the soundtrack of contemporary life

We’ll go jumble sailing,
out when the weather is fine
We’ll go jumble sailing,
you never know what we’ll find
We’ll be just like two millionaires,
going out on a spree
We’ll know that it won’t break the bank
‘cos it’s only 10 p

We’ll go jumble sailing,
out when the weather is fine
We’ll go jumble sailing,
you never know what we’ll find

Who knows all the odd little things
that will sail into view
I may find an odd little thing
that reminds me of you
I see so many people turn their noses up
at all the treasure we find
It’s sad, they don’t know what they’re missing,
but well, we’ll just have to leave them behind

We’ll go jumble sailing
out when the weather is fine
We’ll go jumble sailing,
you never know what we’ll find

Maybe find a small souvenir
or a thing we can use
Maybe a hat or a scarf
or some second-hand shoes
Maybe, either way this is one lucky dip
we can’t lose
When we go jumble sailing
off into the blue

Jumble Sailing, Clearlake

life lessons that are priceless – the subjective truth

«Lata tried to imagine the nuptial room. Presumably it would be fragrant with tuberoses; that, at least, was Malati’s confident opinion. I’ll always associate tuberoses with Pran, Lata thought. It was not at all pleasant to follow her imagination further. That Savita would be sleeping with Pran tonight did not bear thinking of. It did not strike her as being at all romantic. Perhaps they would be too exhausted, she thought optimistically.
“What are you thinking of, Lata?”, asked her mother.
“Oh, nothing, Ma”, said Lata automatically.
“You turned up your nose. I saw it.”
Lata blushed.
“I don’t think I ever want to get married,” she said emphatically.
Mrs. Rupa Mehra was too wearied by the wedding, too exhausted by emotion, too cumbered with congratulations, too overwrought, in short, to do anything but stare at Lata for ten seconds.
[…]
Now that the tears were running down her cheeks, Mrs. Rupa Mehra transferred them fluidly from one daughter to the other. She clasped Savita to her bosom and wept loudly. “You must write to me, Savita darling”, she said. “You must write to me every day from Simla. Pran, you are like my own son now, you must be responsible and see to it. Soon I will be all alone in Calcutta – all alone.”
This was of course quite untrue. Arun and Varun and Meenakshi and Aparna would all be crowded together with her in Arun’s little flat in Sunny Park. But Mrs Rupa Mehra was one who believed with unformulated but absolute conviction in the paramountcy of subjective truth over objective.»

A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth

liturgical life

Tomorrow is the Feast of the Fool’s namesake saint. He was born in Friesland and the founder of a monastery called Mariëngaarde in 1163. I like the Friesian connection – puts one in mind of mysterious fogs and dangerous plots and daring adventures.

I was once told that the saint’s name meant Peace Loving, which I always hesitated between taking as an in-built predisposition towards wisdom — and therefore A Good Thing — or just namby pamby. Now I hear it means Peaceful Ruler instead, a subtle but important difference, and a meaning I can embrace with no ambivalence – no matter how far it continually proves to be from the reality of my days (the “ruler” bit especially).

And Mary’s Garden (or Mary’s Orchard, as I’m told it can also be translated) is a better candidate than Coney Island for a name for the House, certainly one that bodes better for the future of the plantations on the Hill.

It is also the third anniversary of the Fool’s father’s death, an unhappier connotation, but one which has mellowed with time. I no longer carry my copies of The Spectator for weeks in the back seat of my car, waiting for the next time we meet and I can give them to him to read.

Happy St. Frederick's Day