This morning, I suddenly remembered a book that I had read a long time ago titled, "Goodbye, Mr. Chips" about an English boarding school teacher. I felt a strong urge to read it and I picked it up from the library this afternoon. Maybe because the #MeToo movement in India is affecting me more than I thought it would. Maybe because all the stories about outright sexual predators and sexual predators masquerading as woke men had worn me out. I wanted to read about kind, gentle and sensitive men who were comfortable with their sensitive natures, whose sensitivity was not a burden for the women in their lives. I've had enough of sensitive child-men who lash out at the women in their lives when they are hurt. And, of course, the emotional labour of caring for such men has to be carried out by women. Women care for other depressed women and women care for depressed men.
I am also a sucker of nostalgia, and have always had a soft corner for authors who do nostalgia well. One of my favourite authors, Ruskin Bond, is a master at nostalgic writing. He is also (going by his memoirs) one of those kind, gentle and sensitive men who is (or has grown to be) at ease with his sensitive nature.
I remember I first read Goodbye, Mr. Chips, as a 11-year-old on our family vacation in the southern-Indian hill-station of Kodaikanal. We were staying in a grand guest house with a large garden, and our neck of the valley was always shrouded in mist. Misty climes and a book soaked in nostalgia made for a heady combination, and I was hooked.
I realize that I might not enjoy the book as much as I did when I was 11, or at all. Maybe I will struggle to identify with a white middle-class school master from the 1930s as I now have a great awareness of race relations. But, at least, the act of borrowing the book from the library felt good.
I am also a sucker of nostalgia, and have always had a soft corner for authors who do nostalgia well. One of my favourite authors, Ruskin Bond, is a master at nostalgic writing. He is also (going by his memoirs) one of those kind, gentle and sensitive men who is (or has grown to be) at ease with his sensitive nature.
I remember I first read Goodbye, Mr. Chips, as a 11-year-old on our family vacation in the southern-Indian hill-station of Kodaikanal. We were staying in a grand guest house with a large garden, and our neck of the valley was always shrouded in mist. Misty climes and a book soaked in nostalgia made for a heady combination, and I was hooked.
I realize that I might not enjoy the book as much as I did when I was 11, or at all. Maybe I will struggle to identify with a white middle-class school master from the 1930s as I now have a great awareness of race relations. But, at least, the act of borrowing the book from the library felt good.
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