3Rs - Random Reading & 'Riting - 11

 Ramesh Kumar from Greater Noida / 10 June 2021 Thusday

Bloody sultry morning. Cloudy. Uncool weather. The half curtain on one side of the grilled mini balcony to provide safety for Mittoo, my six-year-old parakeet (dammit... bluff... to stop him flying away... it is altogether another matter that he cannot fly. That's why he is with us, brought home from roadside in Mehrauli by my daughter where she found him struggling. Since then, Mittoo is with us. Yes, he cannot fly. He does occasionally from the ground to hop himself up onto the stationary ceiling fan.).

Unlike this bear story, me no grumpy or lazy papa. What am I talking about? Read below...

Baby bear goes downstairs, sits in his small chair at the table. He looks into his small bowl. It is empty. 

'Who's been eating my porridge?' he squeaks.

Daddy Bear arrives at the big table and sits in his big chair... He looks into his big bowl and it is also empty. 

'Who's been eating my porridge?!?' he roars. 

Mummy Bear puts her head through the serving hatch from the kitchen and yells,  For God's sake, how many times do I have to go through this with you idiots? 

It was Mummy Bear who got up first. 

It was Mummy Bear who woke everyone in the house. 

It was Mummy Bear who made the coffee. 

It was Mummy Bear who unloaded the dishwasher from last night and put everything away. 

It was Mummy Bear who swept the floor in the kitchen. 

It was Mummy Bear who went out in the cold early morning air to fetch the newspaper and croissants. 

It was Mummy Bear who set the damn table. 

It was Mummy Bear, who walked the bloody dog, cleaned the cat's litter tray, gave them their food, and refilled their water. 

And now that you've decided to drag your sorry bear-arses downstairs and grace Mummy Bear with your grumpy presence. 

Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once...

'I HAVEN'T MADE THE ##### PORRIDGE YET!

Thanks to the overworked bladder, at the ripe age of mid-sixties, your dalliance with Dame Sleep is NOT deep. I mean, every 150 minutes, I rise. Got it? 

So, I rise around five in the morning. While betterhalf handles sweeping, cleaning home, I make the bed, clean Mittoo's balcony, change diapers... ugh,, change papers under his cage. Mittoo is uncaged with the balcony screen up, permitting daylight and sunlight to creep in. Not for him alone, but for the mini garden of betterhalf. (Well, she maintains almost two dozen plants of all sizes in our ground floor flat. Not to be ignored is the lawn, unattended by the society but maintained by us).

Soon, the morning tea with cookies (okay, biscuits, namkeen etc) is laid out in the master bedroom adjoining the balcony. Yes, the ceiling fan is switched off. This is the first round of tea. Betterhalf begins her 10000 steps daily walkathon within the home. I step out for my quota. 

Of course, lethargy has set in. I have not walked past 48 hours. Even this morning, betterhalf (me) reminded me of walking. I have to recommence. Soon. 

  

Of late, my reading is more about history or interviews (long formats). Over the past month or so, I have cottoned onto the Renaissance era. How did this happen? Two months ago, while vacuuming the bookshelf, George Ireland's Plutocrats: A Rothschild Inheritance drew my attention. Bought it from a pavement bookseller in 2011, somehow I never crossed the first few pages. Now I dusted up to read the story based on authentic letters exchanged between the family members of Rothschild, the renowned global merchant bankers who bankrolled kings and queens of the UK and Europe in the 19-20th century. 

This led to Niall Fergusson's The House of Rothschild: Money Prophets 1798-1848. This is Volume 1. A brilliant book. A renowned financial journalist with several books to his credit. By the way, I have crossed 100-page mark of Ireland's tome. Now onto Fergusson's simultaneously. He was given free hand by the Rothschild Foundation to access all correspondence in their archives. Though he has given the manuscript pre-publication to check the veracity of dates, names etc, the Jewish bankers did not censor anything. 

Well, well, the focus on merchant banking in Europe led to the Medicis of Florence, Italy. Bankers again. Big scale. More powerful than the Rothschild who would succeed a few centuries later. Medicis, it transpired, sowed the seeds of Renaissance from Florence. Leonardo Da Vinci. Machiavelli of The Prince fame. 

By coincidence, Netflix's Medici: The Magnificent (Season 1-3) enabled me binge-watch this beautiful historical drama. Must watch. Well, that is where I understood the Medicis's role in igniting Renaissance. 

Not to be forgotten is the Silk Road research that also dwelt on the role of Venetian merchants. Remember William Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice? Never read the original drama, though familiar with the greedy ewish money lender Shylock, whose tale my material grandfather narrated in the 1960s while escorting me to school in the then Madras (now Chennai). Yes, I googled the original text of MOV to reach the drama script- scene by scene. Just began. Finished Act 1-2. Portia's chat with her maid-friend about matchmaking is fabulous. Will talk about it sometime later.

That's All for today..