Cutting Loose

This is a story I wrote on invite for the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. It was included in an edition titled Indian College Students edited by Arti Jain & Rajat Poddar. The incident narrated is true; for the non-believers amongst us, I have included photographic evidence.

It’s 5am on a fine autumn day. Most inmates of Hostel Number 3 at the Government College for Girls in Chandigarh are dead to the world. Save four furtive figures peering through their balconies at the main entrance. Soon, the night watchman will unlock the door and yawn his way out of the premises. It will be sometime before he is replaced by another. It is that window of time and quiet that these girls are awaiting.

“Come on”, Kusum hailed out to Seema and me in a loud whisper. “Simmu will meet us at the landing”. I backed out of my room with my jogging shoes in one hand and a jersey in the other. Seema waited outside with the doggy bag laden with goodies nestling in her arms. “Here, grab this”, said a hushed voice from the dark as Simmu emerged balancing a load of items. I just about managed to salvage a basket and a rug before they clattered to the ground. Many giggles and shushes later, we wiggled through a narrow gap in the door. Any wider and its squeaky hinges would wake the dead. I quickly hopped into my shoes before sensing our way through the dawn shadows. Our destination was the lushest corner of the boundary wall, dense foliage shading from view a permanently placed chair to help leverage us across. Crouched low, we scurried across to the chair, heaved ourselves up, straddling the wall for a quick glance to ensure we hadn’t been spotted, before jumping down to a few hours of freedom.

We marched through Sector 11, using shortcuts to emerge at the roundabout of Sectors 2, 3, 10 and 11. Following the road to the Chandigarh Club, we turned right onto Sarovar Path making our way towards the Lake. Dodging to stay out of sight of those on their morning constitutionals wasn’t going to be easy and we still had over two kilometres to cover. “Let’s get a rickshaw”, pleaded Seema, “if my folks were to find out, I’d be a goner!” She wasn’t overstating her case. Luckily we spotted two rickshaws with their canopies stretched out.

Noticing that the occasional walker had swelled to a throng, we changed direction, towards the Gurudwara located about half a kilometre off the main road. Relieved to find the place devoid of any human presence, we found an airy clearing a little further on amongst the thick foliage. Our rather eclectic picnic consisted of boiled eggs, bread, jam, biscuits and stone-cold samosas, sneaked from the college canteen the previous evening. Tea came out of a flask and the milk addicts had carried straws to stick into their packets of pasteurised milk.

Hunger pangs satiated, Kusum the shutterbug and Seema took off to search for photo opportunities. Simmu found a perch with her very own sunbeam to read aloud from her favourite poet as I put away the trash. Soon after we went looking for the other two and found them engrossed in taking shots of the landscape. A clump of bulrushes across a crusty patch appeared to be their subject. “Take one of me”, I interrupted cheekily as I posed for the camera, successfully obstructing their view of the tall grass. “Me too!” Simmu ran across to join me. Ever the actor, she pretended to serenade the bulrushes. It was time to be goofy.

Kusum gave up any attempt at serious photography, handing me the camera with a mock threatening, “you asked for it, girl!” Then began the theatrics; the three of them aped their favourite Bollywood heroines, exaggerating actions and expressions as I clicked away. Suddenly, I felt the earth give way under me. Not thinking much about it I moved to a firmer spot towards the girls to take close ups. That was a mistake. The crust cracked immediately swallowing my feet up to my ankles. Surprise gave way to horror as a petrified Seema squealed, “Quicksand! Oh my god, that’s quicksand! What are we going to do now?! ”

“Take the camera, Seema, I’ll run out”. Mistake number two. As soon as I put my foot forward to take a leap, my weight sank my leg up to my knee. Now, I was in deep. Literally. All moves, in any direction would simply suck me in deeper. Simmu and Kusum ran around looking for some thing or someone to help pull me. “Come on, do something…! I don’t want to die”, I wailed in fright. “Shut up!” Simmu’s equally desperate tone reached me, “you’re not going to die!” I could feel the morass close around my thighs.

Simmu continued to mutter to herself while knotting our jerseys and jackets together. I thought she was praying till strange words floated to me despite my fright numbed condition. “Simmu”, I screamed, “can you focus?” “I am I am! I just can’t remember it!” “Remember what?” Kusum’s usually soft tones took on a high pitch. But then Simmu threw down her wanna-be rope, ran to our clearing and returned with our thick cotton rug. She threw it on the marshy surface between us, gingerly seating herself on it as close to me as possible. Kusum had positioned herself behind her, ready to lend a helping hand, from the safety of the shore.

“Okay now, heave yourself over me”, Simmu instructed with her hands pulling on my waist. First attempt, nothing; second time, minor success. Another heave and I was out sufficiently for Kusum to grab my arms over Simmu’s shoulder. Now began the final pulling and pushing. Kusum pulling hard on my arms and Simmu pushing me towards her. I was finally dragged out, and over Simmu’s cross-legged figure to terra firma. She scrambled ashore, too, leaving a rather deep dent in the midst of the rug. Shaking with unimaginable relief at having survived a near brush with death, and many mucky hugs later, we found a jhuggi with a water pump to wash up as well as we could sans a fresh set of clothing.

“By the way, what was it that you were trying so hard to remember back there?” Kusum turned to Simmu, as we collected our wits and made to leave. “An equation”, grinned Simmu. “What?!” “You know, the one which states pressure is equal to force per unit area. That’s how I hit upon the idea of the rug. It helped us keep afloat, remember?”  Chuckling delightedly, I hugged her real hard then, realising that I was alive only because of her scientific disaster management skills!

It’s close to a quarter of a century since that incident. But Simmu still holds a very special place in my life. I have given her plenty more reasons to throw me a rope – or spread the rug, if you will – over these past twenty-five years. And I carry on goofing, secure in the knowledge that she is just a phone call away. People believe we are dear friends but truth be told, I wear her in my life as you would a lucky charm. Close to the heart.

NOTE: You may place an order for your copy here.

Anita Nair’s fourth book, Lessons in Forgetting, is a dark, reflective work, the two primary characters — Professor J. Krishnamurthy, Jak to friends, and Meera — continually revisiting their past to make sense of their present. Meera is trying to cope with a marriage that failed overnight and Jak is looking for the truth behind his vivacious 19-year-old daughter’s catatonic state. The unpredictability of nature is a significant character, too, as the author draws metaphoric parallels with cyclonic turbulence to take the narrative forward. A beautiful setting, a gentle disturbance, its swelling violence and sudden impact are followed by destruction, shock and despair. Then, the turnaround, recovery and new beginnings.

Meera, cool, poised, writer of cookbooks, and the epitome of a perfect society hostess and corporate wife, is left holding the reins of her family and a rambling old family home in Bangalore when her husband, Giri, disappears without a word. Jak, tempestuous and volatile, much like the cyclones he studies, is devastated when his daughter, Smriti, slumps into coma after a vicious attack while on holiday at a beachside town.

The story moves to and fro chronologically as the reader is introduced to far-from-perfect characters: multi-faceted, complex with strong emotions, desires, fears and strengths, and easily identifiable. Of note are the idealistic, fearless Smriti and her wannabe actor boyfriend, Rishi; the terrified, yet determined Chinnathayi; a thirteen-going-on-adult Nikhil; and the mild-mannered, yet intimidating Srinivasan.

With a keen eye on the market (Lessons in Forgetting will soon be available in celluloid), human emotions remain the focus of the book even as the author takes an intense look at marriage, parenthood, destiny and relationships. It is packed with occurrences that unapologetically debunk recognised culture and convention.

Midlife angst, corporate lifestyle, teenage trauma, nature and salvation unhurriedly come together to take the narration to a predictable conclusion; thankfully sans maudlin tones even as woeful episodes churn the lives of the main protagonists. Love, dependency and betrayal; female infanticide; page three parties; the book has it all. Including a curious, somewhat contrived, comparison of Meera with Hera, the Greek Goddess of Love and Marriage.

As I turned the last page of Anita Nair’s “most intense and complex novel”, in her own words, I was left with a sense of unfinished business. Still, Lessons in Forgetting is ultimately a story about real people, about forgiveness and second chances for everyone. It is ultimately a story about individuals in deep crises coming together to offer succour to each other. It is ultimately a story told by an accomplished storyteller who may oftentimes touch upon stodgy topics. It is ultimately a story that deserves a chance.

NOTE: This review appeared in The Tribune today.

According to conventional wisdom, books (even as you write them) have a tendency to take on a life of their own. A shape of their own; an agenda of their own. Anthologies are no different. To start with, a brilliant, albeit somewhat obvious, idea takes root. Contributions are invited, perused, slaughtered, rejected before the chosen few make their way into the final selection. A selection that may eventually have no obvious connection to its original raison d’etre. India: A Traveller’s Literary Companion, edited by novelist and literary critic Chandrahas Choudhury, is just such an anthology. This latest collection of short fiction presents some good writing in English as well as translations of regional gems. What is difficult to fathom is good reason to club these 13 stories all together for a traveller’s benefit.

Anita Desai, in her “Forward”, prepares readers for a mixed literary bag, one that will take you on a journey through countless Indias. To wit, “These stories `85 are a kaleidoscope of the traditional and modern, the urban and rural, the wealthy and impoverished — a revealing glimpse into the many Indias encompassed by that fathomless word ‘India’”. That journey never quite begins. Nothing connects these stories. There is no common thread sewing them together except that somewhere in the literary recesses, the backdrop of the Indian landscape lurks. Which tiny detail, were we to allow ourselves to forget for just a moment, will surprise you by vanishing completely, revealing the universal nature of most of the select fiction.

The book has been divided into sections based on the four cardinal directions, in order to, it appears, slot geographical settings within the stories as well as represent regional writing. The magical realism of the happenings in The Prophet’s Hair by Salman Rushdie is based around a real incident that transpired in Kashmir. Qurratullain Hyder’s The Sound of Falling Leaves set in the pre-Partition Delhi and Lahore beautifully reflects the values of those times. While The Scent of Orange Blossoms by Mamang Dai portrays a capable woman of today enjoying the status and respect bestowed upon her in Arunachal Pradesh. Kunal Basu’s The Accountant transports you to the time when the Taj Mahal was being built while the Asura Pond by Fakir Mohan Senapati simply describes life around a village pond.

The stories are a diverse lot with a different point of origin, language and time period, spanning the turn of the 19th century to a more recent vintage. Of these, only six have been written in English and the rest are (mostly) excellent and highly readable translations from Indian languages. Without doubt, this selection reflects Choudhury’s profound interest in, and knowledge of, regional writing. He says as much in his “Preface” that he hopes to arouse in his readers “the desire for a more sustained encounter with writers whose work is every bit as good as their better-known counterparts in English.” From a reader’s point of view, I readily endorse this conviction. From an inveterate traveller’s point of view, the jury is still out on this one.

NOTE: This review appeared in The Tribune recently.

 

Stumbled upon a most curious challenge the other day. A challenge that involves an activity I count as one of my Three Great Passions, reading. For the past many years now, I have been increasingly leaning towards English writing from South Asia, with an unabashed preference for both established and emerging Indian writers.

For a reviewer of books, leisure reading takes a huge beating, as by implication and force of habit, I just can’t seem to stop myself from judging. It is primarily to overcome this annoying practice that I accepted the challenge. And, to an extent, in the hope that my crowded bedside table will begin to breathe again. Which should be easy enough, for I have my bar perched at the highest level, the South Asian Guru, at ten books or more.

Since the beginning of the year I have read books by two Indian authors, Dear Agony Aunt by Aradhika Sharma and Anuja Chauhan’s Battle of Bittora. I am presently reading India: A Traveller’s Literary Companion edited by Chandrahas Choudhury. This will be followed by Lessons in Forgetting by Anita Nair. Other than these certainties, here is a projected (expected to change as soon as I post, so no gospel, this) reading list:

1. Empires Of The Indus by Alice Albinia
2. The Difficulty of Being Good by Gurcharan Das
3. Way To Go by Upamanyu Chatterjee
4. Stranger To History by Aatish Taseer
5. The Emissary by Anirudha  Bahal
6. Jawahar Lal Nehru: Civilizing a Savage World by Nayantara Sahgal

So who’s to stop you…? Get, Set, Go.

 

 

 

 

It was purely by chance that I learnt of Har Ghar Kuchh Kehta (Every House Tells A Story). Early last year, on one of many work-related visits to the Tourism Department in Shimla, the Director let drop during a conversation about his pet project: to encapsulate the colonial homes of Shimla in a coffee table book. Nothing singular about that, I had thought, as I politely nodded my head.

He went on to elaborate that the focus of the accompanying text would be on historical events, anecdotes and reminiscences associated with these beautiful buildings. And that the department was reaching out to citizens and visitors to provide personal accounts. My interest was suitably heightened by now, and it must have been hereabouts that I mentioned my own longstanding connection with the hill station.

Having wailed myself into the world at the Lady Reading hospital some four decades ago, I lived and schooled in Shimla during my formative years. Our home, Windsor Terrace, was located beyond Chotta Shimla in Kasumpti, on the furthest edge of a spur. A number of other prominent families of Punjab boasted of summer homes in Shimla, too. There be plenty stories from our stables, I had laughed, as I warmed up to the idea of a nostalgic memoir paying tribute to the place I was born in. Except not all those naughty recollections were suitable for public consumption!

On the Director’s request to play citizen editor, I readily shared a number of tidbits of interest about historically relevant homes I had lived in or had visited regularly during my years in Shimla. Presented a copy of Har Ghar Kuchh Kehta Hai during its launch last autumn, I was glad to see that a couple of them had found their way into the informative and beautifully packaged work.

On a more recent visit to Shimla, I was pleasantly surprised with another coffee table book from the Himachal Tourism stable. Called simply, Unforgettable Himachal, it is a selection of (mostly) splendid pictures of the ever changing landscape of this richly endowed Himalayan state. At rupees five hundred, this tome could well be your most pocket-friendly journey through the 55,700 square kilometers of snow-draped mountains, deep valleys, snaking rivers, sleepy hamlets, frozen lakes, lush forests and rolling meadows that comprise Himachal Pradesh.

Anuja Chauhan’s second book, Battle For Bittora, will make you LOL (laugh out loud). Crafted around the Lok Sabha elections, this romantic comedy brings to the reader a rather “cute” (if I may) version of the Great Indian Democracy, by marrying politics and pop-culture. Draped in humour, this book makes for a rather fine reference as to how the young view life today. With her characteristic wit, the author manages to successfully infuse the shady goings-on in politics with an element of “cool”.

The author’s strength lies in her characters: quite lovable, oftentimes quirky, but mostly funny; generous in their use of Hinglish and mispronounced English. Jinni, Sarojini Pande, a city-bred independent girl, happy in her world of animated “kitaanus” is suddenly para-dropped into the whirlpool of Indian politics. She is pitted against childhood friend-cum-almost-love, ex-royal Zain Altaf Khan, for the affection of the people of Bittora. Her crack team consists of Gudia aunty, a vodka-sipping election agent; Tawwny uncle, a family “frenemy”; and the ever-servile Pappu.

Matriarch Pushpa Pande, “who has gaps in her teeth wide enough for a five-rupee coin”, is decidedly the feistiest of the bunch. Poll-hardened and determined to win, she plays her granddaughter’s campaign manager. Draped in cotton saris, all set for the new endeavour, Jinni and Ammaji work hard to meet people, go campaigning and make all efforts to win their votes. But, as we all know, elections in India are not won without propagandas, corruption, betrayals, horse-trading, accusations and blame-games. Anuja Chauhan manages to expose the malicious truth of electoral battles laced with her inimitable sense of wicked comedy.

As stories go, Battle For Bittora is pretty predictable, even though you draw that conclusion with a grin on your face. Her descriptions of the nitty-gritty of politics, as also electoral theatrics, are made with the ease that comes with comprehension. Being politician Margaret Alva’s daughter-in-law, Anuja Chauhan is privy to political affairs like none else. No marks for figuring out the “Grand Old” Pragati Party with the tricolour on its flag and the IJP’s (Indian Janata Party) saffron flag with a marigold on it. The author spares none, making you chuckle with her references to easily identifiable leaders.

It is a light-hearted book with no illusions of grand sentiment and has possibly been written with an eye on celluloid trends. Given that the author’s debut novel, The Zoya Factor, has been contracted for a film, the filmi-speak peppering the book can be easily explained away. However, the entertaining narrative pales in the end due to repetitive sequences. The multi-lingual word play (mosquitoes bhin-bhinnaoing) and oft-mouthed incorrect English by characters (“nave” for na`EFve) begin to trip you once too often in an otherwise crisp read. In a sense, Battle For Bittora is a lot like the characters inhabiting its pages: funny, imperfect, and with a tendency to lose the plot now and then.

NOTE: This review has appeared in The Tribune today.

Last weekend I made a mad-dash for the Jaipur Literature Festival with fellow-author Khushwant Singh (not to be confused with the man in the bulb). It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, made Friday evening, to leave early the following day in order to make it to our destination by late afternoon.

We drove into the Diggi Palace Hotel a good twelve hours later to catch the last literary event of the day; Kabir Bedi announcing the first DSC (sponsors of the festival) prize for South Asian Literature to HM Naqvi for his Home Boy.

Our bone-weary arrival also coincided beautifully with the beginning of a festive evening, replete with colour, bright lights, wine and song. A couple of beers later we were one with the happy milling crowd as we cheered, sang and danced along with the eclectic performances around us. Omar Bin Musa, the rapper of Malaysian-Australian heritage was followed by author Ali Sethi’s poetry and his rendition of ‘aaj jaane ki zid na karo’, more famously associated with Farida Khanum.

The crowds went into a bit of a tizzy with the arrival of the iconic pop-star from Pakistan, Salman Ahmad of Junoon. Having earlier in the day read from his novel, Rock & Roll Jihad, he went on to entertain with songs of joy and healing; ‘saiyonee’ reverberating endlessly to popular demand.

He gave it up for Bant Singh, singer of revolutionary poetry, and a Dalit icon from Punjab. Following the successful conviction of the Jat rapists of his minor daughter, he was beaten mercilessly, losing his legs and an arm to amputation. Famously mouthing, “They have not cut off my tongue, I can still sing”, he continues to render songs of social justice and change. Growling stomachs hastened our departure from the festival just as Sufi singer Madan Gopal Singh was signing off.

We returned refreshed on Sunday to take in some of the back-to-back literary sessions hosted around the Palace grounds. The first to interest me was the discussion in the Front Lawns about the dying American novel. Moderated by British writer, Martin Amis, this enlightening debate included Pulitzer Prize winning American novelist Richard Ford and Jay McInerney, novelist, wine columnist and screenplay writer along with Junot Diaz, best-selling author of Drown, a collection of short stories.

Returning post-lunch with a local friend, I about glimpsed from the sidelines the exchange between Nobel Laureate JM Coetzee with historian Patrick French. Before hurriedly scurrying away to find a spot under the Mughal Tent to take in some Swedish crime fiction; godfather of the genre, Henning Mankell himself, in conversation with fellow Swede, Zac O’Yeah. Creator of the Kurt Wallander Mysteries, he had the audience in splits with anecdotes from his own life as well as that of his chief protagonist. It was a heartening revelation that writers’ experiences and expectations are the same everywhere; irrespective of age, gender, genre, geographical location, popularity.

That evening, many tiny kasoras of tea, and the launch of Mita Kapur’s The F-word later, we headed back to Delhi comparing notes. Undoubtedly a success, evident in its teeming visitors, well-crafted and well-attended by literary figures from across the globe, the most enduring flavour was the wholly democratic nature of the five-day event. No earmarked seats for anyone, I repeat, anyone, in the audience; informality being the order of the day. Accusations of racism notwithstanding  – there certainly were more American and European accents than Indian – the festival was quite an eye-opener for someone used to the all-pervasive, equally undemocratic (now that’s an oxymoron, if ever!), beacon culture of Chandigarh.

Till about a month ago, my responses to those requiring a willing-shoulder-to-cry-on consisted mainly of a forceful ‘dump him/her’, whip him/her’, and ‘get another’. Irrespective of whether it was annoying partners or spouses, bratty kids or hard-to-like bosses; not necessarily in that order. But definitely with nary a thought to the repercussions, were those peeved, snivelling, murderous avatars of usually decent sorts to heed my thoughtless advice. Then, I read Dear Agony Aunt.

This is Aradhika Sharma’s second book after co-authoring the well-timed Sunita Williams: Astronaut Etraordinaire. The slim volume is the story of an online agony aunt, revealing how she has dealt severally, sometimes severely, with the agonised queries that have been hitting her inbox for many years. Ranging from the bizarre to the absolute mundane to rip-roaring funny to the outrageous, this agony aunt takes them all sagely head on. The responses are well thought out no matter how zany, sick, silly or perverse the questions. The problems are plenty: sexual in nature, identity and image issues, abuse in relationships (both real and virtual), medical and professional crises.

At times, the agony aunt does find herself precariously balanced on the horns of dilemma, unsure about which path to offer the plea-in-print. Oftentimes (I was glad to read) she has wished to offer advice similar to my own limited options listed above, but has displayed tremendous reserve when faced with the apparent helplessness of individuals unable to solve their predicament, howsoever trivial. The job of an agony aunt comes with an added sense of responsibility, shares the author, as more often than not the queries posed are genuine in nature and require due consideration.

The conversational narrative may temporarily lull the reader into believing this is an easy read. Also, regardless of the authenticity of the agonies, you will feel compelled to write some of them off as evidence of prankster imaginations. But however amusing they may appear from our comforting perch, they really are no laughing matter. They are, in effect, pleas for attention, the author avers, as she is dealing with real pain, abject helplessness, blissful ignorance, and in some instances, sheer stupidity. Dear Agony Aunt is not to be dismissed lightly as a collection of agonies that happen to other people, as most readers will easily identify with the issues raised therein.

Even the interspersed short stories are based on real-life situations, some of which may possibly have been experienced by the author herself. Long distance cyber relationships and the consequent disappointments are par for the course, as Malti’s character discovers for herself in You got ‘Male’. The Household Ogre holds up a mirror to marital rape and domestic abuse, topics that are now fetching national debate. Let’s ‘See’ highlights that pan-India bane of well-meaning parents arranging for their independent-minded girls to meet with not-so-evolved prospects. While sexual harassment at the workplace meets spiritual exploitation in another disillusioning tale, The Touch. These are agonies of People Like Us, up, close and personal and Dear Agony Aunt may well be the soothing balm.

NOTE: This review has appeared in The Tribune and on BBC.

AFTER many a Himachal-centric book showcasing her heightened fascination for the outdoors, adventure and trekking—Destination Himachal, Exploring Pangi Himalaya, Guide to Trekking, to name a few—Minakshi Chaudhry shifted gears with Ghost Stories of Shimla Hills and Whispering Deodars (an anthology of writings about Shimla). In Love Stories of Shimla Hills, she returns with an offering of love. This, her most recent book, is a collection of 16 stories based on the love affairs of the rich and famous as well as lesser mortals. Based on the premise that it is the idyllic environs of the Queen of Hills, unmindful of consequences, which encouraged romance to flourish or wither away.

Along side the oft-heard tales of the “spiritual bond” between Jawaharlal Nehru and Edwina Mountbatten and the angst of an ever-seeking Amrita Sher-Gil, Love Stories of Shimla Hills reveals the infatuation that reportedly developed between yesteryear actress Sadhana and R. K. Nayar, the director of Love in Shimla which was being shot in the picturesque hills. Spanning 500 years, the stories date back to the 17th century and are an attempt to capture the constant slips and slides of love over the years.

Beginning with folklore, Love Story of a Sati recounts the instant flare of passion between the valiant Boiya and the much-married Gainthu and the consequent tragic events. This tale is still sung as a ballad amongst the people of the hills.

The book also reveals the reasons behind the naming of Scandal Point in a story with the same title. Triggered off by a lady’s love for material things, it is an episode that is purported to have taken place at ‘Oakover’, the then house of the Maharaja of Patiala. An embarrassed and annoyed viceroy Lord Curzon banned the entry of the rulers of Patiala, Dholpur and Kapurthala into Shimla. This in turn caused the Maharaja of Patiala to establish Chail, a hill station merely a stone’s throw from Shimla. The Song that Changed their Lives is a real eye-opener. Having spent a considerable amount of my own childhood in Shimla, I was no stranger to “O laadi Shanta….” an extremely popular pahari song set to trendy beats. Yet, I would never have guessed it was based on a real life romance, the two protagonists well into their forties now.

Other stories transcend the norm: a ghostly lover, Shimla’s first cyber-romance, and a widower caring for his two children single-handedly. The author has taken pains to cover a wide gamut of emotions, eras, nationalities and episodes while collating her stories. The content is mostly new and refreshing as she presents a well-researched collection of modern-day romances. It would have, however, made for a crispier read had the somewhat loose editing not potholed an otherwise smooth ride. But then, that usually the publisher’s ambit.

Note: This review appeared in The Tribune today.