Review of 'Faking it'.

A slightly longer version of the review that appeared in 'The New Indian Express'.

Faking it? Yes! Yes! Yes!

The pink and purple chick-lit cover deceives you into thinking you can settle down in a cozy corner with a copy of 'Faking it' for a quick read. What you’ll need is a somewhat large settee to accommodate a comprehensive dictionary for easy reference. Or there's always dictionary.com, but then lugging around a laptop is as clumsy. One wouldn't mind the occassional Daedalean language but there is also the other problem of finding the dictionary more involving.

That might seem very dagger-to-the-heart for a bourgeois sort of reader. But the sensitivity of the upper crust is somewhat suspect. Referring to the characters in the book, we have Tara Malhotra wed to Raj Malhotra, who from the skeletal character sketch, could as well have belonged to a Karan Johar movie. While Karan would have at least given him a song and dance as he goes globe trotting, author Amrita Chowdhury chooses not to. Which would have been just as well if Tara, the slightly antagonistic protagonist had been given her due. Considering we follow her life all the way from the Wall Streets of Washington DC to the roads of Mumbai through the streets of Baroda, New Delhi, Kolkatta and even Bareilly, one still can't put a face to her character. While one certainly knows what make-up that face wears and who designs her Kurtis, one still doesn't get under her skin, making her come across as a depthless sort of person. Not a great central character to have, if that wasn't the intention.

As an offensive move in the marital cold war, Tara decides to dig her Manolos into the art world, and start a gallery in Mumbai. The place that her husband has dragged her and her four-year-old son to, from Washington D.C, where she'd had the perfect life and career. In Mumbai, she leads the oh so imperfect five-star life of the rich NRI, having her home and son taken care of by a battalion of servants, while she herself waltzes from art gallery to spa to boutique. Her extended anger towards her husband seems rather petulant for a woman as accomplished as her. And her reaction even more so. Art gallery with surreal name is opened, but that's not where the plot is. She happens to buy an unheard of Amrita Sher-Gil from a con artist. The painting is fake, of course. She decides to make amends, not so much to get back her lifetime savings but to clear her pristine name, and starts sleuthing with a friend or two. It reminds one of a bollywood thriller from the 80s. Telecined to hollywood standards, of course. But it’s neither bollywood, nor a thriller and this is definitely not the 80s. The sleuthing, however amateurish, is hardly imaginative. And frankly, a novel, which is touted as an art crime thriller, cannot afford to have awkward plots that ramble on from one page to the next like a child's scrawl, especially when most of the world has read the likes of Archer.

The one thing that holds up 'Faking it' is (no, not your hand) the writing. Which is undoubtedly refined. Amrita Choudhury, with her elevated scholastic credentials, has proven that she is an able writer with this first novel. There is a certain easy manner to the way the sentences flow, with or without the fancy words. If it could be dissected from the plot, one might actually enjoy it.

The glitterati will relate to the flambuyoant portrait painted about their lives, and as a coffee table book of the page 3 world, it holds its frappe. One wishes it had stayed in that glossy area instead of wrestling with the grimy underworld and the art crime scene so tepidly. Amrita, however, has portrayed the dysfunctional relationship between Tara and her husband in quite a realistic manner, except for the somewhat fairytale ending. One would expect them to discuss their marital issues over a glass of sake like any normal couple. Instead, they have a baby.

At at the end of the book, the reader might struggle to hold on to something original. And there it is. The dictionary.

thank you, god.

thank you for the sustenance

and of course, the diamonds

thank you my undying faith

that the bedbugs will have their wake

for the boy angel who sleeps at night

and the brat he turns into at light

thank you for the cozy apartment

and for someone to pay the rent

thank you for keeping the love alive

and knowing that it’ll never die

thank you for the brief separations

and superfast broadband connections

thank you for my strong mother

without her, you’d still be a stranger

for the million friends and family

who’ve always, always forgiven me

thank you for the free books

and the koftas my maid cooks

for the impromptu kisses and hugs

that make up for fat pay cheques

but most of all i thank thee

for never ever giving up on me.

Review of The toss of a lemon by Padma Viswanathan

This review appeared in The Sunday express in more or less the same fashion.

One reads the title and sighs, lemons, mangoes, poppies! Another Indian novel serving varied flora. And that too across 600 odd pages. Well, the suspicions turn out to be right with 'The toss of a lemon'. In the sense that it's about a family tree. But that's where the similarity ends. That's also where other similarities begin. Because anyone but anyone has a family tree. And if that anyone happens to be a tam-brahm, the book could very well be about her own family tree with all the usual suspects and then some.

At the head of the tree is Sivakami the teenage widow in pre-independence India, who goes through the next 60 odd years covered in pearly whites and hidden in dark shadows. Then there's her daughter Thangam, the woman who spends all of her mature life making children; Sivakami's son Vairum, the generous-to-a-fault business tycoon who's unrelentingly cruel to his mother; his wife Vani, the childless, musical genius with duly appointed eccentricities; Thangam's husband Goli, the handsome rake who contributes little to the story but tremendously to the growth of the family tree; and of course the gay servant Muchami, who also serves as an alter ego to Sivakami. Add to this melee, a friendly neighour or two, a devadasi, and a dozen or two fruits of love who make their appearances randomly.

Random is what you might think about the book too, with its no plot approach. But that in no way denies its appeal to keep the pages turning. All the way to the 619th page. Which, for fear of gushing, is an enormous feat for a first novel. Especially for Padma Viswanathan, who despite her name and brahmin origins, is a Canadian. The depth of research is commendable and the novel seems to have consumed 10 good years of her life. I, repeat, good years. In another time, it could've spawned a large family. Her own, actually, as the novel is part biography part fiction. And for that reason one is tempted to compare it with 'The God of small things'.

Interestingly, the novel is written in the present tense, except for the epilogue. It helps the reader literally walk with the characters in every stage. One wishes that the characters were etched out a little deeper. But then you could reason that in a self-abasing society, the individuals do not summon much space. There are also moments in the book that would've justified more evocation. Vairum's ousting of his aged, helpless mother from his house and her persistent longing for him for example, are goldmines that have been passed over with barely a few handfuls of earth to show for it.

Although Rushdie-like, the mix of the fantastical with the real does not gel in this novel. For instance, the seasonal shedding of gold dust by Thangam, and the waxing and waning of Vani's moods along with the lunar cycle, for no apparent reason. The chronicling, however, is precise with only the occasional burst of poetics drawing attention to it. Like an elegant silk sari with sparse gold work on it. Making the novel richer but not vulgarly so.

The descriptiveness in the novel is also limited though treated well, with some interesting allegories woven in. The description of a tamil brahmin wedding meal almost make you smell the sambar, for instance. Some images recur with reason and are duly evocative. Don't be surprised if Jagadhodharana plays in your head like a stuck record for the duration of the book, which by no means is a short time.

However, the most remarkable thing about the novel, is that you find yourself constantly replaying one scene or the other, musing about one character or the other, in the way you would think about your son playing in the park, or about the neighbour who never returns your books. Sivakami and her family might just end up traveling with you in your car, interrupt you during a phone conversation, and might even sit at the table to eat with you. Which, in my opinion, should give the Adyar Alamaram a run for its money.

Review of The Other Hand by Chris Cleave

An edited version of this review appeared in The Sunday Express.

If Houdini ever made a film about Big Brother, then how would it be? Would it be magical? Would it be a reality show? Improbable as the situation is, my guess it would be a bit of both. If it were really good, it would be like 'The Other Hand' by Chris Cleave. The high brow might call it Magical Realism, Rushdie might phrase it a development out of surrealism that expresses a genuinely Third World consciousness, but I would just say that 'The Other Hand' is all flesh and blood and callused and lined so intricately that it can only foretell an extraordinary life. And, of course, it also wields the wand.

'The Other Hand' is the story of two women who could not be farther removed from each other, racially, economically, demographically, and what have you, and how their lives come together in a dark twist of events. Little Bee is a teenaged Nigerian refugee in the United Kingdom who has seen humankind at its sordid worst, and Sarah is a high powered, white, career woman with a life that is as regular as the tea she drinks every morning. While Little Bee is running away from her country and its surreptitious barbarity, Sarah's issues are mostly moral in nature, not to mention extricating her four-year-old from his assumed Batman identity and costume. In an interplay of events, all jumbled up for intrigue, we see the seamless transformation of girl to woman, emptiness to meaning, superhero to child, darkness to light. Furthermore, the novel unfurls the glaring twin faces of a democracy, the elusiveness of freedom to a certain section, that surprisingly is also human; the reality of horror, which to most of the civilized world is a genre of cinema; the concept of suicide as a comfort blanket; moral ambiguity and its decisive consequences; and most remarkably, humour as a natural ally in the darkest of moments.

Besides the daunting task of assuming a female voice, Chris Cleave tells the story with two narratives to paint the dual worlds of the protagonists. While Little Bee's narrative weaves magic, albeit dark, Sarah's is more on solid ground and closer to the real world, if you'll pardon my civilized tongue. Little Bee's narrative is profound, sometimes unbelieveably so, coming from a third world teenager however intelligent. But the profundity is so beautifully profound, that it makes you read at the pace of a second grader. The magic in Little Bee's narrative is so bewitching, that I was tempted to skip Sarah's narrative. I mean, why would one choose to read about a life that is so soap opera, when exotica awaits you in the next chapter? This of course, is no fault of the writer, who astounds the reader with his astute writing, and some excruciatingly artistic metaphors, that made me physically close my eyes and visualise them.

The year of research Chris Cleave has done for his second novel has held him in good stead. In that he manages to portray quite accurately, even if it's for a largely unexposed audience, the variations in dialects in Jamaican, Nigerian and of course, British English, with their respective brands of humour. The dismal and deprecating conditions of the Immigration Detention Center whose roots are mottled with monetary motives, surface with suitable subtelty. The imperfect British democracy has been thrown light on, if not laid threadbare, but maybe there was no need to research that one.

You'll forgive the slight repetitiveness and teeniest bit of verbal superfluity for the brilliant ideas and the wonderful humour that show up in various forms throughout the book. You'll forgive the incongruity of the four-year-old who has a wonderfully developed imagination but the grammar of a two-year-old, for the depth and range of emotions the novel elicits. Yes, you'll also forgive the fly that sits on the page while you're reading, or most likely you just won't notice it.

Review of A thousand splendid suns by Khaled Hosseini

'There is a way to be good again' wrote Khaled Hosseini, the resounding refrain that gently suggests redemption, in the Kite Runner. Redemption, he has no need of, as thousands of readers will agree, but he sure has lived up to that statement with his second novel 'A Thousand Splendid Suns'. Is it good? Yes. Is it splendid? Most definitely. It could've been a story about two struggling housewives during a war. And it is. But Hosseini has teased out the various layers that carefully make the housewives and their struggle so finely, that you cannot but feel that this is a story of valiant heroism, silent matyrdom and the infinite love the human spirit is capable of. Not that they require it, but the backdrop of the war only make them starker.

A Thousand Splendid Suns is the story of two Afghani women divided only by age and upbringing. Laila, a teenager in love with her childhood friend Tariq, loses both parents to a stray rocket launched by the Mujahideen, and loses her love Tariq when he emigrates with his family to Pakistan to escape the war, and later to a lie. Left with a broken body, and a surprisingly resilient child in her womb, she becomes the third wife of her aging neighbour, Rasheed. Whom she shares with Mariam, his second wife who failed to give him children. Mariam is the illegitimate child of a rich businessman from the far away town Herat and had been given away to Rasheed years ago to erase all signs of his indiscretions. While they share the same neighbourhood in Kabul for years, indifferent to each others' existence, war makes them share a husband, a home and children, binding them together in a relationship that is nothing short of filial. What follows is struggle for survival not just in a war ridden city, but in a home that mirrors the terror and violence outside. A failed escape, two children and one lost child later, Laila's love, Tariq comes back in person to banish the lie about his death. When Rasheed finds out, war breaks out in full fury. And as in any war, there is death, sacrifice and guilt. The aftermath, of course, consists of reform, peace and a happy ending. But by the time we get to that, more than a tear is shed. And rightly so.

Hosseini makes us see an Afghanistan that until now has only been an item of general knowledge tucked away on the third page. He introduces us to Afghanis like they could be our kith and kin. He reveals to us their womens' subhuman existence the way no saas-bahu serial can claim to. Most of all, he makes us believe how fortunate we are to have the freedom we do, to walk the streets in the clothes we wear (though if you live in Karnataka, that might not last long), to live the lives we live. And what is most splendid is the carelessly masterful way in which he does it.

A somewhat rare phenomenon in which a male author writes about female protagonists, the only other who comes to mind now is Milan Kundera, Hosseini has managed to capture with great accuracy the infamously complicated female mind and its surprisingly simple workings. Perhaps the early morning quiet during which the novel was written helped him, perhaps his profession as a doctor did it, or maybe he is just one of those intuitively talented writers. My humble guess is the third. The classic narrative that goes from point A to point B in a ramrod straight line with no unnecessary detours, helps tell the story in a lucid, simple, and because of that, reminiscent manner. This is a style he has used in the Kite Runner, and yes, it works a second time round too.

His articulation is impeccable, language devoid of erudite ramification, and is pretty much free from cliche. Every sentence in the novel leads the story forward like a breath that you never really notice but nevertheless sustains precious life. But most of all, you marvel at his easy, spontaneous storytelling, that keeps you turning page after page ignoring pangs of hunger. But what is more wondrous is the pangs of separation you feel from the book even as you near its end.

If you haven't read A Thousand Splendid Suns yet, all I can say is I envy you the pleasure of reading it for the first time.

the last tear

Pitter patter pitter patter

Rain drops plop down

A drizzle at best

With a dash of salt

On a weathered palm

That shook many a paw

Waiting for the torrent

Of a few, measured drops

From a dried up spring

That once gave freely

Is now happily barren

The gland is tired and worn out

And now sterile from overuse

The pump is losing steam

From years of upheaval

The right brain is numb

From a genocide of cells

The twin windows parched

From the imminent drought

The monsoon has ended

The typhoon has passed

A cold numb has set in

Like chill on a corpse

happy resolution-free new year

to say that the new year 2008 started happy for me would be incorrect. because it was the old year that ended happy, giving way to a rather happy new year. of course, owing to the fact that we decided to go on a holiday a couple of days before the new year began. which in due course will no longer be new, but hopefully happy.

in coorg, with my family, i had a blast doing all the things i would’ve normally enjoyed doing. river crossing, rafting, eating, cuddling my little one to my heart’s content, sight seeing, driving, dancing, etc. (i won't explain the etc.). except sleeping that is. i have no complaints. except for the obscene amount we spent. yeah, there’s always an ‘except’. even in the happy, perfect new year.

of course, perfect means nothing. if i look outside the four rather small walls of my own life. the moment i read the paper (a rare moment indeed), i find out about the random deaths caused by some maniacal middle aged woman, for a sum of money, we casually spent in 2 days at coorg. then you hear of the people who literally danced their way to death as the dance floor caved into the swimming pool. the fact that a few loved ones just missed drowning to their deaths in that pool made the news enlarge my tightly stretched rose coloured walls, leaving an ugly crack in the process.

so is the new year a little less happy, apart from being a little less new? not sure, as death need not necessarily mean a bad thing, according to what a friend recently wrote rather eloquently, which i wish i had the permission to publish. but happiness is, i believe, what we all strive for, in general?

i made a resolution a few years back to be happy. my memory fails me as it does when i need it the most, but i’m quite positive i didn’t live up to the resolution. i then decided to make tangible, quantifiable resolutions so that at the end of the year, i could look back and pat myself on the back, or kick myself on the backside, as the case may be. but more importantly, a resolution that i would remember at the end of the year. such a resolution has happened but once. and i’m proud to say that i patted myself on the back at the end of that year, and every year since. new year resolutions do not end at the end of the year and are made to be for the rest of your life. after all, you can’t quit smoking on jan 1st 2007 and then start it again 365 days later, ‘cause, hey, that was last year’s resolution. unless, of course, your 2008 resolution is to start smoking.

but in general, barring hardened hedonists, resolutions are things that go against the grain of who we are and what we do. and who we are and what we do, are normally not things that we are very proud of. and hence, the need for resolutions, 'casue hey, that's what's 'right'. and that goes against the grain of what makes us happy. for the moment at least. people smoke ‘cause it gives them, what, pleasure? not really. it’s a habit that they’re addicted to. and addictions form because the habit is oh so good, and basically makes the person happy physically, mentally, emotionally, psychologically, metaphysically, or most often just in a plain silly way. and resolutions are made to correct that habit, and make one a little less happy. so why do people make resolutions to make one less happy on a ‘happy’ new year? so that they even out eventually and we can continue our boring, bland lives, perhaps?

p.s. i have made no resolutions this year and have decided not to screw up my perfectly happy/happily perfect life.

my memory. my loss.

it's ironical that i wrote what i wrote yesterday http://mememarathon.blogspot.com/2007/12/my-memory-truly-thing-of-past.html. because today is a day i must not forget. and i did. i forgot my dad's 5th death anniversary.

my memory: truly a thing of the past

my earliest memory is that of my first birthday. a distinguished friend of my parents gave me a rather large (and not just by a one year old’s standards) box of sweets. i don’t remember if i actually took it, but vividly remember the shape of the box. it was round, had an indented lid and it was light coloured.

i remember the time when i was four and the neighbour’s dog bit me. i remember eating bougainvillea petals off the street in ahmedabad. i remember mum buying nail polish at a store. i remember the drive back. i remember having an argument with our man servant. and the argument verbatim in my broken hindi. it was indignation on being snitched about to mum, and about how he had no right to interfere in my 4-year-old individual pursuits. i remember teaching my younger sister (3 years old then) to somersault on the cold, hard floor and gifting her with the scar on her forehead she bears till today. i remember my 4th birthday, when my elder sister dressed me up with silver eye shadow. i remember walking out of the bedroom into a room full of guests self-consciously like a bride. i remember wondering how one arrived at a date for a birthday. i remember asking my mum the reason for living the way we did. eating and sleeping alternately and to what end we did those deeds. and where it would all end. i remember my younger sister instigating us to use mum’s makeup (snow, my mum called it). and mum’s horrified look when she pulled us from behind the curtains painted in the stuff.

i remember crank calling strange people along with my sis (by now you must know that she was my partner in crime. or the other way round.) from the heavy telephone and speaking to them in our babyish gujrati. i remember drinking a glass of brandy that my dad generously offered me and dancing for an hour afterwards, much to my parents’ amusement. i remember the money my dad gave me for my splendid drunken performance. i remember my sister standing on a sofa claiming she was taller than i (and back then, i was taller than her). and i, trying to find some taller surface to stand on to outheight her. i was also simple and gullible back then.

i remember dancing gharbha on the streets during navratri nights. i remember my older friend from the opposite house trying to teach us hooligans ‘good manners’. i remember the ice cream another neighbour’s mum made. and how she waited for us to leave so her daughters wouldn’t have to share them with us. i remember the studio picture we took with our friends. i remember the identical maxis that my mum would get stitched for the both of us. i remember the world atlas being used to play ‘where is uruguay?’ ‘where is uganda?’, you get the picture. i remember flipping through my father’s highly prized collection of books to look at pictures. i remember underlining words randomly in my dad’s expensive books because i had seen him do that for a select few words.

but i don’t remember that i kept the milk to boil an hour back. not until i smell the burning vessel and milk. i don’t remember that i have to pick up diapers ‘cause my son’s running through them at the speed of light. i don’t remember to go sign the agreement for the expensive apartment we have bought. i don’t remember to share that information with my mother. i don’t remember to give the car for service. not until i find the need to use all my 49 kgs to press the accelerator. i don’t remember to wish a close friend on her birthday. i don’t remember that my husband went to work with a headache. i forget he’s got a back problem when i ask him lift the heavy grocery bag. or my increasingly heavy son for that matter.i don’t remember the name of a play i acted in.

it's possible that my failing memory is due to the fact that i’m growing older. it’s possible that my brain has decided that the supposedly important events in my life are not worth remembering. or that i am too self-centred and 'in the present' to recall the past. my brain shuts down when it comes to remembering the horrible things that i have done. or the unpleasant facts of life. i just can’t remember nasty incidents that happened to me in the recent past. but i do tend to remember some good times and brood over the fact that they don’t happen to me anymore. i’m living a parallel life inside my head. that’s more than a little removed from the reality around me. i'm just a little bit lost in space and time. i'm losing time, and losing space even faster (and not just around the waist). to a point where all the space i have is inside my head. and time has moved on at such a speed that the last few years are but a blur and feel like they happened to someone else. and to a large extent, they did happen to someone else. so the fact that i remember only things from my childhood only means that i am going back to being who i was when i was a child and am conveniently losing memory of the time when i wasn't me.

mum is going to love this theory.

exorcism in progress...

i’m just trying to look like i’m doing something sitting at work late night, while my art director is slogging it out right next to me. i’m hoping she can hear frantic typing of the keyboard and think that i’m writing some kickass copy for an accessory leaflet. and now that i have started typing, i suppose it makes sense for me to write about what the hell i’m doing here.

in advertising i mean. i hope you can see my eyes boring into the floor with shame while i say this. i’m almost waiting for the hand of god or someone like that to hold my hand and say, ‘it’s ok. people make mistakes. it takes all kinds to make the world. it’s a dirty job, i know. but someone needs to do it. when your turn comes in hell, i shall put in a good word, so you don’t burn for too long. just long enough to scald you bone deep and remind you till eternity the profession that you so passionately got into.’ ok, the last bit is not making me feel good. and i don’t even know how much truth is there in it. the passion bit i mean. true enough, that’s what made me jump headlong into advertising. also the fact that it seemed like the easiest thing to do. but i don’t know where the passion is anymore. and it’s not anywhere else let me assure you. to be true, the work still hasn’t become a chore. i still give it my best shot. but i’m not that kicked about burning the midnight oil shooting some strange beggar on the road to win an award that no one ever will remember a few months hence. but even that would be better than what i’m doing right now. trying to make leaflet copy out of some technical copy. not even original writing, mind you. now will you feel passion for that? so why is it that i’m doing this rather than watch my one year old play the most charming antics in the world?

the money? yeah, so the bucks have been trickling in. but not enough to match my increasingly expensive lifestyle. and we all know that the rate of inflow is always the same as the rate of outflow. and yeah, i could think of 10 better ways to make money at this point, when i’m almost brain dead. and selling my body isn’t one of them.

the awards? it would be wrong to say i haven’t seen them. but it would be even more wrong to say i have seen them. because hardly anyone ever knows or cares about the ones that i have won. to be honest, i didn’t know about them for a long time myself.
it feels petty to even hanker after them at this point. when i have started believing that the profession itself is unethical. yeah, it took me more than years to figure that one out. and coming from someone with so few ethics, that is saying something.

after thinking over it for about 2 and half seconds, i have come to the conclusion that i am staying put for only one reason. inertia. i have no bone in my body that is self-motivated to go and do something useful. sure i think about it a lot. even talk about it. even though it is to myself. but never, i mean never, have i done anything useful to earn money. sure i have done many things useful, but they never made me any money. and i know that it’s not impossible to do. we all know people who believe in what they’re doing and make a difference and manage to make a living out of it. it may be possible that i can do it some day as well. but not today. not without somebody behind me to shove me into that sea of goodness.

also because there’s something in me that doesn’t want to give up on the big dreams of making it big in the big, bad world of advertising. there. i have said it. there’s something in me that doesn’t die. it’s not hope that some day talent will win. it’s not even hope that some day talent will knock at my door and say ‘i am yours’. it’s the inherent badness that makes people like me chug on for years on depraved years in the profession. it’s taking me time to exorcise the badness that’s deeply entrenched in my system. and then i shall be ready for that dive into the unknown puritan sea.

here's to shamboy!

this post is a long due tribute to the person who initiated my blogging career (one that never really took off, i must add). i'm going to start by vowing to seriously start blogging regularly. and i don't mean with the regularity with which we meet up. i know you probably keep dropping in to my page to see if i have updated my blog, and more importantly my thoughts. let me assure you, my thoughts are always in motion(backward motion sometimes, but still in motion). it may even be possible that you have stopped looking into my page giving up on me. so i'm gonna make sure i email you this post and con you into more page visits for the next few years.

a tribute is probably not a good time to tell you this, but i must also confess that i don't drop into your page as often as i used to. www.shamiraj.com (i miss shampoo factor though). another repercussion of my rather busied domestic life but more due to my lazy writing life. i also don’t write much at work if that makes you feel any better.

this is probably a good time to talk about how life has changed since the time i started blogging. i got married, then moved like 4 jobs, moved to another city, had a baby. you found a girlfriend, broke up, got your sis married off like a good mallu boy, found another girlfriend (about whom of course i had no clue for a long time), got married, moved to another city (thankfully mine, though i don’t know how that’s affected both our lives), moved jobs, became a globe trotter. and of course, in all this time, i have posted maybe 10 times? i know it’s nothing to be proud of. but then i just finished listing all the things i am proud of.

so here’s to you, shami, and a friendship that has lasted 7 long years, thanks to the internet. there’s little chance that that will change. though my blogging pattern certainly will. and that’s a promise.