent a prototype we come across in real life. This makes the stories both relatable and believable. Through her characters, the author also explores the ideas of dreams and reality, and hopes and disillusionment. The stories also echo the idea that some of the basic human biases are prevalent throughout the world. And sometimes, even an advanced nation like the US can be fraught with deep-seated biases and hypocrisies that can take the human race back by many decades. In that sense, this book will resonate with everyone regardless of his/her bearings.

The writer’s experience of living in the US for a substantial number of years, helps her look at the unique nuances of the immigrant community - the impact of remittance money on a family’s economic and social situation, ageing parents and their day-to-day struggle back home, social media’s contribution to keeping the world connected, the conscious acknowledgement while spotting a fellow countryman in a foreign land, the infamous Indian Standard time, the awareness that comes with the color of one’s skin etc.

The stories also address some of the topical issues such as - gun violence, Islamophobia, post-partum mental health, LGBT rights, and domestic violence. The writer has made sure that each aspect of this community of people is given a voice, and are represented well. 

Just as the journey of each story begins at the airport, they are tied neatly at the final chapter with references to airport scenes. And despite the stories of their trials and tribulations, they end at a hopeful note. Some of the stories run a few pages longer than the other. And some might come across as too descriptive, where the narrative could have easily broken into dialogues. The language is simple but can get wordy, particularly when the narrator’s perspective is presented. But overall, the stories manage to effectively map the very essence of the immigrant population living in America, with a special focus on the Indian community. 

  

Gully Boy - a gritty underdog story told with remarkable sensitivity

Gully Boy - the title of Zoya Akhtar’s latest offering leaves no room for doubt about the world she seeks to capture in her 2: 30-hour long film, done with precision and sensitivity that is hard to come by. 

The film opens with three friends from the gullies of Dharavi walking down a relatively affluent locality of Mumbai and stealing a car and disappearing in thin air. With this scene, any doubt about Ranveer sticking out as the big star trying too hard to fit into this world is instantly put to rest. So convincing is his get-up, gait, and lingo, that he blends seamlessly into the world and the ethos he represents. Images of heaps of rubbles, largely exposed drains filled with discarded plastics, stray animals, claustrophobic spaces, drug peddlers, small allies with cramped homes is the Mumbai we expect to see in this film. But we never see the camera over-indulging for the sake of some gritty glamor. And on the other side of these slums lies the key to an inaccessible world which is the life every gully dweller is dreaming of. And the director captures this great chasm in the city of dreams through a very nuanced prism.

It is no news that the film is loosely based on the lives of India’s first street rap sensations Divine and Naezy. And the film is a beautiful homage to the real gully boys who had enough fire in their belly to realize their dreams. 

At the heart of Gully Boy is Murad, who is seen finding an escape in his poetry when his reality gets tough on him. He is a diligent, righteous, and ambitious young man who is hungry to change the course of his life. Safeena, played by Alia is Murad’s love interest. She is an aspiring surgeon, and much like Murad, follows her ambition with a steadfast determination. She is feisty, confident and madly in love with Murad. If Murad is the soul of this film, Safeena is its beating heart. 

They meet at bus stops, hold hands during their commutes, kiss inside empty trains, and talk to each other over the phone for hours. Like two ends to earphones, they are entwined to each other in their dreams. In a particularly tender moment, Safeena asks Murad to chase his dream for her Doctor’s degree will ensure a good life for them. Here we see roles getting reversed subtly without making a statement about it. Their hungry eyes and poignant pauses speak volumes about their big dreams even with the acute realization of their realities. Which Murad’s father warns him against time and again. ‘A driver’s son will become a driver’, is how Murad is shown his place on another occasion. The dialogues in the film elevate the screenplay as they strike the perfect balance of gully lingo and common man’s language to express the most poignant feelings. When Murad is hit by the realization of Safeena’s love slipping away he says, ‘without her, it would be like living a life without a childhood.’ And this film has quite a few of such glowing lines that make you pause and admire the written words. 

But where there is ambition and resolve, struggle and heartbreaks are inevitable. And Murad and Safeena’s story is no different. They too go through their share of emotional upheaval that is convincingly woven into the main thread of the narrative - which is Murad ’s arc of becoming the new big thing in the world of rap music. But not before he is pushed to his limits by his circumstances, which add fire to his words, and his angst finds a release through his songs. 

All the above might come off sounding nothing more than a typical underdog story.  But one has to watch this film for the subtle undercurrents, the simmering tensions, for the powerful silences, and marvel over the restraint and control displayed by its makers. For a film that celebrates a particular music genre, it is expected that it would offer some power packed tracks and this film does just that. All the eighteen tracks, glide over the other playing the perfect catalyst to the already simmering situations in the film. And it’s a real treat to watch an emotion getting translated into words, and growing into an echo, and then erupting into a philosophy. And all this go on, while the city of Mumbai moves in a harmonious montage where its inhabitants constantly step over the other side of the gap, while largely remaining conscious of it. 

But in the end, it is Murad raging through the powerful lyrics of his songs and trying to create a revolution, is what is going to be the enduring image of this film. Ranveer never misses a beat while switching in and out of the roles of a dutiful son and a passionate rapper, the righteous man, and the pragmatic gully boy that he is. Debutant Siddhant Chaturvedi comes across as a powerhouse of talent and competes with Ranveer’s infectious energy flawlessly. 

The casting in the film is near perfect, and each character is given enough screen presence to shine and carve a piece for themselves in the audience’s hearts. And when emotions run high, the screenplay cleverly injects humor to move on to the next emotion. 

However, the few times when the writing seemed slightly off was firstly when Sky, played by Kalki, goes out on her nightly escapades along with her friends. Her gestures, all captured in a brief segment,  seem like nothing more than a token commentary on rampant cutting down of trees, the great divide of rich and poor, and biases based on color. This sequence almost seemed like an afterthought and could have been easily done away with. And on another occasion, when the writers seem to choose convenience over realism- denying Sky and MC Sher ( Siddhant’s character) a slightly negative shade even when they were presented with the occasions. Which was largely done to take forward Murad’s story without complicating it further. 

But for a film that never misses a beat, keeps your eyes peeled at all times, and draws you into its world like you want to remain immersed in it, is a film that deserves all the good words. I wanted to return to the theater and watch not only scenes, but the entire film all over again, and I wonder how often can one say that for a film. 

Manto on Netflix

Nandita Das’s film, Manto, based on the life of famous Urdu writer, Saadat Hasan Manto, is an  impressive account of the maverick writer's short-lived, but eventful life. His controversial writing during the turbulent times of Independence, certainly deserved a cinematic adaptation, and this film successfully captures the essence of what Manto stood for both in his personal and professional life.

The film deftly captures the angst and beliefs of this fearless and unhinged writer, who didn’t mince  words while addressing the menaces of his society which often landed him in trouble, and court cases remained his lifelong companion. Hence, it is not surprising that even in his short-lived life (he died at the age of 42), he leaves behind a legacy of work so inspiring that, as students of literature when we read them, we all wanted to be Mantos. 

Toba Tek Singh, his short story that ridicules partition like no other, finds a special place towards the end of this film. While his long struggle with finding acceptance for his most notorious story, ‘Thanda Gosht’, as chilling as the title, is given just enough presence in the film to show the grit and determination with which he pursued his beliefs and stuck to his principles. This is also largely reflective of the times in which he was writing, where social issues were brushed aside to celebrate the newly found status of two independent nations of the sub-continent - India and Pakistan. And one cannot miss the irony of the battle against censorship on free speech and expression then, and the fact that, very little has changed even today. 

For a film that is based on the life of a courageous writer of possibly the most significant years of our country, it was essential that the dialogues were as hard hitting as the man in question. And the film delivers on that count too, staying away from any unnecessary gimmick, and striking the right balance of drama and content. 

For an artist as controversial as Manto, it is easy to pick any aspect of his life, either professional or personal, and create a feature film out of it. But this film picks just the right elements to highlight those areas that represent the fire-brand writer best. 

His forced move from Bombay to Lahore post partition had a huge impact on Manto and his writing. And the latter half of his professional and personal life was spent mourning over the loss of a city he was deeply in love with. And when he couldn’t find the Bombay of his love in Lahore, the disillusionment started to creep into his writing. And unfortunately, it took a toll on his personal life too. But with each new turn of events, he found new inspiration to write and create. 

This film not only brings alive Manto, the progressive thinker and writer, but the loving partner and father that he was to his family. There are many endearing scenes in the film that captivate his family life which reveal his gentler side, showing the sensitive human being that gets easily affected by an unjust society. He is particularly sensitive with issues relating to women, whether it is about the plight of women forced into prostitution, or his treatment of women as equals. In this regard, his contemporary and another controversial writer of those times, Ismat Chugtai, best known for her short story, Lihaaf, finds special screen presence in Manto’s life story. 

While on the one hand Manto is shown to hob-nob with the biggies of Bombay Talkies, on the other hand, he is shown to find creative inspiration  in places far removed from the bright lights of the  studio. This aspect of his life encapsulates what he truly represented as an artist. 

And at the end, it is the man who played Manto, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, about whom anything said would sound repetitive. Here he not only plays the titular role, but he becomes Manto. The fierceness in his dialogues, the sharp piercing grip of his eyes, and the fragility of his body, capture the very essence of who Manto might have been for as long as he lived. And I doubt there could be any better actor to take on this mammoth task and mouth those gritty dialogues with the same conviction. 

Some of the most engaging sequences in the film are heightened in effect by the melancholic music that runs in the background, handled with utmost care by none other than legendary tabla player, Zakir Hussain. And the film also boasts of dragging lyricist Javed Akhtar to mouth few dialogue in his chaste Urdu, besides getting some of the best talents of the industry to play relatively insignificant roles. 

I had watched Das’s directorial debut Firaaq few years back, and remember complaining about many things that didn’t quite sit well with me. But with Manto, she hits many right notes. The film's relevance in the current political climate of our country is an unfortunate reality we are living with. In that sense, Manto lives on amongst us, as an inspiration for generations to come. And hence, this film, I feel was long overdue. Glad it came at the right time, and from the right people. 

Dew-dipped memories of Mahalaya

I no more wake up to the noise of early-birds strutting down the pavements in their autumn awakening. 

Mahalaya mornings are not about guarding the coral jasmine from pesky flower pickers anymore, 

or watching grandpa ward them off, 

neither is it about feeling that tight embrace of a morning dipped in dew, so fresh in my memory that I can almost touch it. 

The muffled voices of morning prayers from a far-away speaker that stoked my Puja spirits then, 

remain today only in my musings like a luminous dream. 

When a WhatsApp message lets me know of this day off-handedly today, in seconds, I am that sixteen year old, 

swathed in the promise of this morning, hopeful and giddy with pleasing thoughts, weaving dreams of my own. 

And when all of this is nothing but an aching longing today, 

I summon my memories to evoke the rituals of the day, 

so that this ancient bond I worship, doesn’t fade and move far away. 

'The Pact' by Jodi Picoult- an overview

 The success of a mystery novel perhaps lies in how precise, exacting and therefore, compelling it is to its readers. And while at it, if the writer manages to explore some deeply philosophical, ethical and moral stances that often get brushed aside in the wake of an engaging tale, I think it is worth giving it a shot.

I had bumped into Jodi Picoult’s books at friends’ and family many times – books upturned and splayed across beds, a comb efficiently doing a bookmark’s job; on busy counter tops, tempting the reader to drop everything else and crawl back to figure out its end. ‘It is that easy to immerse yourself in her books,’ I had been told. That probably is a standard line one could expect to hear about a best-selling author. Only that, anything she writes about, is ever made out of the ordinary. That much I had figured. Yet the fact that it has struck a chord with so many readers will make us think of the extraordinary times we are living in. Does it say a thing about us as a race? Maybe.

Following my little ritual before I begin a book, I had glanced over some of Jodi’s short interviews. They have such a way of giving a peek into a writer’s soul. And somehow, over the years, it seems to have become so important to me -  to like the person, before I could like her/his work. That probably is the exact opposite of what one should do. And try one’s best to leave aside the biases, and take the work for what it is. But since I am doing this largely for myself, I thought I would go with what comes naturally to me.

The story of ‘The Pact’, surges through you like a powerful force that refuses any respite till the end. And yet, it is a meditative take on some relevant issues of today. This probably is the book’s biggest triumph. With just the right peppering of mystery, conflict, and drama, Picoult has managed to weave a compelling ‘love story’ in ‘The Pact.’ That’s how she has sub-titled it – A love story.  And one doesn’t have to wait too long to see the irony. Even without coming anywhere close to experiencing the turbulence, the grief and the bereavement that this tale entails, it resonates with its readers on a basic human level. And once it has your full attention,  it explores concepts of – truth, perception, trust, faith, hope, without losing touch with its stoic vein. And also pushes one to look inward to grapple with issues of mental health, marriage, teenage life, parental expectations, and perceptions of love.

When we talk about lasting impressions, what we refer to usually is that lingering feeling that endures long after the story has ended. In this book, those would be the courtroom scenes, that run over a chapter or more, that make a permanent mark in the reader’s psyche. And despite the many references one might have of such scenes, these manage to bring a fresh perspective. The best part of a book however, is when you are confronted with astounding and unexpected realizations, put across in the most matter-of-fact tone. Like all along, this had been the goal, this is what all the fuss was about, only that the author, with her clever narration, wouldn’t let you see it at first.  And those are moments I seek out in a book like this one.

But what is a story if it didn’t leave you feeling exalted at the end, despite everything? And how wonderful, if it left you marveling over the limitless human potential,  of ordinary men possessing extraordinary courage. And the very next moment, sweeping the foundation of belief underneath your feet, turning around and asking, but is it possible that what is courage to one, is cowardice to another?

It is no news that Picoult’s best-selling books have been adapted into movies one after the other, and we have one based on this book too. I would probably wait for my reader’s experience to settle down and find a comfortable place, and for the feelings to become less raw, so that I can appreciate the film without the baggage of the book. And who knows, I might just find a whole new dimension that I might have missed in the book.