Lupus in Flight

IT ARRIVED!!

2012-05-26T16:50:00.000+01:00

A package arrived today with the hottest sunshine of the year... from Eire...

The brightest day of the year completely obscured the inscription I was trying to show off!!

MARIAN KEYES MARIAN KEYES MARIAN KEYES!!!!
So there I was, on twitter, recommending 'The Princess Bride' to Marian Keyes, best-selling Irish author of fabulous books, when she replies saying she's never seen it. I offered to send it of course, but privacy and all that... anyway, there was a silence for a while. A couple of weeks later, Marian Keyes goes on a hunt for me - me!! - to find the Lupusgirl who recommended the lovely film. And then I was found. And Marian asked how I was, and I said I was off into hospital and she said, "Can I do anything? Anything at all? Signed copy of a book?" And I says, "Oooh yes, please!" Shameless, I know. But this may NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!!!!

Isn't she lovely?? She manages to sprinkle gold dust over our lives from a house in Dublin. She loves chocolate and cake and high heels. She understands suffering. She values kindness above everything. Only the kindest of people could send a signed copy of a book just to wish me well. And not just any book - but, on her authority, her own personal favourite.... D'you remember when I wrote about not writing to Eva Ibbotson? I feel as though Marian has given me a chance to say thank you to a beloved author in the here and now, so I'll never be haunted by ingratitude again!
So just to be clear...

MARIAN, I LOVE YOU!!!!!

THANKYOUUUU!!!!!

June the first, a bright summer's evening, a Monday. I've been flying over the streets and houses of Dublin and now, finally, I'm here. I enter through the roof. Via a skylight I slide into a living room and right away I know it's a woman who lives here...

(from 'The Brightest Star in the Sky')

HOME AGAIN, TO THE SUN!

2012-05-24T17:03:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I scoffed chocolate cake and watched the sun play in the fields beyond the hospital grounds. I nosily asked questions of a young woman just starting out on the same treatment... her heart was beating at 120, her bp was dropping, hot flushing - I couldn't help myself - I marched over, trailing my infusion, and said, "Don't let them increase the rate!" "But I feel so guilty," said she, "it'll take ages at a slow rate!" "Hmmf," said I. "So what? I am always the last in here, because I insist they go slow." I looked beadily at her husband. "Does she need to rush back?" "No, no, no!" he cried, hastily, warned by the martial gleam in my eyes. "She can take as long as she likes!" "So," says I. "All settled then." When the nurse bustled over to change the rate again ("Shall we increase to 400?"), my new friend said, "I'd like you to leave the rate at 300, please."
I gave her a thumbs up and shimmied back to my chair. Who knew I could be so bossy??

Home again, mes amies, to the bright, hot, divinity of a summer's day. The morning after my first infusion is always perfect. I dragged my yoga mat out into the garden and did a single Surya Namaskar - any more and I might have found myself back on the wards, but a single salutation to the sun was my gratitude.

Later on today, when my lymph nodes gnarl and gnaw, when the fevers start and my heart kicks up an unruly beat, I shall remember the deliciousness of a single moment. I don't mind the pattern of sun and shade. I hold them both in the palm of my hand.

Father, who is baking his tootsies in the sun, has just bellowed for a coke float (vanilla ice-cream scoops in a glass of coke - it's an Indian thing)...

Ah... we sure know how to live it up, here in the Shires...

p.s. have just received comments on the coke float not being an Indian thing - a universal thing, in fact. I stand, happily, corrected.

ON A PIECE OF GLASS IN OXFORD

2012-05-22T13:10:00.000+01:00

Some months ago I wrote to a poet called Dorothy McCarthy - I had read one of her poems online and loved it. I wrote to tell her so... she, in turn, read mine and recommended me to a glassworks artist, who was looking for poetry to weave into her glass. A few weeks ago, Flora de Ospina exhibited these works in Oxford, and sold a piece with my words crafted in.

Imagine, somewhere in Oxford, my words on a stranger's wall..

Dorothy belongs to a poetry group in Oxford and asked me to come join them today in a poetry reading on the works of German artist Daniel Eltinger - but that was not possible - hospital early tomorrow morning for my first infusion of Rituximab.

Poetry on leaves, poetry in glass, whatever next? :)

THE RETREAT

2012-05-20T14:50:00.000+01:00

At the foot of the birch,

rain gathers the breeze

and birds arrive to speak -

falling silent only when

the church bell

sounds her turn.

Summer seduced us yesterday,

but this morning

when we woke -

the blackbird sighed

and sang of rain

in mourning, lilting tones.

Close I get, and closer yet,

to the blackbird's orange beak;

He holds his ground,

the counsel stays -

I, flightless, retreat.

images from dakini's bliss

and dave stewart album

On A Rainy Day in Shelford, I...

2012-05-14T21:21:00.001+01:00

... took photographs like a tourist... of the Church and graveyard..

...of wisteria and honeysuckle clad thatched cottages..

...and then, in celebration of the Queen's Jubilee, I saw this..

Quite alarming... this isn't My Telephone Box, by the way... this belongs to the village before mine...

...but very imaginative, don't you think?? Note the little interview tacked on at the bottom...

...but then, and this is what I really wanted to share.... someone has chirpily celebrated the birthday of our (my) telephone box... I meant to get a photo as soon as I saw it but then, one thing and another... so the balloons look a little like Eeyore's balloons after Pooh and Piglet had at them... still... Happy Birthday to imagination and unexpected gifts everywhere!

CHASING THE SUN - Second Installment

2012-05-13T18:38:00.000+01:00

For all your lovely comments on my screenplay - thank you! And since you asked for more, here it is :) The next ten minutes hot off the press. Well... alright, the only next ten minutes that exist.. I haven't actually written any more than this!

INT. BEDROOM, HUGH’S COTTAGE - NIGHT.

World maps on wall, children’s movie posters, packed bookshelves. Hugh, on unmade bed, looks like he is working but close-up reveals him rifling through digital photographs of Olivia - with Hugh on graduation day, with James at the beach, with girlfriends in Venice, with Hugh at parties, dressed formally - a handsome couple. In contrast now, Hugh unshaven, dark hair askew, books, papers, strewn untidily across bed. Suddenly alerted to a sound, listens for it again. Thrusting laptop away, walks quickly out of room, down the stairs, fills glass of water at kitchen sink and rushes back up, into James’ bedroom.

JUMP CUT TO:

Fire. Riot being ‘controlled’ by British forces. Chaos. Screams. We see the rioters closely now. Young students, bearing Indian flags, hastily crafted signs - some protesting for peace rather than partition, some promising equal violence in return. 1947 made visible via newspaper cuttings pasted onto signs. Focus on a beautiful 1940’s version of Lara. Clear blue-grey eyes swimming with tears. She has been shot. She is disbelieving at first, and then, heartbroken. Looks up into the eyes of a British officer, the 1940’s version of Hugh, watching her, helpless. As she closes her eyes, he reaches out for her, shakes her shoulders.

BACK TO:

Hugh shaking James awake. Switches on bedside lamp to reveal James, struggling out of duvet, slightly sweaty; he reaches out automatically for the glass of water, gulps it down.

HUGH

Was it the accident again?

James shakes his head violently.

HUGH (CONT’D)

Do you want to talk about it?

JAMES

It was scary. There was a lady. Someone I... She got shot. There was blood and everything.

HUGH

Did she look like...?

Nudges the edge of a photograph on the bedside table. Beautiful Olivia, her arms around a younger James. James doesn’t look, merely shakes his head again. Camera pans around James’ room. A strong interest in India goes some way towards explaining nightmare: map of India on wall, small Persian carpet, cricket gear, posters of Tendulkar and Khan. A tidy room for a little boy. Perhaps unnaturally so.

JAMES

Dad? You know Emma?

HUGH

Yes, I know Emma. She’s 12 and knows everything. Just like your Aunty Bess was at her age. Why? What’s she said now?

JAMES

She said... she said Mummy had... She said that Mummy was having an affair before she died. With the Hungarian.

HUGH

Christ! What does she know about the Hungarian? I mean... I mean, no! I mean, look, James...

JAMES

I remember him. He was in the car with her when she... when they...

HUGH

(desperately)

You know book 4?

James looks confused.

HUGH (CONT’D)

(slowly)

I was thinking about a trip... for research. I was thinking of going... to India.

(at James’ expression)

Just thinking about it.

JAMES

Dad. Please. I have to come with you. I have to!

HUGH

What about these nightmares?

JAMES

Maybe they’ll get better? Please? You always go without me.

HUGH

(taken aback at accusation, but rallies)

Look, we need to really think about this. Sort stuff out. Visas. Immunisations. Let’s talk about it with Granny Grampa this weekend, alright?

JAMES

Dad, seriously, please? For my birthday?

HUGH

The clincher! Come on, try and get some sleep again.

JAMES

Can I read a bit first?

Hugh stretches out and reaches for a book lying on the floor, part of a neatly stacked pile. An Adrian Mole story. James, safe and yawning now, snuggles back with book. Close on Hugh’s face, creased with concern.

CUT TO:

EXT. GROUNDS OF LARGE MANOR HOUSE, GLOUCESTER - DAY.

On a bench, Hugh and niece EMMA (12) are cheering on a cricket match between James, his cousins RICHARD (7) and THOMAS (5) and grandfather PETER (63). Hugh and Emma are mid-conversation.

HUGH

He’s nine years old!

EMMA

Nearly ten.

HUGH

He’s too young to understand! You’re too young! How do you know anyway?

EMMA

I hear things.

Hugh gives his niece a look, rises from bench, shaking head in disbelief, and starts walking towards house, Emma in tow.

EMMA (CONT’D)

The point is, Uncle Hugh, that you need to move on. Find your destiny.

HUGH

Where do you get this stuff?

EMMA

Oprah. Duh.

HUGH

The point is, we were doing fine until you decided to educate your nine year old cousin.

EMMA

Nearly ten. And the point is he’s still having nightmares...

Her voice fades away as they enter the house, and head for the kitchen.

INT. KITCHEN, LARGE MANOR HOUSE - DAY.

Inside, Indian theme continues, with various objet d’arts, antique miniature paintings of British horsemen, forts, temples. Connection to Raj via ancestors firmly established. Hugh’s mother VERA (61), sister Bess, and brother-in-law TONY (37) are in the kitchen. Vera is making tea for everyone. Hugh moodily watches his son play through the kitchen window.

VERA

All I’m saying darling, is that it isn’t the end of the world, him knowing. Children are resilient. Look at the two of you, and you too, Tony darling - you all turned out just fine.

HUGH

Yes, because you weren’t busy having affairs through our childhood!

BESS

(sotto voce)

And you’re still alive.

VERA

I heard that - terribly insensitive of you, to both Hugh and your dear old Mum - and in the presence of your child!

(to Emma)

Darling, could you run upstairs and find my glasses?

EMMA

(severely)

You’re trying to get rid of me.

VERA

Only for a little while, I promise.

Emma reluctantly obeys, dragging feet.

VERA (CONT’D)

Anyway, how do you know I wasn’t playing around? In fact, I’ve been meaning to tell you..

HUGH

Not funny, Mother.

VERA

Oh don’t be so po faced, my love - affairs happen all the time! Tell him, Tony. Enlighten my poor deluded boy as to the ways of the world.

BESS

Yes. Do tell us, Tony.

TONY

Cheers, Mother. In Law.

(turning to Bess)

I know nothing! Nothing!

(to Hugh)

I’ll tell you everything you need to know, later.

BESS

Rat.

(pinching the first cup of tea)

But speaking of les affaires de la famille, wasn’t there one in ours? On Dad’s side? I remember Granny mentioning it once... you remember her way... Je sais des choses... Je connaître les secrets du passé...

She waves her hands about, like a gypsy fortune teller. Emma, who has rushed back, breathless, hands Vera her glasses. She is in time to hear this latest enthralling snippet; it is clear from where her source of information derives.

VERA

Oh yes, must have been a very interesting time in old Ashton’s life, pre your grandmother. Adrienne was always dying to talk to me about it. But she was very respectful to your grandfather. Ahh. Those were the days...

(opening the door and yelling to her husband Peter)

YOUR TEA’S GOING COLD! COME AND GET IT!

PETER

(faint voice from garden)

Am keeping score, my angel, can you bring it out here please?

VERA

NO!

(shutting door)

Now, where was I?

HUGH

Respectful wives.

VERA

Ah yes. India. Well I wish I could tell you more, my darling, but Peter never asked his mother what she meant and...

Peter and the boys tumble in, riotous flinging off of pads, gloves and discussion of cricket scores. Peter rescues the last mug of tea.

PETER

Did I hear my name?

VERA

We were talking about Ashton darling, and his mysterious Indian affair.

JAMES

What affair? In India?

PETER

Really my love, you can be so terribly indiscreet.

(whispers to James)

Granny’s losing her marbles.

VERA

I am not!

(but taking the hint)

Alright my lovely ones, off you go, wash your hands. And feet!

THOM

Our feet aren’t dirty!!

EMMA

(supercilious)

Granny’s joking, Thom.

THOM

But...

Bess gathers the boys together, hustles them out of the room. James gives Hugh a searching look before he leaves.

VERA

(before Peter can say anything)

Yes alright, alright. Completely thoughtless of me. Sorry, Hugh.

HUGH

No, it’s pretty fascinating actually. Quite relevant in a way. Am thinking of sending Casper off to India for one of his travels. So, heading out there myself. And maybe taking James with me. What do you think?

Bess comes back in trailed by James.

BESS

Sorry, Hugh. I’ve settled the others in front of Pirates, but this one..

She shrugs helplessly.

JAMES

What did Great Grandpa Ashton do?

EMMA

(simultaneously to James)

You’re going to India!

The cousins look at each other excitedly.

HUGH

No idea. No one seems to know anything, which is absolutely typical of the Trevelyans.

(pointedly to Emma)

Plenty of gossip, no substance. Right. Now what about that delicious looking spongey cakey thing..

JAMES

Grampa’s got substance - he’ll tell me!

PETER

(visibly moved)

Oh. Dear boy. But I must disappoint. Father loved India, but never spoke to me about a lady friend.

BESS

(sniggering)

‘Lady friend’?

EMMA

Uncle Hugh! This is perfect! You can find the lady friend and your destiny! Two birds, one stone!

TONY

Yes, Hugh. Go find that lady friend.

HUGH

So, the general consensus, positive?

BESS

Completely mad...

TONY

But brilliant.

VERA

And it’s your birthday soon - a tenth birthday is no small matter.

JAMES

That’s what I said!

PETER

Wish I could come too.

EMMA

Let’s all go!

Hugh is alarmed at suggestion of whole family traipsing off to India, but smiles at their enthusiasm. He exchanges a look with James. The stirring of adventure lights their eyes, uniting them properly for the first time.

CUT TO:

INT. AIRPLANE - NIGHT.

James in the window seat, fast asleep. Hugh, in seat beside him, watches him sleep. In Hugh’s hands, a thin sheaf of letters, slightly yellowed with age. He opens one and begins to read.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. CORRIDOR, MANOR HOUSE, GLOUCESTER - NIGHT.

Hugh, standing in doorway of bedroom, watching James sleep. PETER comes down the corridor.

PETER

(whispering)

Is he asleep?

HUGH

Exhausted with all that excitement. What’s up?

PETER

Got something to show you.

Hugh gives James a last look. There is vulnerability, a grief still alive, in Hugh’s eyes. He follows his father down the corridor to a study, densely populated with bookshelves, photographs. A portrait of ASHTON TREVELYAN, familiar figure now, takes up space on one of the walls. Peter unlocks a drawer and removes the yellowed sheaf of letters.

PETER (CONT’D)

Told a small lie earlier.

He hands the letters to Hugh.

PETER (CONT’D)

Father’s letters - to someone who didn’t want them. He sent the first in 1947, and the last in 1950.

The letters are all stamped ‘Return to Sender’. The recipient is D. SHROFF; the address, BOMBAY, INDIA. Hugh unfolds the first and begins to read aloud.

HUGH

'Dearest DD, now that I am about to leave the mountains for the fenlands of the ‘shire, I suppose I shall spend the rest of my life chasing the sun...' Quite the poet, wasn’t he? Who was DD?

PETER

Well, I’ve always wondered. I thought... since you mentioned going to India... maybe you could trace this D. Shroff?

HUGH

Do you think this was her? The one that got away?

PETER

Well, it was him that got away. Those were terrible times. Maybe she...

The word ‘died’ weighs heavy in the air. Peter moves toward the door, ready for bed now.

HUGH

It’s all a bloody business, isn’t it? I mean, what’s the point of any of it?

Peter makes no response.

HUGH (CONT’D)

(as though compelled)

Do you think we’ll be alright? James, I mean. Do you think James will be alright?

PETER

I think you’ll both be alright. Nothing like an adventure and a bit of mystery to solve. Good night, Hugh.

HUGH

If Olivia hadn’t - died - I wouldn’t have taken her back. Not if she’d begged.

PETER

Well, she’s gone now. Time to take a leap of faith, Hugh.

He speaks gently, and coming back into the room, gives Hugh’s shoulder a light squeeze. He leaves. Hugh turns to the portrait.

HUGH

Well, I wouldn’t. Not if she begged.

The portrait’s piercing eyes give nothing away. They become more brightly lit and against a growing sound-track of Indian music, merge into the bright heat of a merciless Indian sun.

EXT. SAHAR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MUMBAI - LATE MORNING.

Morning sun beats down on Hugh and James as they stand, almost shell shocked, outside Sahar International Airport. Feroze, wreathed in smiles, sorts out their luggage. Jostled by fast moving bodies, Hugh thinks he sees a girl, with a pair of blue-grey eyes and a mop of soft curls, amid the chaos. Tries to place her. But there are too many people and he is too tired. Passes hand across eyes.

EXT. MUMBAI HIGHWAY - NOON.

Car travelling full pelt down connecting highway from airport to inner city. Mumbai flashes past. Huge advertisements. Colonies of slum dwellers. Cows meandering. Sudden downpour of seasonal rain. Hugh, in the front seat, looks back at James, who is quite shattered, overwhelmed by everything.

CUT TO:

MONTAGE:
Hugh and James in a holiday sequence of exotic and banal discoveries. Imprint of the Raj obvious in names, architecture, linguistic play on signs and posters. James ecstatically playing cricket with Feroze’s sons; finally - the real thing. Hugh exploring libraries, museums, old British clubs. Discovering the city by himself. Taking notes.

INT/EXT. FEROZE’S FLAT, MUMBAI - NIGHT.

James asleep, sharing a room with Feroze’s sons. Camera tours flat briefly, pausing by Feroze near drinks cabinet, pouring hefty whiskies. Strains of sitar accompany us as we focus on Hugh leaning against balcony railing, looking out at Queen’s Necklace - Mumbai’s skyline lit at night. Lost in perusal of one of his grandfather’s letters, as Feroze approaches.

FEROZE

Well?

HUGH

Pinching myself.

FEROZE

A toast, then. To inspiration. Of every kind.

HUGH

What’s that supposed to mean? You aren’t going to introduce me to someone, are you? Look where your last introduction got me. Widowed, heartbroken and becoming crustier by the day. Probably the world’s worst father too.

FEROZE

Desist with the violins, Hugh. Not one of my kids looks at me the way James looks at you. The boy hero worships you. Now, let’s have a gander at that address again.

Hugh hands him the letter.

FEROZE (CONT’D)

Churchgate. Close enough. Will take you tomorrow, no problem. Once you’ve sorted out these family affairs, no more procrastination. Then, once the book is on its way, we can get to the real business.

HUGH

Which is...

FEROZE

Finding your destiny, man.

HUGH

If I hear that phrase one more...

FEROZE

Drink up, drink up yaar. This is India, baby. If you can’t find your fate here, there’s really no hope. Cheers!

EXT. DEVONSHIRE HOUSE, MUMBAI - DAY.

Feroze, nursing hangover, drops Hugh and James outside a beautifully maintained building. Turns car round and peels off in cloud of dust. Leafy residential area. Many-storeyed houses have names like Somerset and Sandringham Villa. An old-worldly feel, in contrast to the usual Mumbai mania. They enter building. An ancient lift-man escorts them inside a rickety lift.

INT. OUTSIDE CLOSED FRONT DOOR, DEVONSHIRE HOUSE - DAY.

Plaque beside front doorbell reads D. SHROFF. James looks nervous, but Hugh, taking a deep breath, rings doorbell. Door is opened by Lara. A moment of stunned surprise. Then

JAMES

Lara!

HUGH

You!

(to James)

What? How do you...?

LARA

But how did you...?

Amid the confusion, an elderly woman appears behind Lara. She is DINA SHROFF (80). She wears a sari, the old fashioned Parsi way, eyes alight with intelligence and humour. Humour that dims on closer sight of Hugh, replaced by fear and the beginnings of tears.

DINA

Ashton?

She reaches out an arm, unsteady on her feet. Hugh rushes forward to catch her.

CHASING THE SUN

2012-05-08T21:18:00.000+01:00

I thought I would share the creative river running through me, which at this moment, is in the form of a screenplay... here are the first ten minutes of the film :)

FADE IN.

Opening credits inked in by pen, against faded sepia postcards of British occupation in India; days of the Raj through a romantic lens. Sepia images turn to colour; cool blue of Himalayas, brick red of Vice Regal Lodge. Card reads: SIMLA 1947. Camera pans into a room in the Lodge. We see a young Englishman, beautifully neat in uniform, sitting at a desk, writing a letter. He looks up and we catch a glimpse of his striking face, dark hair, grim expression. As he begins to write again, we focus on his hand writing the film title. We pull back, and see the hand now belongs to a remarkably similar looking young man, but setting has changed. Card reads: CAMBRIDGE 2012.

INT. WATERSTONES BOOKSHOP, CAMBRIDGE - DAY.

HUGH TREVELYAN (33), tall, handsome, slightly scruffy, signs book with a flourish. Tables are piled high with his latest bestseller about the adventures of young time travelling hero, Casper Smart. TOBY (8), a fan, is recipient of this final signed copy.

TOBY

When will you be writing the next one, Hugh?

HUGH

Give me a chance, Toby! Read this one first.

TOBY

(smug)

Already read it.

Hugh smiles, but appears slightly stressed by idea of next book. His mobile begins to ring; with quick waves all round to staff, grabs jacket, scarf, heads out of bookshop and onto quiet cobbled streets of CAMBRIDGE. Early spring day. Hugh wraps scarf round neck against brisk breeze as he answers.

HUGH (CONT’D)

Hugh here.

MATCH CUT TO:

INT/INT. CAMELBOOKS OFFICE, MUMBAI/LIBRARY - EARLY EVENING/MORNING.

FEROZE CAMA (33), children’s editor at Camelbooks Publishing House, one-time university friend of Hugh’s is puckish, cheery sort. Comfortably ensconced behind desk, his eyes devour the cup of steaming chai being delivered by obsequious minion.

FEROZE

Hugh? Where are you man?

Hugh moves phone slightly away from ear. Feroze, typically Indian, barks conversation as though from very far away.

HUGH

Rosy? You old goat, it’s been a while. I just finished a book signing. Where are you?

FEROZE

Where else? Where the sun always shines and where no-one, I am glad to say, calls me Rosy. In fact, they call me Children’s Editor Sahib of Camelbooks.

HUGH

My new Indian editor is you? I don't know whether to congratulate you or cry.

FEROZE

Good one. Moving on. So, another book signing. All very well my friend, but have you started book 4 yet?

HUGH

Jesus. No! Maybe it’s time Casper got Smart and settled down.

FEROZE

Very good! You made another little joke! Now, get serious. There are 196 countries in the world - Casper’s been to 3.

HUGH

Ever heard of writer’s block?

FEROZE

Now you’re really joking, aren’t you? Hugh? Hugh!

Hugh is silent. Lost in thought. Two cyclists whiz past, laughing. A young man and woman, college students.

FEROZE (CONT’D)

Tell me what you need man. I am here for you. Anything. Name it.

HUGH

I need inspiration, my friend.

FEROZE

Inspiration for a time travelling hero... hmm, which country am I in again?

Hugh is walking along backs of Cambridge colleges - contrast with Mumbai outside Feroze’s office very striking.

HUGH

I’ll think about it.

FEROZE

Do more than think! West Road Library. Research. One million resources!

Hugh shakes his head and rings off. A road sign indicates he is in fact very close to West Road Library.

INT. CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY, WEST ROAD - DAY.

Hugh scribbles notes in moleskin journal. Scruffy as ever, but change of clothes indicates this is different day. Around him, heavy volumes of British-Indian history. He is in a quiet reading room, seemingly empty but for himself. His mobile phone begins to ring. Snatches it up, but not before hearing a shocked intake of breath. Looks around for owner of sound as he speaks.

HUGH

What?

MATCH CUT TO:

INT/INT. AN ART STUDIO/LIBRARY - DAY.

BESS

(hurt)

Well. Excuse me for calling to check that my little brother is alright. Excuse me for...

HUGH

(whispering)

Am in the library. Trying to work!

BESS (35), attractive, dark hair pinned haphazardly, carries on pottering around her studio. Her paintings are rather flamboyant, in the style of Georgia O’Keefe.

BESS

Have you given any more thought to what I said?

HUGH

(still looking around, but no longer whispering)

I am not in need of therapy, Bess. It’s been almost two years for God’s sake. I am, as my lovely niece would say, ‘over it’.

A distinct ‘hmmf’ heard in the reading room. HUGH whips head round but sees no-one.

BESS

But have you started seeing other women? No. Clearly you haven’t forgiven Olivia, and clearly you need help. That’s all I’m saying.

The reading room is a hushed, hallowed altar to books and quite dimly lit. Hugh gets up and starts to prowl around. The desks have private screens to block off prying eyes.

HUGH

And all I’m saying is she isn’t here to say she’s sorry for having an affair and then dying! I mean, who does that? Who goes and dies in the middle of a steamy affair? It’s so - so - counterproductive!

Peering round a screen, Hugh finds his quarry. She is LARA MISTRY (22), pretty, petite, a student. She is of Indian origin, a Parsi. Blue-grey eyes and soft curls belie the sanctimonious expression on her face. She points to the little sign on her desk: PLEASE SWITCH OFF ALL MOBILE PHONES.
Hugh narrows his eyes, embarrassed and annoyed.

BESS

Hello? Hello Hugh? Are you still there?

HUGH

Yes, still here Bess. But the mobile phone police are out in force. Must go.

Hugh ostentatiously switches off phone. Lara smiles sweetly, mimes a little clap. Hugh returns to own desk, looking harried, mussing his hair in frustration. We notice he still wears his wedding band. Tugs at it, in a natural familiar way, but makes no move to remove it. His mobile comes alive, again. Sounds shockingly loud. He hears Lara’s ‘shhh’ even as he snatches phone up again.

HUGH (CONT’D)

(almost hissing)

Yes-s-s?

MATCH CUT TO:

INT/INT. CAMELBOOKS, MUMBAI/LIBRARY, CAMBRIDGE - MORNING/EVENING

FEROZE

Easy tiger. Where are you?

HUGH

(as though biting the words off)

West Road Library.

FEROZE

I could kiss you! Progress?

HUGH

Not even close, Feroze. I feel stifled.

Lara, making a terrific show, begins to gather together all her books and papers, preparing to hustle out of the reading room.

HUGH (CONT’D)

How can I write about India when conditions here are so... unfavourable.

Lara stops, widens eyes at mention of ‘India’. Hugh smirks. She catches herself, and nose in air, stalks off, determined not to be interested.

HUGH (CONT’D)

Like I said. Unfavourable.

Feroze takes sip of chai. Heavenly. Looks out of office window to chaos of Mumbai. Chasm between modern and ancient evoked by bullock cart slowly trundling down street. Behind it, a Ferrari inches along, driver honking madly. Feroze opens window and is assaulted by sounds of human traffic.

FEROZE

(shouting)

You hear that? Just come here! Write here, man! The juices will flow, deadlines will be met - win win!

HUGH

You seem to be forgetting a small problem.

FEROZE

(batting away fly, and also problem)

If you mean James, bring him along! You’ll stay with us of course. My three can’t wait to meet him. Win win!

A rather stern looking gentleman makes his way towards Hugh, who ducks his head down.

HUGH

Got to go, Feroze. Phone police.

He rings off. The man seats himself. Only another reader. In Mumbai, point made, Feroze swiftly shuts window. Peace reigns in his office again. Relaxes once more with cup of chai.

INT. RECEPTION DESK, LIBRARY - LATER.

LARA

Look, could you please check again? I don’t really care about the other volumes. That’s the one I need.

LIBRARY RECEPTIONIST

See that man? I’m afraid he just checked out all three volumes.

LARA

(turning, calling to retreating figure)

Wait!

Hugh turns obediently, but when he sees who the speaker is, points to nearest sign that reads QUIET PLEASE and puts finger to lips.

HUGH

Sh-h-h.

EXT. LIBRARY STEPS - DAY.

Hugh whistles as he makes his way down the stairs, laden with books. His mood much improved. Almost collides into a young man rushing up the stairs. Tall, very precisely dressed, natty in tweeds; fresh faced HARRY VERNON (22), apologises profusely.

HARRY

Sorry, sorry! Tearing hurry! Late! Lara!

This last directed at Lara, who has emerged out of the revolving doors, still looking cross. Harry dashes up the stairs and embraces Lara. Hugh looks on, less amused now, then whistles louder on his way down the steps. Resolutely does not look back at young love behind him.

CUT TO:

MONTAGE:
River running through Grantchester - The Orchard Tea Garden, green deck chairs below early blossoming trees; darker tones of Byron’s Pool, Rupert Brooke statue on front lawn of J. Archer’s house. A peaceful writer’s haven.

INT. KITCHEN, HUGH’S COTTAGE, GRANTCHESTER - EARLY EVENING.

Hugh, frowning, taps away at computer, deleting lines as soon as he writes them. Coffee cups half drunk, slice of toast curling, hard. JAMES TREVELYAN (9) pokes his head round the kitchen door.

JAMES

Dad? D’you want a game?

No answer. James enters, dragging cricket bat and pads inside, propping them up against the Aga.

JAMES (CONT’D)

Da-ad?

HUGH

What?

Tearing away from screen, Hugh’s eyes still glazed with concentration.

JAMES

Never mind.

He skulks away. We follow his small slumped shoulders outside.

EXT. GRANTCHESTER VILLAGE - EARLY EVENING.

A figure already leaning over bridge when James arrives. We only see her back, and a mop of curly hair. She is crumbling bread into the river. James hooks arms over the parapet mirroring her. She shares the bread with him. They watch the swans for a while. She turns and we see her profile.

LARA

Hello.

JAMES

Hullo. D’you live here?

LARA

Sort of. In town. This is much prettier. I come here for inspiration. You?

JAMES

I live here. S‘kind of boring. Can you play cricket?

LARA

I think so, but I’ve no-one to play with.

JAMES

Oh. Don’t you have brothers and sisters?

LARA

Nope. And no parents either. Or even a dog!

JAMES

I’m an orphan too. Well, sort of. A half orphan.

LARA

Sorry to hear that. I was only 3 when mine died.

JAMES

Then who looks after you?

LARA

Well, I’m quite old now, so I suppose, no-one. My grandmother’s still in India. I just study a lot. I’ve been to a lot of schools. I’m really clever now.

This last said a little tragically. A sudden shower of rain. They laugh and start to run towards shelter of bus stop. Lara unlocks her bicycle.

JAMES

Can you come tomorrow?

LARA

Can’t, I’m sorry. I’ve tons of work but it was nice to meet you.

JAMES

How about day after?

LARA

There’s an old Indian saying my grandmother loves. If it’s meant to be, it will be.

JAMES

My Grampa says that too!

LARA

See? Then it must be true. I’m Lara by the way.

JAMES

James.

They shake hands solemnly. James watches Lara cycle off into the distance, then turns towards home. Both cut slightly lonely figures, in their own way.

image prompt at the mag

RAINSPARK

2012-04-29T21:50:00.000+01:00

All day long,
the ceaseless rain;

All day long
this sweet refrain:

He walked this way once,
surely we will meet again?

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012

A poet wrote - 'The tears I shed yesterday have become rain'. These past few days, England has seen more rain than she usually does at this time. While the gardens are joyful, the storms wreak havoc in people's lives. A few days ago marked the passing of someone very special, and the rain echoes the tears of those he left behind. But everyday, for a brief spark, a ray of sun pours through and suddenly, the world is clearer, brighter, lovelier than ever.

images from here and here

Where Do My Poems Go?

2012-04-20T18:11:00.000+01:00

While I have come to know, recognise and love the readers who comment regularly on my blog, I cannot help but be curious about Heilbronn, Baden-Württemberg and Barreiro, Setubal. I am most particularly fascinated by Albacete, Castilla-La Mancha! Who, I wonder, are you?

It is such a pleasure knowing, thanks to blog widgets and gadgets, that Tangerang, Jawa Barat and Petaling Jaya, Wilayah Persekutuan visit me regularly. But such a mystery too, about you, Damascus, Dimashq, you, Braintree, Massachusetts, and you, Floirac, Aquitaine.

Perhaps a mystery you shall all remain. But today I want to thank you from San Antonio, Texas to Canberra, Australian Capital Territory, from Arak, Markazi to Bernardsville, New Jersey, from Atlanta, Georgia to Battle, East Sussex. Never was geography more pleasurable than here and now, with my poems arriving on your computer screens. Thankyou for reading me, all of you.

OBEISANCE

2012-04-18T16:39:00.011+01:00

Her face always existed,
the poetry came later;

When the leaf finally fell,
his heart bounded to catch her.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
Red Roofs by Marc Chagall, courtesy magpie tales

I love the stories flung into Marc Chagall's paintings - always something new and fascinating to discover. There are love stories here, odes and supplications, but arcing over everything, a tree, a forest. Which is how I niftily weave in the fact that, on retreat, I took my five mindfulness trainings, and, in the tradition of Thich Nhat Hanh's lineage, was bestowed with the name Radiant Forest of the Heart :) I think it is a good name... forests are lovely, dark and fathomless, lit inside by wild, magical creatures - I can work well with such a name! Pure Ocean Heart or Perfect Serenity might have been slightly harder to live up to!!

Catching the Flower

2012-04-12T01:01:00.002+01:00

The flower wants
to be seen
for a while

Because the flower
knows
she will die.

I wrote these lines while sitting with Thay Thich Nhat Hanh, and wishing for his eyes to fall on me, and acknowledge my presence. All things are impermanent but occasionally, when a dream is coming true, you want it to be perfect. And it was - twice I sat in the front row during the dharma talks, and Thay, who speaks softly, asked us to come closer, sit closer. We obliged with great alacrity! I could not believe my good fortune. Right beneath the Zen Master's feet! If he had thrown the flower, I would have caught it. Except he wouldn't throw a flower.

I am home now, and everything looks even more beautiful, more vividly clear, after six days of mindfulness energy harnessed by nearly 900 Buddhas-to-be. The young monastics, who are all charming and savvy, joked that they have no Indian nuns as yet. There is a space available for me... What do you think? I wonder what sort of nun I would make. Hopeless, probably. I'd be like Maria in The Sound of Music - always on her knees in confession for something or other!

She climbs a tree
And scrapes a knee
her dress has got a tear;
She waltzes on her way to Mass
and whistles on the stair;
And underneath her wimpole
she has curlers in her hair -

I've even heard her singing in the Abbey!
How do you solve a problem like Shaista-a-a??

COOLING THE FLAMES, CULTIVATING HAPPINESS

2012-04-05T00:10:00.001+01:00

For the next week I shall be away on retreat in Nottingham with Thich Nhat Hanh and the monks and nuns of Plum Village. I shall be practising mindfulness, which is best described thusly...

Mindfulness is the energy of being aware and awake to the present moment, aware of what is going on within and around us. It is the continuous practice of touching life deeply in every moment of daily life. We bring our body and mind into harmony while we wash the dishes, drive the car or take our morning shower. Practising mindfulness cultivates understanding, love, compassion and joy. This practice helps us to take care of and transform our suffering in our lives and in our society.

As a creative type, I do find myself soaring to the heights and dashing to despair every now and then, so it will be wonderful to practise the middle way for a while. Meanwhile, at home, the dear parents shall have an equally peaceful time without their tempestuous poet underfoot. I wonder what they will do in my absence... Grin and bear it, rather too well, I suspect :)

REFLECTION ON THE SOURCE

2012-03-31T00:45:00.000+01:00

It unnerves me
the face in the glass,
that is sometimes me
and sometimes not.

I am unbalanced
by this perfume,
that is sometimes you
and sometimes not.

The heat
stretches out the thread -
in the rain,
it nestles closer;

All around me
the web glistens,
sometimes real
and sometimes not.

image source: the mag

YOU LITTLE LIGHT

2012-03-26T18:32:00.000+01:00

You little light,
You joyful face,
You of the wide uncompromising gaze,
You of the wild encompassing grace,

You have faith.

You heal leaving no scar,
no painful trace.

You little acrobat,
You move so fast,
We can hardly keep pace -

Only watch in awe as you
Morph and shift your shape

In and out of this race
And that place;
Listening only for the sounds
Of love's embrace.

HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY my darling nephew Rafael!!! If only I could have been there to blow bubbles, and eat cake, but the real gift is this - all that light and love, sails right across the oceans, and keeps me buoyant and afloat. In the wake of your smile, in the palm of your hand,
I remain, your devoted
Aunty Shai

GRINDING PEPPER

2012-03-18T22:20:00.000Z

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison, Magpie Tales

Last night I spent a couple of hours dashing about the Tate Modern with a modern art aficionado. It was all energy and flux, transformative matter and the complex relationship of humankind to the School of Things. The work of Yayoi Kusama, the Japanese conceptual artist, was on display - her retrospective exhibition was a visual kaleidoscope of infinity rooms and thrashing limbs and hallucinations made interactive - the security alarms were constantly sounding because children were unable to resist touching; not just children, an unabashed adult too - no, it wasn't me, not this time, anyway!

I can understand the relevance of found beauty in pieces of wood, metal, Lucio Fontana's single clean slash of a canvas,

Do Ho Suh's red fabric staircase,

Richard Long's circles of pebbles and stones...

and Damien Hirst's butterflies or 'Sympathy in White Major - Absolution II'...

but then, with seconds to spare, as the armed watchmen were descending on us (armed with walkie-talkies), we suddenly came upon Monet. And it was all light and simplicity.

Give me trees and water lilies, I thought, give me the scent of oils and a paintbrush. Give me a garden and give me light. I'll add the stars and moon, later, when it darkens. Breath of Monet aside, the Tate Modern seemed to me to be filled with a kind of emptiness, an alienating distance, made more poignant by the DO NOT TOUCH alarms and signs. How to be touched without touching? It's a mystery. Unless, of course, you break the rules.

FUNDING SHAISTA

2012-03-15T23:26:00.001Z

The birds they are a twittering, round the birch,

inside of Spring,

This morning, there were daffodils and daisies,

And hidden things -

And bursting behind the door,

purple lilac softly knocking,

ready dressed to come a calling.

Through my many long years of illness I have often heard this phrase used to describe me: 'she's out of the woods now' - I always find it a curious phrase, because as Frost said, the woods are 'lovely, dark and deep' and sometimes it is enchanting when you're ill to stay cocooned in the warmth of your frailty. But, like Frost, I too have had promises to keep. Promises to live and love, and be all things spring and light.
For two years now, I have been in the woods about funding for my monoclonal treatments, which have been erratic, and for which I learned how to dance with radio, newspapers and medical journals - but now, ta-dah!! I have received a note from my consultant's secretary confirming 'that Rituximab will be funded for the next two years'. Shall I frame it?

To celebrate, I wander around the grounds of Emmanuel College, illegally feeding the ducks Japanese rice crackers, and befriending one in particular with whom I discuss further promises to keep. The duck warns that he will hold me to my promises - but I don't mind. I shall return and make him proud. For the next two years, at least. At least.

first image prompt from Magpie Tales

The Lake Isle Fellowship

2012-03-04T16:33:00.010Z

One of the pleasures of poetry is the way a line returns to you, unexpectedly. There you are, a schoolchild, being forced to learn of a poet's strange intent -

'I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there' - why? Why will he have nine bean rows? And why wattles? What were wattles to me? But learn the lines I did. And now, as I curl up on a rainy Sunday, and watch the green grass of home slowly soak up the new March rain, as I wait eagerly for spring to unfurl, I understand Yeats...

'And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.'

Yeats was in London, longing for Lough Gill, like any exile in a home away from home, like any lover separated from their beloved...

'While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.'

I didn't call him consciously to mind, but what Yeats heard all those years ago, echoes now in me as his words resound with each drip-drip dropping of peaceful rain today. Happiness is a funny thing - sometimes it feels just as sudden as unhappiness. And all you can give thanks for is that the path has been trodden before, and with great care, by a fellow poet who understands your dreams.

image by digital artist Walter Smith for dverse

William Butler Yeats by John Singer Sargent, 1908

Looking Into The Sun

2012-02-25T19:25:00.000Z

I can hardly believe it. In my last post, which was admittedly two weeks ago, I was drawing messy I Heart U's in the snow, trailing my fingers across crystalline branches and feeling deeply for the homeless. And suddenly, now, with the sun, there are buds on the cherry and apple trees. Are the seasons playing games with us, or have I simply reached the age at which it is all scurrying by in a tearing hurry?

I walk out into the sun and stand looking into it, daring it to swallow me whole. I wouldn't mind, but it doesn't oblige. It is a cold sun, so I return to the warmth, inside. The pheasants from last week are not to be found and the muntjacs are causing havoc elsewhere.

During my infusion at the hospital earlier this week, I managed to put together the skeleton of a screenplay to be worked on for this semester. The heroine is of course going to be a much improved version of myself, and lucky for her I am creating a rather interesting hero, who shall travel across oceans to find her. There shall be tragedy and comedy and romance... Or as Philip Henslowe, owner of the Rose Theatre says to William Shakespeare, "You see, Will? Comedy. Love, and a bit with a dog. That's what they want."

I recently saw this brief video of starlings dancing - a murmuration; that's what starlings are called when they gather together this way. There are only blackbirds outside my window, but isn't it lovely to know there are always forms of beauty enchanting someone, somewhere?

A Walk In The Snow

2012-02-12T16:09:00.003Z

for Joanna Haybittle

I walk in the snow
with the green grass

just beginning to show

I am calmed
and grow fearless
with each step

Gathering nothingness
listening to emptiness
fill herself

with birdsong
        and the crunch of ice
        and the sense of cold
        finally, taking me
by surprise.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
Joanna was the second daughter of my beloved friend Mary Haybittle, and her funeral takes place today. Can only pray for it to be a peaceful, blessed sort of day with the angels singing and listening in wait.

Books Actually

2012-02-07T19:50:00.029Z

“I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book! -- When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”
~ Jane Austen, from Pride and Prejudice.

On the 200th birthday of Charles Dickens, I wanted to share something of bookstores and libraries - I recently stumbled across some of these collections online so they are not places I have visited, but isn't the internet brilliant for couchsurfing? In Paris, there is a bookstore called Shakespeare & Company, which looks delicious...

To sit alone in the lamplight with a book spread out before you, and hold intimate converse with men of unseen generations - such is a pleasure beyond compare ~ Kenko Yoshida wrote that some time between 1283 and 1350. What would he have thought of a movie palace being converted into a reading room? This is the Librería El Ateneo Grand Splendid in Buenos Aires, Argentina, which uses theatre boxes for reading rooms...

A good book should leave you... slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it. William Styron, who wrote that in 1958, would perhaps have approved of the Poplar Kids' Republic in Beijing, China - cosy nooks for naps everywhere!

I quite like this quote: "Tell me what you read and I'll tell you who you are" is true enough, but I'd know you better if you told me what you re-read ~ François Mauriac.

There is a bookstore in Mexico which has a trail of greenery wrought around the books, and a tiny one I love in Singapore, which is endlessly quirky, called Books Actually. Bookstores are becoming magical places, but some libraries are really extraordinary, like this ornate cathedral to books in Coimbra, Portugal...

or the University of Salamanca library in Spain, which is brilliantly colourful...

Of course, the college libraries in Cambridge hold a special place, like Wren's and Queen's...

but my favourite bookstore/library was tiny, cramped, dark, dusty, and very likely long destroyed. We used it during our childhood trips to Mahableshwar, a favourite colonial hill station. The librarian was terrifying and extremely strict. The books and comics were crammed together in cupboards, but the ecstatic illusion of feeling one could choose anything and take home plenty, has lasted all these years. I wonder if my brothers remember... I shall have to ask! Meanwhile, am off to hospital tomorrow for a very long day of infusions - and the kindle shall serve as my magical portable library.

Images from flavorwire via and via

CONFIDENCE (An Abstract Theory)

2012-01-31T21:27:00.000Z

I Write My Face
Upon My Age
In Lines
Of Poetry -

I Right My Wrongs
Up On The Stage
For All The World
To See.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
image prompt: red spot II, wassily kandinsky, 1921, magpie tales
poetry prompt: dverse

(Lady of) No Fear in the Year of the Dragon

2012-01-23T22:02:00.000Z

Yesterday found me at the Arts Picturehouse -watching Aung San Suu Kyi in a brief documentary about her early years as a North Oxford housewife, mother of two young sons, trying to ascertain what her true purpose in life would be. Michael Aris, her husband, was the famous Tibetan scholar, Oxford don, figure of importance. And then suddenly, late one night in 1988, the phone rang. Suu's mother had had a stroke. She returned to Burma alone and never left, could never leave, inherited her father's heroism and became mother (Daw Aung San) to Burma. When Michael died in 1999, the military regime persisted in their refusal to grant him entry. He had not seen his wife for an unbearably long time. He had been walking in her footsteps for years, as carefully and diplomatically as possible - she had been walking, and continues to walk, in the footsteps of the Buddha, who sacrificed being with his family, his son Rahula, for humanity.

Perhaps such grace, such fearlessness, can only come with such sacrifice. When, after ten years, Daw Aung San was re-united with her son Kim in 2010, there was such tenderness in her embrace; she held him lightly as though he were the breeze, or a feather. As though she had never held him at all.

But she had. Of course she had.
How does a warrior survive house arrest over decades? How does a prisoner of conscience smile the way she does? Tease and laugh with her people the way she does? I think it must be because she is living up to her father's memory, and because she knows her sons are safe. I think it is because she is a mother.

In the Quiet Land of Burma, where cries are strangled, one flower blooms for all of us.

May the Year of the Dragon bring something wonderful for mothers everywhere. May your children be protected, may your fears be calmed. May your children recognise and be grateful for your sacrifices.

Dissolution of a New Year Resolution

2012-01-19T16:15:00.000Z

My good intentions
fall woeful
by the wayside;
here a hope, there a plan,
and suddenly
it's 5am

And I am anywhere
but here
and the birds have begun
to chirp
and the sky begins
to lighten

And I am a traveller
on a new dirt road
with a blue blue sky
and no alibi;
only my good intentions
to stand me by.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
Do you make New Year Resolutions? One of mine was to sleep early, respectably early. But how? There are books to be read, and curling up at night to read is a source of great comfort and pleasure to me. So the other resolution. To be a better human being. I shall try my best with that one.

Image prompt at bluebell books

Moving Plates

2012-01-10T08:09:00.001Z

The perfect home
has something sentimental
resting side by side
with the practical.

Everything a meaning,
a memory,
a moment - even the broken,
the chipped china,
but especially the hand woven
crochet craft work
and the little notes
you write yourself -

you leave for us
a forget-me-not trail
winding all the way
to 1939
when the plates
of your atlas
moved forever.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
image prompt from poets united
inspired by Annette Rowntree-Clifford, who was forced to leave Germany and all that was dear when the war broke, and much that was precious was lost forever.

Flight of a Yellow Winged Umbrella

2012-01-06T01:10:00.001Z

I like the small flights
from here to just there,
Manageable -
This is how we learn
to believe,
One small step
at a time;
One small step of success
and suddenly I
am a pirate
commandeering a fleet

and I shall try to be gentle
and I shall try to be sweet ~

but my sails are billowing
and my confidence is growing
now that I am standing
on my two feet.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
Image prompt: bluebell books