Making Amends

Sixties were the glorious years for competent practitioners in the art of writing. I was one of them, better than most in my humble, albeit not overly modest, opinion. Literary journals wanted any squiggle from my pen for their lead articles. Universities pestered me to be the writer-in-residence at their campus. Publishers pestered my agent for my new book; whether a novel, a play, a collection of stories or essays they couldn’t care less. I wrote what I felt like, traveled the continent giving interviews to the media, critics fawned and the public lapped it up. My bank account grew larger in spite of my family’s growing needs – all those alimony payments, private school and college fees and what have you. I was happy and was proud to keep my present and ex dears happy as well.

Sixties rolled out with a bang, seventies rolled in with a whimper. My previous play was only a modest hit on Broadway and the latest one bombed. Critics like nothing better than kicking a writer when he is down. Suddenly, I was a man of the past; my talents did not suit the new generation. Media avoided me; publishers cut out advance payments for the next book and made royalties conditional on sales above a ludicrously high number of sales. My bank account was drying up but demands on it were no less; near and far dears couldn’t really adjust to a new reality. After all it was not their’s.

Universities still wanted me though - to teach courses on writing, lead seminars on attracting publishers and producers, judge works of graduate students and submissions in competitions they sponsored, you name it. And they still offered the same honorarium as before. My agent – bless his heart – booked me solid months in advance. He needed his twenty percent as much as I needed the remainder and he didn’t really care whether I had any time left to write. I now suspect that he did not have it in him to persuade reluctant publishers to accept my new works, if there were any, on terms any respectable writer of my stature would accept. In any event, the drubbing by critics and neglect by publishers and public had turned me off writing and I was quite happy to travel to various educational institutions helping young writers get better. I did notice though, the decline with each passing month in the reputation of colleges I was being invited by.

During this period of my life I helped improve dozens of works which became publishable although none became a major success. Then I came across a play written by a girl not yet out of her teens. It had drama, it had emotion, it showed the sensitivity of the playwright and the literary skill well beyond her years. The plot was certain to stir a lot of commotion and it was brilliantly executed. It was competing for a big prize, enough to give a start to a stellar career, much like mine except perhaps the premature twilight. If it won, it would have attracted notice and in all likelihood would have been performed at major theatres.

But it did not win. Not because something better came along, but because I was made an offer I could not refuse. My financial situation was desperate. All my exes and their offspring refused to lower the settlements made in my glory days and the bank was threatening to dishonour my cheques. Then comes along this brash young man. He had made millions in a Tech start up when still in his teens. Now he wanted to revolutionize the stage. The first step was to win this prize, next to have it performed off-Broadway. His marketing genius would look after the rest. To be honest, the play was sort of okay. I wouldn’t have discouraged a community theatre from presenting it. But it was not a world shattering work the rich kid believed it was. But that was neither here nor there. The kid was not interested in my opinion. He had submitted the play to win the prize and it was for me to make sure he won. Cost was no object.

Well, the cost was a very important object to me. I made sure the play won. Later it was performed in New York to poor reviews and never saw the stage again. The writer went back to what he did best and in due course turned his millions into billions. As for the poor writer who should have won, she gave up writing but went into theatre any way. In a few years she had become a moderately successful director of serious works for stage and television in mid-size towns. I saw a couple of them and got the impression that she was destined for bigger things. To round up her life she married a young and ambitious politician and had a boy and a girl.

In later years I took up literary criticism, my career recovered a little and my reputation revived. The rich kid, now a very rich kid, had not lost his love for theatre. He reviewed the scene nationally and determined that the profession needed an impresario who was not beholden to financiers. To fill this vacuum, he bought a playhouse and proceeded to renovate it at great expense. In the meantime, he was looking for the right play and a director for it to open his new toy. By a strange coincidence, he happened to come across one of my reviews and called to ask if I had any suggestions. Of course I did. I told him about the play I was so taken in by so many years ago and its writer who was now a director. He called a few weeks later to tell how happy he was with my recommendation and had the lady on contract to revise and direct the play she wrote in her youth.

The play was a huge success and the careers of the impresario and the writer-director took off. They had several huge successes with critics and the public alike. I could not help being a little elated with the role I had played in their drama and often wondered if it would make amends in the judgment of the Final Arbitrator for the sin of my difficult years.

The now world-renowned playwright-director built a ‘summer cottage’ on a lake in the cabin country. It was a huge affair designed to entertain the prospective backers of her husband. Not far from it was the small cabin I had acquired when my first wife was expecting our baby. I spent the summers there reading, writing and reviewing the books for the media. As a single man of mature years I did not need much and I led a simple life of a grand old man of literature. The happy couple often dropped by to see me, as if to pay homage. On each of their visit I wondered if they knew of my part in her initial failure and eventual success. If they did indeed know, they were much too kind to let me get a wind of it.

Wedding Interview
1.

“Beta*, this is important. Perhaps the most important thing of your life.”
“Pitaji, tell me, I am in suspense.”
“Gauri, the daughter of my friend Binesh from college days is here with her family. She is now twenty two. Bhagwan, how time passes! It is twenty years since Binesh left for Canada with his wife and such a sweet little toddler. They are looking for a match and you are the right age for her.”
“Pitaji, The age isn’t everything. How will a girl who has been brought up in Canada live with you and Amma? There will be daily clashes I am afraid.”
“Rushing to conclusion as always. And wrong as always. My dear she will not live in India, you will live in Canada.”
“Pitaji, a few of my friends from Bindali Medical School went abroad. They are all driving taxies because their degrees were not accepted there.”
“Canada is short of doctors and you were top of the class. Binesh is a big man in his town, Toshawa or something like that. He won’t have his son-in-law be a taxi driver when he has a first class medical degree from Bindali.”
“Pitaji, even then, they don’t have servants. They do all the washing of pots and pans themselves and clean the floors too. Do you really want your only son to do that for the rest of his life?”
“We have servants, they have machines. Machine for everything. Machine to clean the floor, machine to do the dishes, machine to wash the clothes, machine to polish the shoes. And they are contolled by a little box you hold in your hand. Press this button and that happens, that button and this happens. Much easier than screaming at servants when they leave food on the thali. Apart from that, machines don’t steal.”
“They may not steal but they do break down. Then what?”
“They used to break down. Those days are gone. Now every thing they use is made in China by super-skilled workers with the best materials. Nothing ever breaks down. Don’t you ever look at the ads in foreign magazines.”
“Thik hai, Pitaji. Your wish is my command. I will meet this Gauri and try to impress her. I do hope she is a Gori too.”
“Oh yes. Did I tell you? Her brother plays hockey for a club and is paid millions for doing it. A little drop from that fountain, you won’t ever need to see those pesky patients.”
“I will see her but do not expect your son to beg from his brother-in-law. He has inherited some pride from Amma.”
“Beta, pride has its place and humility has a place too. You need both and the tact to know what is needed in a given situation. Go now, make sure your suit and tie are ironed and the shirt doesn’t have the spots left by mango juice you spilled at our anniversary. Make sure you can see your face in the shoes”




2.

“Namaste, Doctorji, I am Gauri, sister of Bansi. The star of Engineer Cap Flames.”
“Call me Sharan, if you don’t mind. And what is Engineer Cap Flames your brother stars in. Is it a movie or something?”
“Oh no. People here don’t know anything about Canada. Engineer Cap Flames is a hockey team. Bansi is their best player.”
“Hockey team? How do they play hockey with all that snow?”
“They play it on ice with a little disk instead of the ball. They have big tournaments where people pay big money to go and watch. Television companies pay a fortune to show the games.”
“So they can pay Bansi big money and he can shine like the polar star.”
“That is right. He paid for my education and will give me a house as the wedding present.”
“With a brother like that how will you ever be happy with a poor doctor?”
“It will be all right I suppose. Not every one can make a million for a season of a few weeks. He and Daddy will like me to marry. They think an Indian husband will be good for me.”
“What do you think? Will you like an Indian for a husband?”
“I suppose he will do. Daddy has been a good husband. At least he won’t threaten to walk out every time I became angry.”
“And you won’t threaten to walk out if he became angry, will you?”
“What a silly question to ask. Of course I will. I will go over to Daddy or to Bansi. But an Indian! He won’t have anywhere to go.”
“Makes sense. Just as well I do not lose my temper very often. Just once a day. And that with servants only. Is there anything in particular you want to know about me?”
“Not really. Daddy got an agency to run a check on you. They did not find anything against you.”
“Pitaji did say your father was very thorough in everything he did. Is Bansi married?”
“He wants to marry the former wife of one of his team mates. But Daddy won’t let him. So they are just living together.”
“You mean they live in the same house; sleep in the same bed?”
“Of course they do, you silly. What else can they do?”
“So you agree with that kind of behavior!”
“Of course I do. Every body does it. Wake up, you guys. It is twenty first century.”
“Have you lived with any one?”
“Of course not. Daddy would have gone berserk; packed me off to his cousins in a remote village.”
“So he won’t let you have any boy friends!”
“Of course not. That is why he was so shocked when he found out.”
“Found out what?”
“That I was pregnant. Bansi introduced me to this team mate of his. We liked each other, sort of. I had always made sure that guys used condoms before but the condom broke with this guy. Then the club transferred him to Black Bear Jaws before my next period was due. On his way to join his new team he perished in a snowstorm without even knowing that he was going to be a father.”
“What did your family do?”
“What could they do? It was their fault they won’t let me go on pills. Every other girl took them.”
“So what happened?”
“Silly you. What happens when you become pregnant? Nine months later a baby arrives. That is what happened to me.”
“You have a son?”
“No, a daughter. Sweet little thing. A little darker than you. So pretty. You will love her.”
“Well, I hope so. I have to think about it.”
“Don’t think about it. I don’t want to have any thing to do with any one who has to think about loving my sweet child. Go away. Please. You don’t have to say goodbye – to me or to Daddy or Mommy. Just go through that door on your left. It will take you to the street.”

*Beta Son
Pitaji Honorific for father
Bhagwan God
Amma Mom
Thali A metal plate
Thik Hai Okay
Gori A woman, of fair complexion, also used for white women.

An Author’s Reward

In need of a change after working for almost forty years as a research scientist, I gave up science and, buoyed by scores of technical papers published in reputable journals, took up journalism, albeit on a modest scale. I wrote letters to the Editors on every topic under the sun and sent them to newspapers and magazines all over North America. Hardly a week went by without my letter appearing somewhere on this continent. Acceptance rate of letters encouraged me to write essays on topics I felt strongly about. An added incentive was the honorarium paid for published essays. I duly submitted the longer pieces to the Editors with covering letters discretely referring to my frequent appearances in their publication. However, promotion to an essayist was not in the cards and my submissions were consigned to oblivion by a stroke of the delete button.

The rejections would have discouraged an ordinary mortal but I never made that grade. Come what may, I give full rein to my varied talents. If I don’t, who will? I began to write short anecdotes based on events in my life making fun of the central character – me. Family and friends enjoyed laughing at me and asked for more. Of course I obliged. Before long I had a stack of two hundred tales testing the limits of self-deprecating humour. Under an illusion that these tales were works of art, I looked for the ways they could be published. A Web search produced hundreds of literary magazines that are constantly looking for new writers. There is a catch however: reading fee or entry fee for the competition. Writers are urged to send double-spaced copies of their work with the fee, usually twenty dollars, and self-addressed stamped envelopes for the reply. Occasionally, email entries are accepted with a credit card deposit. Being a sucker, I fell in the trap. It took many submissions before it became clear that the odds of acceptance are less than those for winning the grand prize in a lottery and the writers’ fees are what keep food on the table of the publishers.

This was not the end of my publication efforts, though. I arranged about fifty stories in coherent groups under catchy titles and submitted them to a local publisher. He accepted the collection with the remark, “It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece to be published.” Alarm bells should have buzzed when he said with some modesty that his ‘house’ could not afford to spend much on promotion. The book came out with little fanfare, just one ad in the local monthly magazine. I had hoped that a prolific contributor, although to the humble Letter to the Editor columns, is entitled to some consideration and felt humiliated by the reviewers’ total disregard for the book. I decided that to feel good again the book would have to be a commercial success and earn a substantial royalty check to enable my wife to renovate the kitchen and buy a fur coat. In view of the minute publicity budget of the publisher I took things in my own hands. Following the example of respectable sales agents, I designed business cards with title of the book in bold letters below my name and the address of the publisher’s website where the book could be ordered. I handed them out at every opportunity with the alacrity of a used car salesperson. I arranged book readings in several book and record stores and public libraries and for the book to be sold at concerts and local grocery store. Thanks to these efforts, book made the best-seller list of the local paper. But the efforts did not yield enough royalties to cover the expenses incurred in promotion.

If I were blessed with even a trace of humility I would have seen the risk inherent in the book adventure before jumping in with both feet. I now know that it is possible to publish AND perish. This can happen to an author when his book is overlooked by the reviewers and doesn’t ring on the till, when the publisher and friends avoid the writer. Thanks to my family’s support I have survived, barely if I may add. However, I am not about to accept defeat and give up. As a composer celebrated now but reviled in his time said, “My time will come.” Even if it does not, who cares? I now write for my satisfaction alone and that is probably the best reward. Do I really feel it or just pretend? Who knows? Does it really matter?

A Winter Morning

The winters in Calgary are a mixed bag. Some years the snow doesn’t appear till January. Other years it snows in September and then not till March. Once in a while it snows every week from October to June and the temperature stays well below freezing. This year, it snowed in early October when the trees were still loaded with leaves. Cold spell froze the leaves and the crab apples in our yard and for all I know they are destined to stay on the trees till spring when they will rejuvenate for an unexpected second life cycle.

This year the second cold spell arrived in the first week of December exactly as the weather channel had predicted. It really was cold, thirty below zero without counting the wind chill. At these temperatures it doesn’t matter whether it is centigrade or Fahrenheit, the exposed skin freezes in seconds either way. Forty winters of freezing and thawing in this blessed city have taught me a lesson; I now cancel all my meetings for the duration and give away tickets to the concerts and other entertainment without fretting about how much they cost. I raise the thermostat to its highest and stay in bed with two hot water bottles and a book of stories about Hawaii by Jack London.

It was nine on Saturday morning when I opened my eyes with great reluctance. “I love you. You look so sweet when you are asleep,” I said in my wife’s ear.
“Then why do you wake me up?” she answered without stirring.
“It is nine, and it is your turn to make the tea,” I said lamely.
She was furious as I would have been in her place, “I will go and get the tea and you can look at a sour wife when drinking it.” She tossed of the blanket, jumped out of bed landing on both feet as she always does, rushed to the window and raised the blind. The daylight pulled my eyelids apart. I am glad it did. An incredible view brought me to my senses before taking them away. I will describe it as well as I can. But if I do not succeed, please make some allowance for English being my second language and the poor quality of ESL lessons in the early days of immigration from the Third World.

It was a bright day but I could tell from the thick frost near the bottom of the picture window that it was awfully cold outside. The almost opaque frost had a smooth concave edge which uniformly graded into transparency. At some distance on the left, Green, blue, orange and red Christmas lights on the Mayday tree were shining through the frost, giving the view a dreamy appearance with their diffused glow. On the right almost touching the window, a blue jay flitted in the crab apple tree with dark brown leaves and over ripe crab apples size of a ping pong ball frozen on the branches. Icicles of various length and diameter hung from the eaves trough sparkling in the beams of sunlight. Little dots of ice on the pane scattered the rays in exploding rainbow colours. The row of evergreens along the fence, their branches stooping to breaking point with the weight of snow but their tops competing with each other to touch the sky, had a new majesty. Twittering squirrels, jumping from one branch to the other, were scattering snow dust which added to the otherworld feeling engendered by the scene. The velvety blue of sky, untouchable in grandeur as much as in reach, gave a unity to the picture which distinguishes the work of a genius from that of an accomplished artist.

My wife came in with the tray, saw me staring at the window totally absorbed and silently joined me under the blankets. We sat there quietly, leaning back against the pillows holding hands, at peace with each other and the world, enjoying the nature at its best. I do not know for how long, only that the tea was cold when I poured it.

MY daddy was a Frog

It was the Christmas Adam, the day before Christmas Eve. It was cold and snowing, as it had been for the past week. My six year old daughter Samantha was sitting on my lap in the living room next to a roaring fire. I was reading her the story of the Princess and the Frog. My wife was reading a fashion magazine on a chair nearby and the other daughter Caroline was playing with blocks on the carpet.

“It is not true, Daddy, is it?” Samantha asked somewhat incredulous as I finished the story.
“Of course it is," I answered. It was my turn to ask, "Do you know why my voice is so croaky?”
“No. But croaky voice does not make you a frog.”
“Of course I am not a frog now. But years ago I was.”
“Mummy, he is joking again isn’t he?”
Mummy took her eyes off the dress she was contemplating herself in. Obviously she had an ear tuned to our conversation. “He was not a frog when I met him,” she consoled our innocent daughter.
I had a ready response, “It was another young girl who picked me up from the bank of the reservoir, gave me one look and said ‘Ooh, how revolting.’ But I accidentally touched her lips as I hopped off and the result is before you in person.”
“But you are not a prince, just an ordinary milkman,” clever Caroline butted in.
“Because the girl whose mouth touched my slimy back was a milkmaid, not a princess,” I replied and added, “She gave me a fleeting look and said, ‘Go away, you are as ugly as the frog. A pretty girl like me deserves a handsome prince.’ I trundled off heartbroken. Thankfully I soon met your mother.”
“I was taken in by his new suit and the curly black hair,” my wife contributed.
“Poor Mom! Now Daddy has no hair and his sweater has holes at the elbows,” the daughters said in unison hugging their mother.

I looked at three of them and wished beggars could be choosers and I had been more patient in picking the woman to be kissed by.

I wish the readers wherever they are a happy and satisfying New Year.

Rejected Letters

It seems to be my fate that my best letters to the Editors get consigned to the heaps of obscurity and those written in jest get published. Here is a sample of what received the delete treatment from the newspapers listed below the letter.

While I support the idea of free speech (A landmark for free speech, editorial, Dec. 23) I do believe that the readers/listeners should be given some idea of the qualifications of the writer/speaker. The public expects reputable media to hire qualified commentators and edit their vituperations. Alas, no such filter is available on the internet. Consequently, internet is full of contradictory information spread by often ignorant people giving vent to their prejudices. Readers need some means of judging the validity of what is posted and a process that insists on the bloggers telling us their qualifications will be most welcome even if it is considered a violation of free speech.
Globe and Mail, 24/12/09

Re: PM’s stimulus exit plan: Get ready for five frugal years, Dec. 22.

The headline is misleading because Mr. Harper is promising five years where the better off in Canada will not be asked to share their wealth with the less fortunate. The poor will continue to become poorer and rich richer; frugal will tend towards destitution and the comfortable will bask in brighter sunshine. Whatever you may call such government, just and responsible this ain’t, not to mention totally devoid of Christmas spirit.
Globe and Mail, 22/12/09

While the disappointment of the Left (With bitter pills, Obama gets his health vote, Dec. 21) with “little steps” is understandable, one can only hope that after soul searching now being done they will continue their support for a visionary President so that several small steps can add up to become big steps rather than be retraced by the return of the self-absorbed Right,
Globe and Mail, 20/12/09

Sheila Pratt (Tory fortress under siege from left and right, December 20) is in too much of a rush to bury Ed Stelmach and his party. It is a long way to elections and the Premiere is focusing on unpleasant policy initiatives like dismantling of health care. As the election approaches, goodies will begin to roll and the pacification of enraged electorate will go in full swing. Voters will forget and/or forgive and revert to the old habit of sticking with the devil they know. Some won’t like it, as they did not last time, but Ed will be back to stumble along for another term.
Edmonton Journal, 20/12/09

Margaret Wente (When in doubt…., Dec. 19) makes an excellent case for tolerance and understanding for religions among atheists, not just for other religions among religious. Unfortunately atheists, I among them, have fallen short on this account. While taking it for granted from our religious spouses, relatives and friends we have not reciprocated; and when we have it has not been with grace. We owe sincere gratitude to Ms. Wente and hopefully this piece of excellent writing will foster some Christmas spirit among non-believers.
Globe and Mail, 19/12/09

While it would be churlish to dispute Jeffrey Simpson (It was a very good year for the Prime Minister, Dec. 18) the history will not judge Mr. Harper by his poll numbers which improved mainly because the opposition was inept but by what he did to enhance Canada’s standing in the world. Not much I am afraid. Canada’s banks survived the economic crisis because of the regulations Tories hate but did not have the majority to weaken; economy stabilized because thanks to Chinese demand commodity prices improved; Canada’s hard earned respect in the Third World is close to vanishing point because of the misguided foreign aid policies; health care is in crisis because of benign neglect at the Federal level and as the year comes to the close we have become the laughing stock because of the poor presentation of whatever logic is behind our policy on emissions.
Globe and Mail, 18/12/09

Re: We're richer, but deeper in debt, Website, Dec. 14.

Deeper debt would not be alarming if the debt was carried by the same families who are richer. Unfortunately, it is my observation that it is the families with few declining assets whose debt level is reaching dangerous levels. The crisis last year was not caused by the well-off but by the relatively poor who could not keep up with the mortgages. Their debt is what we have to worry about, not the statistical average for all and sundry. It is not beyond the pale that the next crisis will be caused by the banks failing to collect on the credit card debts incurred during Christmas season when the interest rates start creeping up from their current ridiculously low levels.
Globe and Mail, 14/12/09

Re: The recycling conundrum: How your blue bin hurts the environment, December 5.
I couldn’t agree more. I suggest that the solution of too much waste is less consumption, not recycling. Just the way it is not politic to discuss human overpopulation while discussing global warming, it is not done to talk about reducing packaging, reusing glass and plastic containers at home, consuming less and thinking twice before replacing large items. It will hurt the economy, we are told. Of course it will. If the economy were based on sustainability, not the short term and thoughtless consumption, old attitude of getting full value out of the money you spent would prevail and there will be fewer stressed men and women around.
National Post, 5/12/09

James Surowiecki (The debt economy, November 23) raises the issue of too much debt distorting the economy and blames the tax regime for it. Another reason, at least for small businesses, is the cost. By the time one has added legal, administrative and brokerage costs to the discount on share price, it is so much cheaper and quicker to go to the friendly banker. The only solution that has been ever proposed, and has had some success, is the Islamic ban on charging interest money lent. Under this system, the institution with money takes equity and acquires the responsibility of ownership. The person in need of money parts with only the interest that he must. This optimizes the transactions and is in short and long term interest of individuals, businesses and the society at large.
New Yorker, 27/11/09

Seymour M. Hersh (Defending the arsenal, November 16) refers to anti-Americanism in Pakistan army and the population. Contrary to his suggestion, the reason for this has nothing to do with the “friendship” with India since it was present, at least among the general population, before the thaw in Indo-American relations. Just like all other Islamic countries, it has everything to do with Middle East conflict. The American support for Israel has set in motion a spiral: it created anti-American feeling which encouraged fundamentalism which in turns exacerbated anti-Americanism. The only way to break the spiral is a lasting settlement of Palestine problem. Unfortunately that is not on horizon because this President, like others before him, is not likely to risk antagonizing his pro-Israel supporters by forcing an unpleasant solution on Israeli leaders.
New Yorker, 25/11/09

Re: Facebook page linked to Dion's wife harsh on Liberals, Nov. 22.
While the gloating at the misfortunes of the current leader by the disgruntled wife of the former leader is understandable, it is still unfair to kick someone when he is down. Even though Mr. Dion was poorly treated, Liberals need to work together whatever their grudges if they wish to avoid a Mulroney-Campbell type massacre in the next election. Members have complaints in any national party in opposition, partly because there is not much work to go around and partly because they are missing the lick at the trough. However, if they want to return to power, they have to fight their battles in private, not on Facebook.
Edmonton Journal, 22/11/09
Re: Taliban debating whether to end Afghan war: expert. Nov. 21

The West has at least three problems in negotiating with Taliban. First, how do you convince them that you are not negotiating to cut your losses, after all they have been fighting the combined forces of the mightiest in the world for eight years, inflicting casualties on them almost daily and are still standing in spite of all the bomb dropped on them. Second, what do you negotiate with people whose belief system is diametrically opposite to yours other than how to hand over power to them while saving your face? Third, if any one believes Taliban will honour any agreements which they consider contrary to their interpretation of Islam, I have a cheap house in Calgary to sell them.
National Post, 21/11/09

Ponzi-mania grips globe, Regulators busy as cases surge, Web, Nov. 15.

It can be argued that in the aftermath of financial meltdown more Ponzi like schemes are being investigated now than they were before and the actual number of cases is not significantly higher. In any event these schemes reap great rewards for the criminals of big losses for the victims. Considering how hard it is to find the culprits, prove the charges in court, all the time and money consuming appeals that follow, and light sentences at the end of long drawn out process during which the criminals are free on bail living high on the proceeds of their crime, there are tempting incentives for indulging in such practices. It speaks volumes on basically honest nature of Canadians that such schemes are not much more widespread. Even if they were, our justice and law enforcement systems are so tilted towards the criminal that we will never know for sure.
Calgary Herald, 15/11/09

Abdullah withdraws from Afghanistan presidential election run-off, Nov. 1

The contrast between the appearances of Karzai and Abdullah couldn’t be greater. Karzai is always dressed in conventional attire while Abdullah wears western suits, tie and a wedding ring which is not an Afghan custom. Whether it means that Abdullah is honest while Karzai is corrupt or he would have expanded the government rule beyond Kabul which Karzai has not been able to is hard to say but there can be no doubt that his approach would have been drastically different. That may be why the two can’t work together and Taliban are not likely to be defeated till they do.
Vancouver Sun, 1/11/09

Antonio Abreu (A classical superstar beats the drums for music education, Oct 31) is quoted to have said, “When Arts education takes the place in our society that it deserves, we will have much less delinquency and violence, and much more motivation towards noble achievement.”

True, but is any one of any importance taking note?
Globe and Mail, 31/10/09

Hillary wears niqab in Pakistan. Does she wear a burqa in Saudi Arabia?
What a shame another opportunity to support reform oriented Pakistani women was missed.
National Post, 21/10/09

Re: Girl riding in trunk killed in car crash; several teens injured, Oct. 25
The parents of these kids are grieving and I sympathise with them. However, before blaming the laws, the roads or the vehicles, one has to ask what were the kids that age doing on the highway at that hour. If parents do not exercise the authority they need to and instill a sense of discipline in their sons and daughters, such accidents will happen whatever laws were in force and we will continue to suffer the loss of what could have been productive citizens in a few years.
Montreal Gazette, 26/10/09

Re: Black responds, Oct. 17.

In all the arguments about the U.S. problems in which trade imbalance with China plays an important role, no one mentions the problems caused by China’s insistence on tying its currency to the U.S. dollar. If Yuan floated as other currencies do, it would be much higher, the Chinese imports would become less attractive and the local manufacturers would have a chance. As it is, China is lending Americans the money to buy its products more cheaply than would be the case at a fair exchange rate. How long will they continue to do so is any one’s guess but the situation is not sustainable in the long term.
National Post, 18/10/09

Todd Hirsch (Down under at the forefront, Oct. 17) missed the obvious difference: Kangaroos promptly did what the socialist governments do best i.e. promote “education, innovation, science, technology” while the conservative Beaver did grudgingly with hesitation what needed to be done quickly with good spirit.
Globe and Mail, 17/10/09

The answer to why Roman Polanski belongs in prison is simple: he committed a crime and escaped rather than face the music. The intervening time span and his contributions have nothing to do with it. I have brought up three daughters and have two young grand daughters. If the society and the justice system don’t protect them from individuals who are otherwise successful, I will have to take revenge for any harm to them myself. There will be no court trial, no appeals just swift punishment. And I may not go to prison either. I have been quite successful in many things I have tried during my life.
Maclean’s, 11/10/09

While no one can oppose the sentiment of Elizabeth Kolbert (Leading causes, October 5) that much more needs to be done to limit the greenhouse emissions, we also need to begin preparing for the effects of what can’t be undone. As the starter, it may already be too late for Maldives Islands and other low lying areas or the people living in the Arctic. Although it may be early days to start moving habitants of these areas, it is not too early to start planning the evacuation of these areas when it becomes necessary. One can be sure that there will not be much warning about time and place when this calamity occurs.
New Yorker, 03/10/09

Re: A changing world puts Brazil on top, Aug. 3.

IOC’s rebuff of Chicago’s bid in which the U.S. President had invested so much political capital will embolden the leaders of terrorist groups and erstwhile ‘rogue’ states in their contempt of the U.S. and to carry on with their nefarious activities. I am afraid, very afraid.
Globe and Mail, 03/10/09

Re: Iran’s nuclear ambitions.

While the apprehension of Western countries about the possibility of Iran developing nuclear weapons is understandable, the fear of Iran about Israel’s existing nuclear weapons should also be appreciated. Israel has, under the pretext of self-defence, expanded its territory and sent its armies in neighbouring jurisdictions at will. How to contain Israel is as much a problem to its neighbours as the presumed threat of Iran is to the West. The solution of the conflict in the Middle East in its various forms lies in restraining Israel, not in asking neighbours to enjoy their suffering.
National Post, 26/09/09

A Performer

My father was a man of varied interests. He could talk fluently for hours on novels of Tolstoy and Turgnev, music of Smetana and Janacek, art of Kaminski and Kokoschka, politics of Churchill and Gandhi and the origin of species in Bible or by Darwin. But he had only one ambition for me, his only son. He wanted me to perform on the stage of Royal Festival Hall in London. He chose the instrument carefully, by letting me play piano, violin and cello at the tender age of five with masters of these instruments. The decision was unanimous. My talents were suited for piano. I spent next fifteen years practicing five hours a day, every day including birthdays and Christmas. I won competitions, scholarships, medals in the Conservatory of Music and raised hopes of a great music career not only in my father’s breast but in many of my teachers.

It was thirty years ago when I left home for the first time for the final step in my training under a German master in Berlin who had been the leading performer since long before I was born. It cost a pretty penny, I suspect prettier than my father could afford, but any sacrifice was worth it for me to reach the level required to perform on the stages of the great hall on the banks of Thames. There were twenty students from all over Europe and America under the master’s wings. I never found out whether it was by coincidence or design, there were ten men and ten women in the group and it was not long before twenty singles became ten couples. Partners rotated during our term of two years but no one went single for long or found a partner outside of the group. Who else would want to spend days with someone who can only do one thing – play piano and talk one subject – intricacies of music they were practicing?

The time passed very quickly. Our families traveled to Berlin for the last piece of our training - a series of concerts that lasted a whole week. Each student played a sonata, one chamber piece with instrumentalists from a renowned chamber ensemble and a concerto with a local orchestra. It was a tribute to the master’s reputation that the performances were sold out months in advance except for a few celebrity tickets saved for dignitaries who dropped by at the last minute. We could never decipher our relative levels from the master’s demeanour. Rather than earn the wrath of parents impoverished by his charges, he chose a committee of professional performers and academic musicians to do this important job for him. The committee graded the performers and these grades determined whether a graduating student will perform in the leading halls of Europe or teach beginners in his/her home town.

The budding performers were under great stress. They had sacrificed the childhood, adolescence and the youth for the anticipated glory of a Rubenstein or a Horowitz. One lapse of memory, one untimely twitch of finger, one miscue from the conductor, in fact one slightest mishap of any kind whether a performer’s fault or not, could be enough for a prospective Van Cliburn to turn into a Mr. Nobody in a Junior High. Of course no one expected it would happen to them, some competitive souls did pray it would happen to others. Oddly, many of these prayers were answered; that is what an overload of stress does to you.

Before my performance I followed the routine prescribed by the masters; a light meal with a small glass of red wine followed by the rest for half an hour when I tried to get my mind away from music to something of little importance – global warming for example. Half an hour before the performance, I gave a quick look over to the heavily annotated score, reminding myself of the pitfalls I must avoid. The last act in preparation was a five minute soak of hands in a basin of near boiling water to loosen the finger joints. The hands were so hot they did not need drying. I was ready for a sign from the stage manager to walk to the stage looking confident but actually a bundle of nerves.

I walked to the centre of the stage, bowed to the audience, sat on the piano stool, adjusted its position and height and held both hands above the keys for an extended moment for dramatic effect. The stress was excruciating and my hands were shaking but not enough for any one except those in a few front rows to notice. I was to play Schubert’s Sonata in C minor, D958. The stress went away just as the hands dropped on the keys and I must have held the attention of the listeners because there was hardly any coughing. My biggest feeling as I played the last notes was suspense about the response of the audience. Much to my relief the applause at the end was enthusiastic. I bowed gratefully a couple of times and walked slowly off the stage. The cheering became louder and the stage manager suggested another bow. “How about an encore,” I asked. “Not allowed,” He said. I went back to the stage with a heavy heart. To paraphrase Lerner and Lowe I could have played encores all night.

The performances with the chamber ensemble and the orchestra were similar except that I shook hands with the conductor or the leader of the chamber ensemble, both mumbled words of encouragement. The presence of other performers on stage also reduced the stress somewhat although the periods when I was not playing were a little awkward. The audience responded with enthusiasm again and the conductor and I returned twice for the bows.

I attended some of the performances of other students. The audience was just as enthusiastic as it was for my performances. Although not complimentary to the critical faculty of concert crowds, this reaction did have one positive: the judges were not influenced by the audience reaction.

The results were not publicly announced but mailed to the homes of the students. You can imagine the suspense; it almost killed my father. He had mortgaged his home to the hilt, sold the car and borrowed against his life insurance to pay for my training with the German prodigy. At last the envelope arrived a week after we had been back. It was appropriately addressed to my father. He opened the envelope, read the short letter, looked with infinite grief at me and never talked to me, or any one else, again.

I never touched a piano after that day. As for the Royal Festival Hall I have never been inside. But I perform in the building everyday. How do I manage that? No, not as a panhandling musician, I do not need to stoop that low. I am the pastry chef in the dining room. I perform with the best ingredients available for a distinguished audience. Lords and Ladies of the realm wish they could lick the plate after tasting my mango lemon sauce on their sherbet. Some do sneak a lick via a piece of bread. The maitre’d is disgusted but I am flattered. I do wish my father were alive to see them. I score a major triumph when this happens. I have never heard of any one kissing the program after a great performance of a piano concerto. Have you?