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The Peacemaker’s Lost World | Peacemaker: U Thant and the Forgotten Quest for a Just World, by Thant Myint-U

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Peacemaker: U Thant and the Forgotten Quest for a Just World,
by Thant Myint-U,
Published by W.W. Norton & Company (2025)
Rating: *****​

History as Lives Lived

History, at its best, arrives not through timelines but through lives. In my primary and middle school, we were taught the 1960s through Indira Gandhi’s steely gaze or the grainy footage of moon landings; the United Nations appeared, if at all, as a backdrop to superpower posturing. Thant Myint-U’s Peacemaker upends that frame, placing U Thant – a Burmese schoolteacher turned Secretary-General – at the centre of the decade’s defining crises. What results is a narrative so compelling it reads like a novel, yet so rigorously archival that it reconfigures our understanding of the Cold War’s shadow lines.​

The book’s genius lies in this biographical method: history as the choices and constraints of one man, watched in real time. Congo’s descent into chaos, the Cuban Missile Crisis’ 13 feverish days, Vietnam’s deepening quagmire, the Six-Day War’s sudden violence – these are not abstract events but episodes in which U Thant, often alone, cables presidents, dispatches envoys, and drafts memoranda that might – just might – avert catastrophe. Myint-U’s prose is crisp, almost cinematic; the archival work (thousands of footnotes attest to it) feels effortless, letting the documents speak while guiding the reader through their implications.​

From Model UN to the East River

As someone who cut their teeth on Model United Nations – drafting resolutions on non-proliferation in airless school auditoriums, learning to parse the difference between General Assembly grandstanding and Security Council realpolitik – this book lands with particular force. The UN of MUN is a game of procedure; Thant Myint-U shows what it looked like when the gavel mattered. U Thant inherits the office in 1961 after Dag Hammarskjöld’s mysterious death in a plane crash, and immediately faces a world fracturing along post-colonial fault lines: newly independent African states demanding dignity, Asian nations pressing economic justice claims, and great powers treating the organisation as a useful irritant.​

The Cuban Missile Crisis chapter alone justifies the book. While Kennedy and Khrushchev trade ultimatums, Thant – calm, insistent, invoking Burmese non-alignment – proposes face-saving off-ramps that both sides, grudgingly, accept. It’s a reminder of multilateralism not as lofty ideal but as crisis management: the Secretary-General as the one figure neither superpower can fully dismiss. For those of us who have watched more recent UN processes, whether that is climate negotiations, advisory opinions, biodiversity summits, the contrast is stark. Thant’s UN had agency while the one we engage with can often seem like a spectator.

The Third World’s Brief Ascendancy

What elevates Peacemaker beyond crisis chronicle is its excavation of a forgotten internationalism. U Thant arrives as the first non-Western Secretary-General at the high-water mark of “Third World” ambition: Bandung’s afterglow, the Non-Aligned Movement’s birth, demands for a New International Economic Order. Myint-U shows his grandfather championing these causes: decrying apartheid as a threat to peace, proposing environmental safeguards decades early, insisting that decolonisation includes economic sovereignty. This is history as contested terrain, where the global South briefly set terms.​

Yet the erasure was swift and deliberate. Western capitals, comfortable with Thant during Cuba, bridled when he criticised Vietnam or equated Israeli actions with settler colonialism. The press followed suit; a Nobel Peace Prize was dangled, then withdrawn. Myint-U’s account of this airbrushing – US politicians belittling the “schoolmaster from Burma,” Israel’s complaints about his even-handedness – lands as a sobering lesson in whose stories endure. For a scholar of international environmental law, where similar dynamics play out today (loss and damage funds haggled over like Congo reparations), the parallels are inescapable.​

Hagiography or Measured Tribute?

Does all this amount to hagiography? The question hangs over any grandson’s biography, and Peacemaker invites it. Myint-U is candid about U Thant’s flaws: excessive reserve, overfaith in the UN’s machinery, a certain naivety about power’s brute realities. But the portrait remains warm, the judgments gentle. Readers expecting dispassionate critique might cavil; those who see the book as history through biography will find it exemplary.​

This is how I learned history: not as ledger of dates, but as human endeavour – Nehru navigating non-alignment, Gandhi wrestling moral absolutism against wartime necessity. Myint-U revives that method for a global stage, teaching us the 1960s through one man’s principled, often lonely, quest. It’s educational in the deepest sense: not mere facts, but a vision of what multilateralism briefly promised.

Lessons for a Fractured Present

Peacemaker arrives when the UN is widely mocked – Security Council paralysis, endless General Assembly speeches, credibility eroded by decades of selective enforcement. Yet Thant Myint-U insists on another reading: a reminder that individuals from the margins have, before, bent history’s arc. U Thant did not secure a just world; no one could have. But his decade in office proves the organisation can be more than theatre when led by someone who believes in it.

For those of us working in international law’s long defeats – climate finance battles, ocean governance deadlocks – the book offers bracing perspective. Multilateralism endures not because it’s perfect, but because alternatives are worse. In an era of Trumpian unilateralism and rising protectionisms, recovering U Thant’s story feels urgent. This is not nostalgia; it’s equipment for the fights ahead.

Five stars without reservation: archival rigour, narrative verve, intellectual heft. If biography can teach history, Peacemaker proves it can also rekindle possibility.

Letters, Again | The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans

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The Correspondent,
by Virginia Evans,
Published by Penguin Random House (2025)​
Rating: **** (really, 3.7)

A life written in letters

Sybil Van Antwerp has spent most of her life doing what the title promises: corresponding. Most mornings, around half past ten, she sits down to write letters to family, to friends, to a university president who will not let her audit a class, to Joan Didion and Larry McMurtry, and to one person who never actually receives what she drafts. In The Correspondent, Virginia Evans turns this habit into form, offering an epistolary novel about the long afterlife of the things we commit to paper and the question of whether, very late in the day, forgiveness can still be written.​

One of the book’s great pleasures is how ordinary Sybil’s voice is on the page. These are not vaulted, self-consciously “literary” letters, but the kind of correspondence that would not be out of place in a family archive: clear, practical, sometimes meandering, with occasional shafts of humour and sudden, disarming honesty. At its best, reading this novel felt like dipping into someone else’s inbox – an experience familiar to anyone who has stumbled across old emails or handwritten notes and found themselves lingering over the everyday as much as the dramatic.​

Character, memory, and timing

Beneath the apparent lightness of the set-up, there is a more serious project underway. Letters from someone in Sybil’s past begin to arrive, forcing her back toward one of the most painful periods of her life and toward the unsent letter she has been, in effect, composing for years. Evans handles this slow reveal with a good deal of control: details are withheld and released with care, and it is often a throwaway line in one letter that gathers weight two or three sections later.​

Sybil herself is a satisfyingly knotty late-life protagonist. She is capable, funny, occasionally prickly, and far from saintly; there are blind spots in her own self-understanding that the letters only gradually expose. Relationships are largely built in the negative space between what she chooses to narrate and what she leaves out, which feels right for a book about how we curate ourselves for others on the page.​

When the letters misfire

For all that, the form does not always work in the novel’s favour. There are sections where you can feel the book working a little too hard to include particular exchanges from Sybil’s past. The schooldays correspondence with Rosalie, for instance, is ushered in quite smoothly – the transition into that earlier time in Sybil’s life is believable – but the transition out is much rougher, snapping us back to the present-day timeline before the emotional dust has really settled. The effect is mildly jarring, as though we have been shown a crucial folder and then had it slammed shut mid-perusal.

That pattern recurs elsewhere. Some letter-runs are anchored clearly in Sybil’s current preoccupations, and the movement between past and present feels organic. Others read more like backstory that needed a home, with the result that the overall rhythm of the book becomes uneven. The best epistolary novels often make productive use of gaps and jagged edges; here, the joins sometimes show.

A rushed final act

A similar unevenness appears in the pacing. For much of its length, The Correspondent proceeds at a careful, reflective tempo. Conflicts accrue slowly, the question of whether certain letters will ever be sent remains genuinely open, and the book is content to sit with Sybil’s ambivalence rather than resolve it. In the final 30–40 pages, though, the story accelerates dramatically. Long-deferred conversations happen, the fate of the unsent letter is decided, and various strands are tied off at a speed that feels out of step with the earlier patience.​

By that stage, the broad outline of what has to happen is fairly clear; predictability in itself is not the problem. What disappointed me was the sense that, just as the novel’s core conflicts reach their most interesting pitch, the depth and granularity of attention fall away. The early letters do the slow, difficult work of showing how a person learns to live around an old wound; the ending, by contrast, seems more interested in ensuring that everything is resolved before the final page count. The result, for me, was a slightly thinner emotional payoff than the set-up deserved.

Reading through my own correspondence

All of this is coloured, inevitably, by the way the book intersected with my own history of letters. My parents wrote to each other before and after they were married, when distance and circumstance meant their lives ran in parallel more than they overlapped. Reading those letters as an adult has felt, more than once, like having live access to their love story, and to versions of them that do not yet know me. My father remains an excellent email writer; he has sent me long, reflective messages over the years that I have not always answered, something this book made me wince about more than once.

For a period, one of my closest friendships existed almost entirely on email, by choice rather than necessity. We built a relationship inside subject lines and sign-offs, with all the latency and generosity that asynchronous conversation permits. It made me appreciate and provide space for longform conversations through my life. Spending time with Sybil’s habit of sitting down, regularly, to write – even to people who will never read the words – left me wanting to recover that practice. I finished The Correspondent with a modest, but concrete resolution: to write more letters and emails, and perhaps to try, at least once a month, to be a correspondent in more than just the literary sense.

This is ultimately why, despite reservations about structure and pacing, the book landed at a 3.7 for me rather than a flat three. It is not, in my view, an unqualified triumph of the epistolary form, and Sybil will not displace my favourite fictional letter-writers any time soon. But there is something quietly valuable about a novel that, even in its imperfections, nudges you back toward your own drafts folder and the pile of unanswered messages on the desk.

Villages Within Villages

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There’s something about planning to meet your best friend that makes you realize how much has changed, and simultaneously, how little has changed. Today, while figuring out when to meet my best friend and his fiancée who are in town, I found myself naturally suggesting that we meet first as just the three of us, and then later with our parents. It wasn’t a calculated thought – it just felt right. Because while we’re very much adults now, making our own plans and living our own lives, there’s this wonderful thing that happens when we’re all together with our parents: we get to choose to be kids again. Not because we have to, but because we want to. Because there’s joy in watching our parents beam at our achievements while still fussing over whether we’re eating enough.

When he mentioned that it would have been nice to meet multiple times but we know that both of our schedules are tight, I found myself nodding with a smile. Five years ago, that comment from any one of my friends might have sparked anxiety in me, a fear that friendships could slip away in the spaces between meetings. But today, it felt natural. Our friendship has weathered enough time and distance to know that it doesn’t depend on frequency of meetings. It depends on something much more fundamental – the knowledge that we’re there for each other, growing alongside each other, even when we’re apart.

I’ve been watching my friends step into new chapters lately. Ones becoming twos, twos becoming threes. There’s something profoundly beautiful about seeing friends embrace roles I’ve only known from the outside – partners, parents, different kinds of professionals than they started as. I love how they navigate these new waters, sometimes turning to other friends who understand these experiences better than I can. A friend who just became a parent might need advice I can’t give, but I can still be there – maybe not with solutions, but with presence, with support, with a willingness to learn about this new dimension of their life. I’ve also learned that quite frequently, people aren’t looking for solutions, just a pair of ears and a warm smile.

They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I’m starting to see how that wisdom extends to all of life’s big changes. We’re all part of each other’s support systems, showing up how we can, when we can. Sometimes that means late-night calls about career decisions, sometimes it means holding a friend’s baby while they grab a shower, sometimes it’s just sending a message saying “I saw this and thought of you.”

What’s beautiful is watching our circles expand. Every wedding I attend, every baby I meet, every partner who joins our group – they’re not dividing the existing love and attention, they’re adding their own layers to it. Our friendships aren’t getting diluted; they’re getting richer, more complex, more interesting. I’m loving how friendship evolves. How it finds new rhythms, new patterns, new ways of showing up. How some friends who I used to meet every day are now people I see twice a year but pick up exactly where we left off. How others who were once acquaintances have become central parts of my life. How we all flow in and out of each other’s important moments, creating this intricate web of care and connection.

When I see my best friend soon, I know we’ll talk about his upcoming wedding, about work, about life. We’ll share space with his fiancée, who brings her own warmth to our friendship. And later, when we’re all sitting with our parents, we’ll probably fall into old patterns – sharing glances over inside jokes, getting gently teased about childhood mishaps, being reminded to eat more. Not because we haven’t grown up, but because we have – enough to know that growing up doesn’t mean leaving behind the joy of sometimes being someone’s child.

That’s the gift of these evolving friendships – they give us space to be everything we are, everything we’re becoming, and everything we’ve been, all at once.

Shall we dance?

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Shall we dance, my friends?

Shall we play that agonizing game of waiting to take to the dance floor when the music is playing in the background? Shall we pretend we don’t hear the melody calling us, even as our feet begin to tap unconsciously against the floor? Shall we feign indifference to the rhythm that’s been there all along – that persistent beat of words waiting to spill onto the page?

Seven months is a long time to stand at the edge of the dance floor. Seven months of the music playing, of thoughts collecting like dust in the corners of my mind, of stories waiting to be told. But here we are again, you and I, circling each other in this familiar space.

You might expect a New Year’s resolution at this point. A grand declaration of “I will write more” or “I will post every week” – the kind of precise choreography we convince ourselves we need. But I’ve been thinking about something different: guiding principles rather than rigid resolutions. It’s like choosing to learn the fundamentals of movement rather than memorizing specific dance steps. These principles aren’t waiting for the clock to strike midnight or for a new calendar to hang on the wall – they’re about approaching each day with intention, about recognizing that growth and change don’t adhere to our arbitrary timelines.

This is, admittedly, a grand experiment I’m conducting with myself. The hypothesis is simple: that principles which guide us daily will serve us better than resolutions that often feel like deadlines looming in the distance. That instead of waiting for the perfect moment to change, we acknowledge that change is a constant dance we’re already engaged in.

I’ve noticed something fascinating about writing – it’s less like a skill you master once and more like a muscle that needs constant exercise. In the months when I’m regularly putting words to page, something magical happens. It’s not just the blog posts that flow more easily; every form of written communication becomes more fluid, more precise. My emails carry a certain rhythm, my text messages find their own poetic tempo. Even my thoughts seem to arrange themselves more coherently, as if the very act of regular writing tunes the orchestra of my mind. This year, as part of my guiding principles, I want to honor this connection. To acknowledge that each word written, whether in a lengthy blog post or a quick message, is part of the same dance – each step making the next one more natural, more graceful.

There’s a certain vulnerability in returning to this space after so long. It’s like stepping onto a brightly lit stage after months in the wings, squinting slightly at the familiar-yet-foreign feeling of exposure. But perhaps that’s exactly what makes it meaningful. The willingness to be seen, to share the stumbles along with the graceful moves, to invite others into this dance of words and thoughts and half-formed ideas.

So shall we dance this dance of trying to write again? I can’t promise perfect rhythm or flawless steps. I can’t even promise I’ll keep writing – though that’s the hope, the intention, the principle I’m embracing. All I know is that the music is playing, has been playing all along, and I’m finally stepping back onto the floor.

The only way to dance, after all, is to keep dancing. And this time, I’m choosing to hear the music in every word, every message, every thought that finds its way to expression. It’s all part of the same beautiful choreography, this daily practice of putting words into the world.

Inklings

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The weekend saw the clocks go forward, our first sunny day marking the start of Spring, and the start of Global Poetry Writing Month. I raced through Toshikazu Kawaguchi’s Before the coffee gets cold and its sequels. A fulsome review will follow, but I haven’t been able to stop recommending the books for their warmth and their exploration of a very difficult question. Each book’s opening pages ask you If you could go back, who would you want to meet? A truly fantastic way to foreshadow what follows, but you carry the blanket nostalgia all through your time with the books. I have existed in that state since, yearning, over the past few days for parts of my pasts, and accepting, slowly, that these pasts are not my present parts.

This is how I am coping.

This afternoon, I purchased Before the coffee gets cold for a dear friend and wrote a short note in the front of the book. I have, over the past two years, essentially moved to living entirely digitally. I mostly take handwritten notes on my iPad nowadays, so getting to witness the shapeliness of my crooked (read, beautiful) cursive on paper once more was joyful. Yet a tinge of something unfamiliar wafted over me. The writing wasn’t slanting, I could draw ruled lines between my letters. The discomfort came from it being a strange experience from a faraway time. A heavy pen, the ink spilling, the worry of the words not quite flowing. The familiar, long-forgotten beast.

Why don’t I write anymore? Ah, that gnawing thought. I examined my short three-sentence note, dated, and grinned. My brain drew the connecting line, squealing with joy – my lack of writing by hand seems to be manifesting in terms of reduced verbose creativity. I do not want to generalise, but I have noticed that living digitally has changed the confidence with which I spill words out onto the page. If you have followed this blog for long enough, you know that I do not enjoy editing. This blog has been the one space I edit nothing at all. I sit, and whatever flows, flows. However it meanders, it meanders. Yet the ease of the backspace has meant all I do nowadays is edit. I have starter trouble more frequently. I have written about this.

So of course I spent the evening cleaning out my pens and filling ink. I write mainly with fountain pens. I dabbled with the odd gel and ballpoint pens, but nothing stuck around for long enough. Some pens refused to write. I spent an hour cleaning them out. They all write now. They’re in front of me as I type: one from Grade 5, one from Grade 7, one from Grade 10, two from first-year of University, and two graduation gifts.

I’m going to keep a notebook with me through the day. I don’t know how I will use it, but I’d like to set it out when I take my laptop/iPad out wherever I am. Apparently there’s something called a commonplace notebook. I need to read more. For now, I am not a thought, but an inkling once more.

Fizzed Out: The Bubbly World of Sparkling Water Enthusiasts

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Some time ago, I met a friend from Switzerland and we got into an animated discussion about drinking plain tap water as against sparkling water. I grew up in Asia, and although have been to Europe and tried out the drink of the people, I have never been able to understand the cultural phenom that it is. It makes no sense to my brain that this tasteless drink deserves the joy of the fizz, or that fizz can be tasteless, it feels opposed to the law of nature. I felt very strongly about this till this past weekend. Attending a conference has perks, one of which is unlimited beverages, and there was sparkling water available throughout. This is standard practice in hotels in Europe, so we were not producing excessive recycling, but having consumed nothing but the fizz for three days, I am now a changed man. I joked to a friend that this could very easily be the end of my love affair with the sugary stuff. A new elixir has been found.

Now, before we embark on this carbonated quest, let’s address the elephant in the room—or should I say, the fizz in the fridge. Sparkling water isn’t just any ordinary drink; it’s like water’s fancy, more bubbly cousin who shows up to parties with a tuxedo and a monocle. It’s H2O’s alter ego, the water that decided it wanted to dance a little jig and wear a top hat.

But why?

I have spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about this one question. Why did I drink sparkling water when still water was right there? Why does anyone? I offer some ideas for you to take with you into the world.

The Sparkling Water Boom

A mere decade ago, sparkling water was the wallflower at the hydration prom, lurking quietly on the fringes of the beverage aisle. But then, seemingly overnight, it burst onto the scene like the Millennium Falcon making the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. It went from being a niche favorite of a few sparkling aficionados to a drink that found itself on every hipster cafe’s menu, in the hands of celebrities, and as the star of its own social media hashtags. It was as if sparkling water had been granted the power of the Force, suddenly becoming omnipresent.

One key factor in this fizz-tastic ascent was the growing awareness of health-conscious consumers. People started to realize that guzzling gallons of sugary soda wasn’t the wisest life choice if they wanted to live long and prosper. The health implications of excessive sugar consumption became as clear as the Death Star looming over Alderaan (yes, we’re throwing in a Star Wars reference because why not?). As a result, many turned to sparkling water as a healthier alternative. It had the fizz without the fructose, the sparkle without the sugar, and it quickly became the go-to choice for those watching their waistlines and dental bills. According to the Galactic Beverage Association (okay, fine, it’s not really called that, but it should be), sparkling water sales saw a meteoric rise over the past decade. In fact, from 2010 to 2020, sales of sparkling water in the United States alone more than tripled. That’s a growth rate that would make even the most ambitious rebel alliance proud.

Right, enough with the Star Wars references for now.

The Science of Bubbles

In the grand tapestry of beverages, carbonation is the thread that weaves the fabric of effervescence. It’s the magic behind the fizz, the secret ingredient that transforms a mundane sip into a delightful burst of sensation. But what exactly is carbonation, and why are we humans so irresistibly drawn to the allure of bubbly drinks?

Let’s start with the science. Carbonation is the result of dissolving carbon dioxide (CO2) gas in a liquid, typically water. When CO2 gas is introduced into water under pressure, it forms carbonic acid, which reacts with water to create carbonic acid (H2CO3). This compound is unstable, and as it breaks down, it releases carbon dioxide gas in the form of bubbles. Now, imagine this process happening in your mouth as you take a sip of sparkling water. Those tiny bubbles of CO2 gas burst forth, creating a symphony of sensory delight. It’s a bit like a fireworks show for your taste buds, complete with a sparkling crescendo. The sensation of carbonation triggers a complex dance of sensory experiences. Your tongue, equipped with taste receptors for sourness and a general sense of touch, interprets the tingling and slightly acidic nature of carbonation as a novel and exciting experience. It’s like your taste buds are joining a party and exclaiming, “This is something new!”

The excitement doesn’t end there. The carbonation also stimulates nerve endings in your mouth, creating a tactile sensation akin to a gentle massage for your taste buds. It’s like a fizzy massage chair for your mouth—relaxing and invigorating all at once. Now that we’ve unraveled the science of bubbles, let’s journey back in time to explore the historical roots of carbonated beverages and their cultural significance. Carbonation isn’t a recent discovery; humans have been tinkering with fizzy drinks for centuries.

Ancient civilizations, such as the Greeks and Romans, were known to enjoy naturally carbonated mineral springs. These effervescent waters were believed to have healing properties, and people flocked to these natural soda fountains to soak in their bubbly benefits. Fast forward to the 17th century, and enterprising minds began experimenting with artificially carbonated water. It was the birth of what we now know as soda water. In the 18th century, scientists and inventors like Joseph Priestley and Johann Jacob Schweppe made significant strides in developing carbonation methods and commercializing fizzy drinks. Priestley, in particular, is credited with discovering a way to infuse water with CO2, creating the foundation for carbonated beverages.

As these fizzy concoctions gained popularity, they found their way into social gatherings and became a symbol of sophistication and indulgence. It wasn’t just about quenching one’s thirst; it was about the experience—the bubbling excitement of sipping on something extraordinary. In the 19th century, soda fountains and soda jerks became fixtures in American culture. These soda shops served up carbonated creations like sarsaparilla and root beer, often mixed on the spot. It was the original “mixology,” and people reveled in the novelty of creating custom fizzy concoctions. Fast forward once more to the 20th and 21st centuries, and the world of carbonated beverages exploded with options. Sodas in every flavor imaginable, sparkling mineral waters, and flavored sparkling waters became staples of modern life. The act of cracking open a can or bottle and hearing that satisfying hiss of escaping gas became a comforting ritual for many.

Why does this matter? Because the cultural significance of carbonated beverages runs deep. It’s more than just a drink; it’s a symbol of innovation, indulgence, and celebration. Whether it’s the sound of a champagne cork popping at a celebration or the familiar fizz of a soda can being opened on a hot summer day, carbonation is synonymous with moments of joy and delight. It’s the beverage equivalent of confetti—tiny, effervescent bursts of celebration in every sip. Carbonated beverages have also played a role in shaping social rituals and gatherings. From toasts at weddings to cheers during a sporting event, carbonated drinks have a knack for elevating the moment. They add a touch of effervescence to our lives, turning ordinary occasions into something special.

In a world filled with endless choices, carbonated beverages stand out as a testament to human ingenuity and our unyielding desire for pleasure. They remind us that even the simplest things, like a sip of sparkling water, can bring moments of delight and wonder.

The Sparkling Water Spectrum

Naturally then, I wondered, what is the sparkling water spectrum? When you step into the realm of bubbly beverages, you’re entering a universe filled with choices that can boggle the mind faster than a jump to hyperspace. What does an entrant into this market find before them?

1. Seltzer Water: The Purist’s Choice

At the heart of the sparkling water universe lies seltzer water—a simple concoction of carbonated water and nothing else. It’s the minimalists’ drink, the Jedi of the sparkling water world. No flavors, no frills, just pure carbonated refreshment. Seltzer enthusiasts are like the stoic Jedi Knights, appreciating the purity of the force (in this case, carbonation) without the distraction of flavor.

2. Sparkling Mineral Water: The Connoisseur’s Delight

Step up a notch, and you’ll find sparkling mineral water. This is the sparkling water equivalent of a fine wine. It hails from natural mineral springs and carries the terroir of its source. With elegant names like San Pellegrino and Perrier, these are the beverages you’d sip while discussing art, philosophy, or the intricacies of intergalactic diplomacy. Enthusiasts are like sommeliers of the sparkling world, discerning nuances in mineral content and effervescence levels.

3. Flavored Sparkling Water: The Adventure Seeker’s Oasis

Now, we enter the territory of flavored sparkling waters—where the party truly begins. These come in an array of flavors that can make your head spin faster than a hyperdrive. From citrus zest to exotic fruit infusions, they cater to adventurers seeking a twist on tradition. Enthusiasts are the explorers of the sparkling realm, constantly seeking new flavor frontiers.

4. The DIY Sparkling Water Enthusiast: The Mad Scientist of Bubbles

For some, the allure of customization is irresistible. Enter the DIY sparkling water enthusiast, armed with a home carbonation machine that can rival a starship’s control panel in complexity. These aficionados take plain water and transform it into sparkling magic, adding flavors and experimenting with carbonation levels. They are the alchemists of the sparkling world, seeking the perfect formula for bubbly bliss.

5. The Die-Hard Fizz Fanatic: The Carbonation Crusader

And then, there are the die-hard fizz fanatics—those whose love for sparkling water knows no bounds. They’ve ascended to a level where they can taste the subtle differences in CO2 saturation and will passionately debate the merits of various carbonation methods. They collect vintage sparkling water bottles like they’re priceless relics, and their knowledge of obscure sparkling water brands is encyclopedic. These are the Jedi Masters of the sparkling water realm, guiding others on their path to bubbly enlightenment.

The Star Wars references just do not stop coming.

You know the science, you know the history, you have identified what character you are – but the question remains, how must one behave when offered this chalice? Don’t worry, I’ve done the sociological experimentation. Armed with an extensive three-day dataset, I present to you,

The Rituals of Fizz and The Etiquette of Bubbles:

With great sparkling water comes great responsibility—or at least, great rituals and etiquette. Sparkling water enthusiasts understand that the bubbles deserve respect, and there’s an unspoken code that governs the way we serve and savor these effervescent elixirs.

Let’s start with the etiquette of serving and sharing sparkling water. When someone offers you a glass, it’s not just a gesture; it’s an invitation to partake in the sparkling experience. To decline is akin to refusing the hand of a dancing partner in the midst of a waltz. As for the fine art of opening a bottle without creating a sparkling water fountain—well, that’s a skill worthy of admiration. The quiet, graceful twist of the bottle cap is a mark of an experienced hand. Then, it’s a five-step staircase to bliss.

1. The Perfect Pour: When a bottle of sparkling water is opened, it’s akin to a curtain rising on a theatrical performance. The initial hiss is the overture, and the first pour is the opening act. The perfect pour is a delicate art, ensuring that the bubbles are preserved, and not a single drop is wasted.

2. The Crystal Chalice: Sparkling water aficionados have an uncanny appreciation for glassware. They believe that the vessel must match the elegance of the liquid it holds. It’s as if the sparkling water deserves nothing less than crystal-clear perfection.

3. The Sip and Savor: As the glass approaches the lips, there’s a moment of anticipation. The sip is taken, and the sensation is savored. It’s not just about quenching thirst; it’s about indulging in the symphony of bubbles and the dance of effervescence on the palate.

4. The Art of Pairing: Just as fine wines have their ideal food pairings, sparkling water enthusiasts believe that certain dishes are enhanced by the bubbles. It’s a quest to find the perfect culinary partner, where the sparkling water complements and elevates the flavors of the meal.

5. The Faux Cocktail: For those who enjoy the sensation of sipping a cocktail without the alcohol, sparkling water has become the go-to fauxtail mixer. It’s the secret ingredient that transforms ordinary mocktails into sophisticated, alcohol-free delights.

In the world of sparkling water culture, conversations flow as freely as the bubbles themselves. Sparkling water enthusiasts engage in spirited debates about their favorite brands, carbonation levels, and flavor profiles. It’s like a secret society where the password is “fizz,” and members bond over their shared love for the bubbling elixir.

Armed with all this knowledge, go on, don’t be shy, join in. You won’t regret it.

The Epic Struggle of My Five-Month Procrastination Odyssey: Navigating the Abyss of Inertia, Quixotic Dreams, and the Perils of Measuring Success

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Hello there, fellow beings of the internet. It has been an eternity since I last graced your screens with my words, and it feels like I’ve been trying to launch a rocket to Mars using a slingshot made of spaghetti. You see, for the past five months, I’ve been in what you might call a “forced sabbatical” from the world of writing. But today, armed with my quill (read: keyboard) and a cup of tea, I’m here to regale you on a journey through the epic saga of my battle with the infamous Instant Gratification Monkey. This may be the shortest epic you read.

In the immortal words of the master procrastinator himself, Mark Twain, “Never put off till tomorrow what may be done day after tomorrow just as well.” Well, Mr. Twain, I’ve taken your advice to heart, and here I am, not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow, but somewhere in the foggy realm of the indefinite future, finally putting fingers to keyboard. I am almost positive that you have heard this story before. I am certain I have told you this story before. Anybody crunching the numbers on my blog posts would find that at least three posts each annual year devote themselves to the creative struggle of procrastination, and how I feel limited by what remains in my head, unspilt out onto the page. Despite my desire not to start a new habit by etching over these fault lines once more, I find that honing in on my procrastination is a great place to begin once over. It is but acceptance that allows us to truly master our own fates.

Picture this: I’ve been on a quest to start writing, and it’s been as successful as trying to teach a penguin to breakdance or, even better, trying to teach a brick wall to recite Shakespearean sonnets. It’s not that I’ve forgotten how to write; it’s just that I’ve somehow become the commander of the S.S. Procrastination, cruising through the sea of distractions in the most comfortable pyjamas. As I sit here, staring at my blank screen, I can’t help but channel the wisdom of Abraham Lincoln, who once said, “Give me six hours to chop down a tree, and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.”

Well, Abe, my buddy, I’ve spent the last five months meticulously sharpening my axe, but now, it’s time to take a mighty swing at the vast forest of unwritten words.

The tension, my digital compadres, is thicker than the plot of a mystery novel. It’s like trying to ride a unicycle while juggling flaming bowling balls and singing operatic arias. I want to write, sure, but I also want to write a book. I want to craft a blog post, yes, but I also want to craft witty social media updates! Alas, the baggage of ambition! And then there’s the matter of measuring success. Ernest Hemingway famously declared, “There is no friend as loyal as a book.” I aspire to that loyalty, and I have previously declared I write for no one but myself. Sometimes, however, I catch myself wondering, what if my book only has a few readers? What if my blog post gets lost in the vast ocean of the internet, like a message in a bottle tossed into the sea? Alas, the baggage of self-doubt!

Both unfashionable travel companions if you ask me. I spoke to my mother recently about how perhaps ambition was my hamartia, not the white lies or anything else. Perhaps, I said to her, it is my ambition that makes me procrastinate, because I know what I do now will not live up to what I wish it to be, or make it out to be in my head. This blog post is clearly not the book I want to write, and maybe I’m holding onto an image of what I once thought within the realms of possibility. As all mothers are, she was dismissive of my doubts and misgivings, suggesting I pivot quickly to labelling my ambition with passion. In casting my mind’s eye back to my carefree, creative childhood, where everything was allowed (within reason), she reminded me I’ve been passionate through my life. About different things, but passion has been a constant. Suddenly everything made sense again.

The arbitrary yardsticks I see myself setting emerge out of wanting to seem ambitious, not merely passionate. Why write a book, why not retain command over the blogosphere, this most democratic space?

As I type these closing words, I can’t help but recall the timeless words of William Shakespeare: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Well, dear reader, it’s time for my encore performance. Let the words flow, let the laughter ring, and let the writing begin anew! And you know what? I’ve realized that reading and writing, like a pair of old friends, have been waiting patiently for me to reunite with them. So, here’s to the resumption of both reading and writing, for they are the twin stars that guide my literary voyage, and together, we shall set sail on this grand adventure once more.

A Symphony of Voices | The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois, by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

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The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois,
by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
Published by Harper (2021)
Rating: *****

As a reader, there are few things more exciting than the discovery of a literary gem that enriches your understanding of the world, captivates your imagination, and leaves you with a sense of wonder. This experience is only heightened if the book marks a night spent reading to start the Easter weekend away from e-mail.

In Love Songs, Jeffers masterfully weaves together the story of Ailey Pearl Garfield, a young woman struggling to make sense of her family’s complex history and her place within it. As the novel unfolds, the reader is drawn into a rich tapestry of interconnected lives, spanning from the days of enslavement to the present. With each beautifully crafted chapter, Jeffers expertly layers historical fact, personal narrative, and a touch of magical realism to create a story that is both deeply moving and utterly captivating.

Jeffers’ storytelling prowess is impressive. Her characters are vividly rendered and deeply human, their voices ringing clear and true. Ailey, in particular, is a beautifully realized protagonist, her journey of self-discovery serving as the novel’s emotional backbone. Jeffers has a remarkable ability to breathe life into her characters, making them feel as real as the people we encounter in our own lives.

Despite its length and the complexity of its narrative, the novel is a true page-turner. Jeffers expertly balances the various storylines, allowing each to unfold at just the right moment to keep the reader fully engaged. This sense of momentum and pacing is reminiscent of other great works within the genre, such as Yaa Gyasi’s “Homegoing,” which also explores the multigenerational story of an African American family through history.

Growing up, my first exposure to the female African American experience was through Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”. Even accounting for their differences in genre and scope, it is difficult to look past common thread they share: the exploration of African American identity, history, and resilience. Through their respective narratives, both authors provide powerful insights into the complexities of race, culture, and self-discovery. I think some comparative analysis is therefore merited here.

Both works share a strong emphasis on the theme of self-discovery. In Love Songs, Ailey embarks on a journey to uncover her family’s history and understand her place within it, grappling with her identity as a young, educated African American woman. Similarly, in Caged Bird, Angelou recounts her own struggles with self-acceptance, self-worth, and identity as she navigates the challenges of her childhood and adolescence. In both narratives, the protagonists’ journeys of self-discovery are intrinsically linked to their understanding of their family’s histories and the broader African American experience.

Furthermore, both authors demonstrate a keen understanding of the complexities of race and culture, examining the ways in which these forces shape individual lives and experiences. In Love Songs, Jeffers explores the concept of racial “passing,” or the practice of light-skinned African Americans presenting as white in order to escape racial discrimination. In doing so, she highlights the fluidity and constructed nature of racial identity, as well as the painful sacrifices that individuals must make in order to survive in a racially stratified society. Similarly, Angelou’s work delves into the complexities of race and culture by examining the impact of racial prejudice and discrimination on the protagonist’s sense of self-worth and identity.

Both books possess an undeniable emotional resonance that has the power to captivate readers and leave a lasting impression. They share a profound commitment to exploring the African American experience with depth, nuance, and empathy. My recall of Angelou’s work was especially struck by Jeffers’ use of sex and religion as themes.

The portrayal of sex in these books allows the authors to explore complex and sensitive topics, such as sexual awakening, sexual violence, and the intersection of race and sexuality. In Love Songs, as Ailey comes of age, she grapples with her emerging sexuality and its implications for her identity and relationships. Jeffers’ portrayal of sex in the novel is nuanced and multifaceted, encompassing both the desire for intimacy and the darker aspects of sexual relationships, such as power imbalances and coercion. By incorporating these elements into the narrative, she invites the reader to reflect on the complexity of sexual relationships and their impact on personal growth and self-understanding.

Maya Angelou’s autobiographical account includes a harrowing portrayal of sexual violence, as the young protagonist is raped by her mother’s boyfriend. This traumatic event profoundly affects Maya’s sense of self-worth and contributes to her struggles with identity and self-acceptance throughout the book. Additionally, Angelou’s exploration of her own sexual awakening and subsequent unplanned pregnancy highlights the complex relationship between sex and personal growth, and the undue societal expectations placed upon young Black women.

In both works, the intersection of race and sexuality is an important aspect of the narrative. The authors examine the ways in which race and cultural expectations influence the characters’ experiences and perceptions of their own sexuality. In Love Songs, the concept of racial “passing” also has implications for the characters’ sexual relationships, as it raises questions about identity, authenticity, and the nature of desire. In Caged Bird, Angelou’s experience of sexual violence is situated within the broader context of racial discrimination and the devaluation of Black bodies.

Through their respective narratives, both authors also explore the complexities of faith and spirituality, as well as the impact of religious institutions on the African American experience.

In Love Songs, Christianity is depicted as a central component of the community and family life, shaping the characters’ values, beliefs, and sense of identity. Throughout the novel, the church serves as a place of solace, hope, and community, offering spiritual guidance and support in times of struggle. However, Jeffers also explores the darker aspects of religious institutions, highlighting instances of hypocrisy and the potential for religious dogma to perpetuate harmful stereotypes and social norms. This nuanced portrayal of Christianity in the novel invites the reader to consider the multifaceted role of religion in shaping individual lives and communities, as well as its potential to both empower and constrain.

Similarly, in Caged Bird, religion plays a significant role in Maya Angelou’s upbringing and the shaping of her values and beliefs. The church serves as a central institution within her community, providing a source of spiritual guidance, communal connection, and moral instruction. However, Angelou also grapples with feelings of doubt, disillusionment, and questioning, as she navigates the complexities of her faith and its implications for her understanding of herself and her place in the world. Through her candid exploration of her personal spiritual journey, Angelou offers valuable insights into the role of religion in the African American experience, highlighting both its potential to uplift and its capacity to perpetuate oppression.

One of the most striking aspects of this novel is the thoroughness of Jeffers’ research. Throughout the book, it becomes apparent that the author has painstakingly studied the historical context within which her story takes place. For example, in the chapters set during the era of slavery, Jeffers deftly incorporates details about the daily lives of enslaved people, from the brutal work in the fields to the cruel punishments meted out by slave owners. Additionally, she brings to light the often-overlooked contributions of African Americans in shaping the United States, such as the heroism of Black soldiers in the Civil War.

This commitment to accuracy and historical truth-telling is commendable and serves to elevate Love Songs from a mere work of fiction to a powerful educational tool. As a result, readers are not only entertained but also enlightened, gaining a deeper understanding of the African American experience and the intricate tapestry of American history. Jeffers enables readers to empathize with the struggles, joys, and triumphs of the characters, fostering a deeper understanding of the complexities of race, identity, and resilience. In a time where empathy is difficult to ‘teach’, I was left with the feeling that fiction can heal.

What Do You Research?

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In all honesty, I should be meditating or falling asleep at the moment. I am writing this piece late on a Saturday evening. The only reason I am giving myself a ‘pass’ is because since this afternoon, writing has been the only thing on my mind. It is incorrect to say this afternoon, since the seedling for today’s frame of mind comes from earlier in this week. During a Law Research and Training programme, the Professor on the course recommended we set small writing targets ahead of every supervision meeting we have, and very nicely put my thoughts of reading forever, in “an attempt to do a literature review” aside. My conversation this afternoon, however, was centred around film-making. A good friend brought up how popular Western films and media follow a formulaic approach for success: setting-conflict-resolution. Instantly, I was taken back to my adventures watching Casey Neistat, and thinking about daily blogging as a phase of my life where I was motivated by the sheer passion Casey had for story-telling and film-making. It dawned on me then that I had not written on the blog for a while. Naturally, I had to write tonight.

What about, though? Where do the words come from when the world is spinning?

The past month has seen me settle into the PhD program. All at once, and then slowly. Some very good advice I have been following is to take things a lot slower than I have in the past; to allow me to enjoy and savour every moment of the program I have. As someone who is researching on an active project with a deadline (it is scary to label oneself a researcher, the adjective more frightening than the verb), a frequent question that has emerged in the last four weeks is: what do you research?

It is asked in all sorts of ways. There’s the “first-time-we’ve-met curiosity”, the “oh-someone-says-we-should-meet fascination”, the “why-do-you-teach-family-law-quizzicality” and the “so-why-are-we-talking-disappointment”, I suppose. I am, thankfully, yet to run into the latter. Then there is the internal question I ask myself each time there is a web profile to create. How do I describe what I am interested in? What language shall I use?

It would be unfaithful to say that my brain did not do a consequential analysis each time the question emerged. In what I now consider a commodification exercise, I found myself initially asking: what is the signal my language will give? What will people infer from the vocabulary I use to elaborate what it is I do? I suppose that is but natural with the market that academia and research is. It was, however, a pattern of thought that caused me deep irritating.

On the contrary, speaking about the project I work on to people who are outside the bubble and without a vested interest gave me the opportunity to use similar language without it being “coded” or having an “acquired/adopted meaning”. It has been those conversations that has allowed me to figure out what I do, really – and moved me a little bit away from my earlier habit. I am now of the opinion that with the open texture of language, people’s inferences about my work are not something I can control for – and the way I articulate the field I query is a sequence of words that I hold a precise definition for, but that definition will vary across people I speak to.

That realisation has brought a lot of freedom with it; a larger freedom to express.

These thoughts came up this evening again from a different trigger.

Chris Hilson has a piece in the Journal of Environmental Law, Trends in Environmental Law Scholarship: Marketisation, Globalisation, Polarisation, and Digitalisation, which I thought was really insightful in the way it presented a flaw with studying trends within the discipline by doing an empirical ‘language search’. I highly recommend the read, and I will pen my thoughts about the article more fully at a later time, but what stood out to me is how this pattern of query; and really reflecting on the language we use in response to “what do you research?” has emerged out of digitisation. One of my colleagues and I have frequently debated the harms and benefits that Twitter has brought into academia, but perhaps the thing it has done most in the context of the article is pushed us further into the pit of using “trending” language. The other interesting bit is on Impact (and I particularly appreciate the emphasis on the capital I, with the market definition taking centre-stage) – and I am left wondering – to what extent is Impact influenced by the language of our research? How much SEO should we be putting into academic writing in the modern market of consumption?

Among the web of buzzwords that now accompany me, hanging over my head as a protective cloud sheathing my work from some quarters of criticism by allowing me to seek refuge in ‘schools’ and ‘methods’ (ah, don’t we love the Humanities): “political economy”, “international law”, “the environment”, I sometimes wonder why my response to the question “what do you research?” isn’t “people” – since that, at it’s very core, is what I am investigating.

Kannada Academy: Week 2

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Although it was only my third class, my teacher feels more familiar. There is a pattern that he has managed to establish for our classes. It’ll commence with a short reading test, where I will struggle with some words, and then move toward fresh things.

Yesterday’s class started off with:

“ನದಿ – ನದ”ದ ನೆಲೆ
ನಾಲೆ ಅಲ್ಲಿ – ನದಿ ಎಲ್ಲಿ?
ನೀಲಿ ನೂಲು 
ನವೀನ ನೂತನ ದಿನ
ಲೀಲಾಲೋಲ ಲಲಿತ ಲತಾಂಗಿ
ನಾನು ನಾವು ನೀನು ನೀವು 
ದೀನ ನಾನು – ದಾನಿ ನೀನು
ದೇವ ದೇವತೆ
ದೆವ್ವವೋ – ದೇವರೋ?
My test

While I was able to identify the words with his help, especially on this one: ಲೀಲಾಲೋಲ ಲಲಿತ ಲತಾಂಗಿ, I realised I am really struggling with letters that repeat in the same sentence. I will overcome. There’s a real logic to the way we are moving forward in letter-identification at the minute. I’m learning the twelve forms of the same consonant together: the consonant itself, the consonant with a glottal stop, all of the short vowels, and the long vowels. If I write these out, surely they’ll imprint in my brain. Hopefully that will make future tests easier.

The pop culture references also continue. Today, I was introduced to ಆವು ಈವಿನ ನಾವು ನೀವಿge ಆನು ತಾನದ ತನನನ – da. ra. Bendre

While we embarked on a conversation about the Jnanpith Awards, I learned that it was not possible to decipher the deep meaning of Kannada poetry on the first listen – so another helpful explainer was provided to me. This is arguably the best part of class.

While I struggled with reading out tanana, I was reminded to say the word as if I would say it while speaking (which makes complete sense, since I know how to speak the language to some fluency). That’s inspiring some confidence in this journey.

Then I learned a lot of consonants. I had to cancel today’s class, but I already have an assignment waiting for me on WhatsApp. Next week should be super fun too, I’m looking forward to it.

15 May 2022

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I celebrated my birthday this morning with a group of close friends. If you are reading this as quickly as I’m typing them out, you will note that I did not celebrate too much on the day. I was keen to explore something different from the parties I had been to, and thought of visiting a board game cafe that recently opened up. It worked a treat. Not only was it economical, it gave me an opportunity to assess how competitive some of my closest friends here are (very!), and produced some moments of deal-making (we played Monopoly) that will live long in my memory. I’m hopeful of visiting again – and hopefully for longer – where I can explore more board games. We chose to play Monopoly since everyone was familiar with the rules, so we really got value for our time.

When I was reading Law as an undergraduate student, especially closer to our final year, several friends and batchmates gathered in the night-mess area to play cards and board games. I enjoyed them too, but back then prioritised a different set of things that meant I never really went out to play board games with them. I wish I had done that a little more. I noticed nobody used their phones while our game of Monopoly was on. While video games have become a principal source of my entertainment since the pandemic started, the simple joy of a boardgame is incomparable. My best guess is that it evokes nostalgia – even when you play a new boardgame. The market is also massive, there’s so many new ones I haven’t heard of I really need to get around to.

The afternoon chunk was spent on phone calls and FIFA. Writing and research has used up the evening. I will therefore go to bed very content with the weekend, and looking forward to next week.

14 May 2022

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It was a lot of people’s birthdays today, so my morning went in conveying happy wishes to people. That reminded me I had to reply to wishes posted on my Facebook wall, a number that decreases steadily year-on-year (this is commentary both on Facebook as a medium, and the number of people I am in-touch with via Facebook).

This afternoon a friend and I listened to the spiritual journey of a doctor. The past two years have been really exciting in that respect. There’s always a ton to learn from people’s stories – and the diverse ways in which people in the world confront similar situations and grow from them always leave me with things to reflect about. After a quick dinner, I had Kannada class (more on that will be in a separate post), and I slept almost immediately after.

Earlier this week I made comments about how the longer summer nights in Cambridge were beautiful to look at. That’s still very true, except I must add, I am sleeping a lot more these days. The late evening appears to hit me harder.