The only thing that eludes the perfect holiday afternoon picture is a heavy downpour. Everything else is at it's place with exactitude. The chocolate bars inside the refrigerator.The coffee ingredients within an easy reach on the kitchen rack-even for a heavy-handed person like me. The devil cell phone placed far away from my sight in a silent mode,which is my best preferred mode. The pillows stacked one after the other on the bed against the wall or the chair in the balcony carefully positioned, whichever suits my mood. And finally, good old Agatha Christie waiting for me along with papa Poirot,the greatest detectives in the world- a fact that he states at least a dozen times in the books without even giving mock-modesty a shot! Good. Modesty is not a virtue. I've always thought so. It only got confirmed when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's legendary character Sherlock Holmes said to his pal Dr. Watson that (Oh no,I'm not quoting him; I wish I could but my memory fails me)- For a logical mind, what matters is only the truth. Modesty is a deviation from truth. I was supremely impressed by this statement. True. If, pompousness,let us call it a positive deviation from truth, is bad then so should be modesty which by definition would become a negative deviation from truth. Which is why I have never been disapproving of brilliant people blowing their own horns,for I never for once thought that they were showing off. They were merely telling the truth.
Anyway, the thing I was driving at- Crime novels. Ever since I picked up one I've been mesmerized. Not only because such fascinating things do not happen to people like me( the only thing close to such exciting affairs that ever happened to me was around five years ago when I came back from school only to discover a broken lock,ransacked house and stolen jewellary-oh,but that is a long,thrilling story which deserves a full post to it), but also because it is nothing short of miraculous to see someone solve a case with such finess and such acumen of grey cells. It would have worth being a character in the books than a real person just to interact with him.
Crime novels,people often feel (just as my mother does,unlike my father though from whom I've inherited my penchant for crime stories) deal with cold bloodedness and brutatily. They couldn't have been more wrong. They deal with the intricacies of every emotion that human mind is liable of being subjected to. Love, greed, possesion, revenge, prejudice, hatred, rage..everything. We, as a human race have no doubt come a long way from being in a primordial soup to our current mode of existence but the basic instincts still remain the same. Fight for food,water,shelter,material possesions,women,men,attention. We are competitive by nature.We don't fancy alikeness much.We like to be different from others,even if it is an iota of difference. This is why various strata of society exist, this is why discrimination exists. Those levelers who are pro-equality should know that equality can never exist, that it would deter the flow of life. As there can be no flow without a level difference.
I'm as much ravenous for such novels as I am for nineteenth century-early twentieth century british english and their social order. Nothing beats it-positively. I get so beguiled by the aristocratic societies of that era.And not just the blue blood,the hoi-polloi too. Their courteous ways of communication,the elegant ladylikeness of the women, the chivalry of the gentlemen- which by the way is one quality that I have accepted with disgruntlement,has died out with that period.And what beautiful plots! What scheming minds! What absolutely unanticipated climaxes! And I absolutely love it when the murderer turns out to be a murderess, unfortunately in a very few cases it has been so. The murderesses have far more interesting characters than their male counterparts, who more often then not are driven by material possesions. Imbeciles! Most men are actually- and the rest are Poirot and Holmes :) .But Murderesses,no..they are different. They are beyond the insignificance of wealth. When they murder-they murder for love, as a consequence of betrayal, for revenge, for pride. Some men do it too,for same reasons. And I opine that, although they are murderers-the 'bad lot',but still are a step above the former bad lot. And now I quote (see? Not that bad a memory :))-
Good men can get ruined by bad women. And the reverse is also true. Bad men can get ruined by good women.
Sigh..books do take one away in a different world altogether,do they not? I read The mystery of the blue train this afternoon. Swell stuff. But yet not as good as some of her works that I appreciate more. My top five still remain- ABC murders, Death on the Nile, The murder of Roger Acroyd ( my father thanked me big time after I suggested him this one), The Orient Express and Five little pigs. It is actually unfair to jot down..because Cards on the table took me by surprise too,so did Hickory,dickory dock. Big four,as an exception was a disappointment. And although Poirot investigates doesn't qualify as a full fledged novel,being a collection short stories-it had some marvelous ones. Some of which,much to the chagrin of A.C and Poirot fans were more or less stolen by a leading detective show on Hindi television. I also liked some of Miss Marple's case- They do it with mirrors. Oh,and another- Sleeping murder. Well,she doesn't have the charm of Poirot, but nevertheless her sweet old grandma type yet guileless style sure is appealing. Honestly I've read just these two, save perhaps a couple of short stories. But I did see a movie on Zee Studio which was an adaptation of A.C's one of Miss Marple's cases. Unfortunately I missed the beginning part, so couldn't see the name of the book that inspired it,for the name on screen was definitely not the name of the book.
Brusque, it might seem but I've got to end this post here. I think I am becoming quite a dab hand at unceremonious endings! :D
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