The year of the dog: One year of Krish

Krish royally breaking the rule about not being allowed on the bed.

Krish turned a year old yesterday. At least I think he did. The pet shop owner we bought him from told us he was 35 days old when we took him home. Some approximate back calculations later, we arrived at his birth-date. 20th June 2015. I think. 

In any case, it has been 11 months since we brought him home. He was an irresistible bundle of fur when he came home, and now he has grown. Elongated is probably a better word. Like the members of his adopted family, he is taller than most of his kind. In general, hes a good looking fellow. So said every mother of every child. But i'll say it nevertheless.     

The first year has been about education. For both sides, more so for us than for him. I've realised there is no such thing as dog training. It's simply human training hiding behind a fancy name.  Either that or they are calling us dogs. In this, thank you Zak George for your amazing guidance. 

This year has taught me patience. It's something any positive trainer must learn. Its hard, especially during potty training. But then it takes a split second to pause, and remember that they are dogs. They don't have agendas, or cunning. They don't know what spite is. They don't mean it. Really. Which in many ways, makes them so much better than so many people. 

Side note: When I've introduced Krish to strangers, I've always assured them that he's harmless. Pat comes the reply: "Jaanwaro ka bharosa nahi" (you cant trust animals). To which I reply, with geological certainty, "Aaj kal ke insano se jyada jaanwaro ka bharosa hai"(These days, animals are more trustworthy than people).

This year has also been about responsibility. I've realised that though we can take a Sunday off, a dogs excretory system doesn't. Which means that for dog parents, there is no such thing as a Sunday. The same is true for journalists. And journalists who are dog parents. Sigh. Yawn. 




Krish has his unique nap position, where he makes an S with his spine. He sheds a lot. A LOT. He loves the car. He will patiently sit in the car while I do my errands, which is such a blessing. He loves to fetch. He loves other dogs, and other people. Ergo, he's not much of a watchdog. He rubs himself against our legs like a cat. If he's sleeping in our room, he wakes us up at exactly 6:30 AM. He has learnt (to my great annoyance) precisely how to wriggle out of his harness if he's leashed to a tree. The slightest play is enough to get his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.  He goes beserk when daddy's home, and wont sit still until he gets a bear hug from him. He's great with kids. He used to be scared of the tom cat in our building (in his defence, the cat can be pretty scary). He loves socks, especially his father's. And slippers, especially mine. He is the darling of any day care or hostel he stays at, because he adjusts so well. He is not allowed on the bed or the sofas, and he listens (most of the time. Ignore the picture above). I still have scars on my arms from his puppy biting phase, thankfully long past. He made sure I became a regular raffu customer back then as well.  He has a crooked ear, which makes him look all the more adorable. He isn't a barker. Except when there are fireworks. He loves trailing along when I'm riding my bicycle. But every once in a while he will make a go for my ankle. He doesn't like the sound of airplanes. He doesn't mind trains. 

A lot of this is probably true of most dogs, but all of it is still what makes him special. 

Many years ago, when I was a schoolgirl, I was an avid and sincere dog lover. I used to frequent the house of a vet who lived nearby. I used to care for whichever puppy was there, and once in a while, bring one there myself. Or bring one home. The strays in the neighbourhood were all my friends. Once I took one of them to hospital when he needed surgery, and felt faint at the sight of his blood. I dreamed of becoming a vet, or maybe working with the blue cross, or something that involved animals. 

Somewhere along the way, I grew up.I got caught up in the pretence that the adult world is and demands. For so many years, I forgot this part of me, buried it under things I thought were more important. Every time I met a pet dog, it would peek out, hoping again for a release from under the oppression of maturity. But I wasn't as friendly to strays as I had been before. The class based view of the world is infected with had subconsciously imprinted itself on my love for animals. And that wasn't the worst of it. The schoolgirl in me wouldn't have done quite a few things I did while pretending to be perfect.

A few of these barriers broke down when we finally got Krish home. I was able to love, both animals and humans more openly, more widely than I had before. Once again I saw stays as just dogs, just as worthy of love as pet dogs. This is the love Krish has given me. It extended itself into a wider love and respect for all animals and led to my turning vegetarian. It has made me more honest and transparent, like a dog is. 

So even though you cant read this Krish, happy birthday. And thank you. I pray to God that you will always be happy, and keep giving us so much happiness. 

Follow Krish on Instagram @krishibu

KITCHEN KOMPOST: A beautiful solution for the wet garbage problem

Indian houses are super clean. We make sure we throw our garbage out, every single day. Sometimes twice a day. And then we don't care about it. It's garbage, who cares about garbage right?

But is it garbage?

It isn't.

But lets just for a minute assume that it is. Out of sight, out of mind. That's the  code we operate by. 

Here's what happens to it once it leaves the house :

1. Another human being has to handle it, often without any protective gear. Which means they have to stand beside/in it, and sometimes use their hands. 

2. It adds to the scenery of our locality, inviting stray dogs, rats, cows(if you live in Indore). 

3. It is transported to a landfill outside of town, and forms a heap there. The stench becomes a way of life for the people living in the area, and their groundwater will be forever unclean. It occupies land     that otherwise could have provided food for your children and grandchildren. 

Lets just pause and think here. What if there was a way to avoid this, or at least cut it down by half. Would you do it?  For the human being who handles our trash? For the people who live beside it? or For your children, and their children?

One lesson I learned when I moved to a new city in my first job was that I should take responsibility for my own actions. So why not apply that philosophy to my own garbage? Is garbage not a result of my action, and therefore my responsibility?

What I'm about to describe in this post today is a way to handle one half of our garbage issue. 

Garbage can mainly be divided into two parts : Wet and Dry. We all learn in school that wet waste can be converted into compost. If that is true, wet garbage is not garbage at all!

It's food for the soil! We just need to pack it the right way.

What if we had a solution to convert our wet garbage into compost, the soil's favourite food, inside our kitchens, easily, with no foul odour?

Thats exactly what microbiologist Mr. Jayant Joshi, a resident of Thane , Mumbai, has given us. After years of research and trial and error, he has developed a simple yet elegant solution to this complex problem. And his product comes in the form of a simple picnic basket. 

Inventor Mr Jayant Joshi posing with the Kitchen Kompost basket.

The Kitchen Kompost basket, as he has named it, is a mixture of some serious science and lots of common sense. With its custom made mixture of micro-organisms that specialise in the composting of organic matter, and its sensible design, it is an amazing innovation. With a fairly simple day to day care routine, your garbage can become food for your garden! If you don't have a garden, just chuck the compost in the nearest tree, or gift it to friends and family who have a green thumb. The important thing is, your daily wet garbage is off the streets! That's more than enough reason to own one.

Some of you would be wondering why I'm advertising this product on my personal blog. Its because I LOVE IT!  I have been using one myself for about four months now and am thrilled with the results. Even my family couldn't believe their eyes when I showed them the first harvest of compost. "This was our food waste?" they asked me! I even started my own little home garden, just so I had a place to put the compost from the basket!

My fisrt harvest of compost from my Kitchen Kompost basket.

The waste leaving our house has reduced dramatically. Whereas before, the unsegregated waste would lie in the corridor the whole night, waiting for the garbage lady every morning. It would sometimes smell, especially when the garbage lady took a day off, and attract flies, and often soil the dustbin.  If the local stray dog visited at night, we would find the garbage strewn across the floor outside our front door in the  morning. Now, the garbage lady has to ring the bell, asking us for the day's trash, only to be told that our dustbin is hardly full yet! Less headache for us, less work for her. Win-win.

My experience has prompted me to recommend this to everyone, and that's what I'm doing here. I've even started distributing them in Indore, and I hope it will catch on here like it has in Maharashtra.

Mr Joshi is ever enthusiastic in his efforts to get this product to the people. He explained his vision to me once, saying, '' Fifty years ago every house didn't have its own toilet. Now they do. I want every house to have its own compost basket in the next fifty years.''

For years we have taken from the soil unflinchingly, without ever the thought of giving back. For those who thought about it, the ways to do so were too expensive and arduous. That time is gone. Now we can feed the soil of our cities and country again, like it has unselfishly fed us for years. Now we can make sure that our soil will have something left by the time we have children and grandchildren. Now we can help secure their future.

If you're interested in the Kitchen Kompost basket, give Mr. Joshi a call on +919969634182. Or if you want to know more about it, like https://www.facebook.com/KITCHENKOMPOST/

Going Green

A little bit of background. I hardly identify with my caste, but in this case, it is relevant. I am a CKP. It stands for Chandrasainya Kayastha Prabhu. According to Wikipedia, CKP culture is said to have traditionally adopted a diet that includes fish, meat, poultry and eggs. In other words, we are  foodies to the core. 

So it was quite surprising for our whole family when my dad quit non-veg a few years ago. And a bit of an inconvenience too, I imagine, for the people cooking. Family dinners, which normally were a one-dimensional hardcore non vegetarian affair, and in which vegetarian food made appearances only as side dishes, now became a little more complicated to plan. A vegetarian main course was now necessary, not an option that was only pursued if time permitted. 

Its funny looking back at it now, after I myself have decided to turn vegetarian. I just may be better off than my dad though: my family is not complaining about my decision, as we have quite a few vegetarians in family dinners. They do miss my company on non veg binges mind you. But its all our dog's fault, so they should complain to him really. 

Krish (our four month old German shepherd puppy) is sleeping soundly nearby as I write this. He, blissfully bereft of a conscience, consumes more than a kilo of meat a week. Most times, I'm the one feeding it to him. But he's the reason I wont be putting any in my mouth anymore. His love did that. 

''Its amazing how much love and laughter they bring into our lives and even how much closer we become with each other because of them.'', said John Grogan of Marley, the worlds most famous dog. And it's the same with Krish. Life without him would be like a wedding party without a dhol, goes on fine but just not as much fun. Whether it's making sure he keeps his teeth off the furniture, or going on cycle rides and runs with him, or watching him grind my favourite headphones like they are a chew stick, my cup overfloweth when it comes to being a busy but content dog owner.  

And then I remembered a conversation my cousins and I once had about how they eat dog meat in China . Back then it was just a fun fact. Now, I was mortified at the thought.  Now that I was so attatched to a particular dog, the thought of any dog being eaten horriefied me. I mean, these are intelligent, loyal, loving animals who have the potential to bring us so much joy in so many ways. How can we kill them for their meat? 

And then I thought, what about other animals? Granted most species aren't ideal human companions like dogs are, but don't all animals have a huge potential to love? Who am I to discriminate between animals created by the Creator, by saying its not ok to kill these species for food but it is ok to kill these. How far is that from saying it's ok to marry people from this caste but not ok to marry into this caste?  Or that coloured people are meant to do these jobs and white people are meant to do these jobs? 

 That was when I decided that I could not justify taking any animal life just for the satisfaction of my taste buds anymore. 

There was something else that influenced this decision too. I'm currently re-reading  "My experiments with truth'' by a certain M. K. Gandhi. Given the direction my thoughts were taking in the weeks before, it was no surprise that this line struck a chord : ''I hold that, the more helpless a creature, the more entitled it is to protection by man from the cruelty of man''. (Pg. 208)

I reasoned that the killing of animals for food could be justified at many points in history, but not now, when our intellect has sufficiently evolved to develop alternatives that need no loss of life. 

So it was that on the 2nd of October this year (by the Creator's arrangement, the anniversary of Gandhiji's birth was around the corner), I took the decision that felt right, that didn't prick the corner of my mind that I had walled off. 

This is an admission. I always felt the slightest bit guilty while eating non veg, but suppressed the pinch with what I believed were credible reasons. Foremost among these was that I "needed the protein", given until recently my line of work. But now that I'm not playing competitively any more, I couldn't hide behind that excuse. 

And so that's that. Score: Krish 1, Snehal 0. You win little fellow. 

Welcome home Krish

After a hiatus of almost a year, I will once again tread on my first blog, this space that gave me my first push into the world of the written word. I return to this space as and when I am moved, and this is again one such occasion. Two things have moved me, the second of which I shall advertise in the next post. As for the first, his name is Krish.

He is our dog. It feels so good to finally say that. Our dog.

He is a German shepherd to be precise, now 2 and a half months old, right in the middle of his moulting and teething-biting phase. My husband, mother-in-law (henceforth fondly referred  to  as MIL for the purpose of this blog) and I brought him home a little over a month ago.

It so happened that my youngest brother was coming to visit me for a weekend in Indore, along with my dad and step mom. He had the impression that Indore was this boring, small town kind of place .Which it is, in many ways, to my delight. It reminds me of the Pune of my childhood, where I learnt to cycle, brought home strays, and broke windows, of a Pune that exists only in small pockets within the city now. But I digress.

My brother was afraid his two nights in Indore would be the most boring of his life (This coming from a young man  who has spent the last two years in studious isolation). It so happened that we brought Krish home the day he arrived. Needless to say, there was not a dull moment over that weekend.

But I digress again. The story of Krish's homecoming began earlier. It was one of those things that just happens to you, that you have little control over. ''The story wrote itself'', said  George R.R. Martin  of his moving tale, 'The Ice Dragon',  Such was the intersection at which Krish met us. 

My family are all dog people, so we had discussed bringing a dog home before, and the responsibilities involved.  But my MIL had been firmly in opposition, reasoning that we were not in a position to care for one as we no longer lived in a bungalow (where she raised her previous dogs). Yet we said, lets just swing by the pet shop and have a look, hmm? Harmless no?

At this point, I had given some thought into things like the right breed for our apartment (in terms of adult size), the timing of a possible adoption, and where to get a dog from. I had a noble notion of adopting a dog that needs a home from a shelter, rather than picking up one from the pet shop. All the above calculations went  clean out the window when we reached the pet shop and my MIL beheld and then held Krish. To put things simply, she fell in love with the ball of fur in her hand. 

Leaving the shop without him was hard for us, especially my MIL. Krish was adorable,but we decided to sleep over it. Back home, we all (read me) debated whether it was a good idea to bring a German Shepherd home, considering that it is a large breed and demands lots of space. My MIL put forth a simple argument :That 35 day old puppy had made her switch from being anti dog to pro dog faster than political parties switch alliances in poll season. If we were getting a dog, it would be him. She had been moved, and was in this matter, was unmoving. And with good reason. Thus it was decided. 

And just in the nick of time too. The next day when we went to pick him up, another customer who had laid a claim to him turned up. The owner convinced him to go home with another German Shepherd puppy, and our fortunate family, who were so close to losing Krish before even having him, brought him home.  Today, I dread to think about how less noisy, hairy, and scratchless our lives would have been had the Creator not arranged for us to be there at that very time. 

The rest, as they should say, is the future. And we are looking forward to it.

Walt Grace's Submarine Test, January 1967

So yet again John Mayer has moved me to write about one of his songs. Unlike last time, this one is not a Grammy winning creation, but it is a piece of art of singular beauty none the less. As I write this, it fills my headphones on repeat, though I have no need of listening to it so often for inspiration. I received that the first time I heard it, and I immediately had to share it with my loved ones. Walt Grace's Submarine Test, January 1967 can have that effect on you.

The title is as offbeat as the starting tune. I have heard of few other  Mayer songs named after people ("Victoria" is one, though I wonder whether she is imaginary; Walt Grace certainly is). And  I have never heard a song that starts with a distinct  instrumental intro, clearly separate from the tune of the song proper. And then the tune itself kicks in, and again its not the guitar that hit me; as one would expect with John Mayer; but the percussion beat. It made me imagine a tiny parade of toy soldiers, or a mechanical whirring reminiscent of the sounds one might imagine in Gepetto's workshop, where he would be busy bringing to life a creature of wood and paint. Mayer's intelligent and easy on the ear rhymes have the same effect on the music.

And the interlude.  It is a beautiful soulful instrumental piece, placed between verses two and three.  Mayer again takes the road less travelled on this one by favouring a piano in this section instead of his  faithful guitar. The music is simultaneously haunting and soothing, awakening something deep within me, and at the same time singing it to sleep. It is a piece that speaks of hope sown into the tune amid a few fears and a bit of doubt, in continuity with the theme of the song.

The lyrics describe the imaginary Mr Grace , who decides that something must be done with his life, something greater than simply the sum of his years or the count of his hours. So he locks himself up in his basement and takes to birthing something uniquely his own, something unseen and unthought of, unexpected and astounding. He builds a submarine.

"Cos when you're done with this world,  you know the next is up to you..."

Being employed in the railways, hardly a day goes by when I don't hear about someone talking about their retirement.  "Pension and no tension",that holy grail for government servants. Those are the rewards which hang like a carrot in front of our noses and compel us to commit our entire working lives in their pursuit. Somehow I imagine that Walt Grace is one of the same breed, who has done the hard yards, put in the work, brought up his children, and provided for his family. But now, upon retiring, he takes up something risky, something outrageous and unbelievable,  prompting the line "his wife told his kids he was crazy, and his friends said he'd fail if he tried..".

But when you're done with this world, you know the next is up to you. Walt Grace had lived his life for others, racing along in the pursuit of happiness,  only to realise his destination didn't give him the peace of mind he thought it would. So he set out on a journey, perhaps obsession is a better word, of his own.

And on that journey he found beauty and wonder and belief, and maybe, just maybe, his life's meaning too. Maybe he created a memory, that would endear him to the world and his family in ways his job never could. And maybe he taught us all a lesson on how to live our lives, so that we needn't have to wait till they are almost over to make something extraordinary of them. That ridiculous dreams aren't as ridiculous as they seem. That,"with a will to work hard, and a library card", anything is possible. 

The song itself, with a beautiful paper art video on the background:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQQ8tkkJRT0

Conversations with a Taxi Driver

Its all my brothers fault.

Like most things in my childhood were (including the loss of my favourite cycle; yes I will never forgive you for that), the events that unfolded today were also my younger  brothers fault (not to be confused with my youngest brother). First he asks me to book train tickets for him to travel to our home in Pune from Mumbai for the weekend. When the IRCTC site renders itself unavailable due to maintenance, I, out of the boundless love I bear my brothers,actually stand in line(who does that nowadays?) to get his reservations done. But I need to drop an application off at VT (CST) station to get his ticket confirmed. And this almost undid my own journey home.

Friday. Churchgate Station. 4:20 pm.  After trying (and failing) to sneak out of office early, I had less than an hour left before my own bus to Pune left from Dadar at 5:15 PM. And I still had to drop the application at VT, then go to Lower Parel and pick up my bags, then somehow get to Dadar and catch my bus. I was trying to figure out if I could make it all, when I remembered that trains,not roads are my domain. So I asked a road expert. A taxi driver.

I hailed a cab outside office. A glance at the Ganpati idol on his dashboard told me I should speak, my mother tongue, Marathi. All the following conversations took place in Marathi, but since ashamedly it is not my strongest language, you will have to endure this post in English.

I explained the logistics and asked him if we can make it? He said, ''We have about an hour, so lets try. If it were not Ganpati season, I could tell you for sure. " I ignore the voice of reason in my head that says I'm not going to make it, and with a sense of hurtling into adventure, I walk into the proverbial rabbit hole.

I'm not usually the types who will chat with a stranger, but discussing logistics, traffic and stoppage time is a good conversation starter. After making our first stop (VT) in pretty good time, he ask me where in Dadar were headed. ''The Shivneri bus stop, heading to Pune", I say. Pune is another conversation starter. He told me about a few jobs he did there, before moving to Mumbai and getting into the business of driving. Told me about a techie he recently drove to Pune.

"So whats better? Working the Mumbai-Pune expressway or a cab within Mumbai" I ask.

''Cab in Mumbai.'' ,he promptly replies. ''Start at 7 AM, finish up at 7 PM, then go home to your family. Expressway might earn you a bit  more, but you are on the road too much. Family is more important."

Wow. My respect for this guy just shot up.

He asks about my job and we talk about extra curriculars. I tell him about sports quota railway jobs, He tells me how his niece could pick and choose her college because of her singing. Then he tells me he sings Marathi Natya Sangeet (musicals).

"Oh! My brother studied that too!"

He tells me how they have drama contests at his work, which give him a chance to leave work early and travel for the contests.

''Work? meaning?'', I ask,confused.

''Madam i actually work in BEST. I'm a bus driver. Been there 10 years. We also have sports and cultural quota. I drive a cab on my weekly off for timepass."

This guy is full of surprises.

He talk about how extra curriculars helped his own kids. Proudly tells me that they both study in an English medium school. Ryan International. He talks about the cost of education. I realise hes not driving a cab on his weekly off for timepass.

"The costs are really  high. But an English medium education is worth it. But they really have to study a lot. They have big fat books that I cant understand. Since my wife and I don't speak good English we cant tutor them at home. so they attend extra tuition. Which is an extra expense. But they are doing well, so its worth it. I don't mind working extra hard for them."

I tell him it will definitely be worth it. I tell him about my grandparents and parents, whose hard work has given my brothers and me the luxury and the joy of choosing off beat professions.

"Madam whats your surname?" he asks me. I give him mine, and I ask his in return. Rajaram Maruti Khedekar he says. How strange it is that we tend to talk about everything else with a person, only to neglect to ask thheir name.

We were only just at Lower Parel picking up my bags. Things were about to get exciting. Picture abhi baki hai.

Now the focus had shifted from the conversation to the transportation. No more school fees and  dramas. It was all business now; routes, signals and ETAs. It was 5:07 PM  when we left Lower Parel. I was now counting on the bus leaving five minutes late as was its habit. Our driver had turned onto a road that was usually open but closed for the Ganpati festival. A policeman stops us on the turn.

"Going for a cricket tournament!"

"Have a 5:15 bus!"

"Please please please"

After a bit of such grovelling the cop lets us go.

By the time we got to Dadar it was 5:24. I rushed out to the enquiry counter leaving my bag (containing my wallet and laptop) in the taxi. I had never done that before. Ever

And I had missed my bus. I had never done that before either! EVER.

Like I said, all my brother's fault.

"Maitri Park!" I said as i got back into the cab! I would have to try and catch the bus at its next stop in Chembur!. Without actually saying it, I had just said,''Follow that bus!!''

So we rushed as much as one can on Mumbai roads, all the way to Maitri Park, and the driver kept saying how fast these new Volvo buses are, and that if we haven't seen it yet we probably wont make it. Amidst all this, I was sitting in the back seat, with a faint smile on my face. I was really enjoying myself. This was all an adventure, and if I missed the bus and had to pay double for another ticket, plus the taxi fare, I wouldn't mind it much.

One signal before Maitri park, we spot the bus! The driver parks in front of the bus, I rush out to make sure the conductor hasn't sold my vacant seat to someone else. Its still vacant, and I am so happy that this adventure had a happy ending. I pay the taxi driver the fare (which was now more than the bus fare to Pune!), thank him for the good time, and get on board.

And  then I remember why I had to take this taxi in the first place. All my brother's fault, and I'm glad it was. Its not everyday you find reasons to smile fondly at the adventures and conversations Mumbai tends to throw at you.

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The Silmarillion : A book review

It's been a while since I read a book non-stop, but I found myself home-alone, recovering from a stomach bug, and my youngest brother's copy of the Silmarillion lying ignored on the desk. Perfect conditions for a read-a-thon, which lasted for 14 hours! And happily took little effort, as J.R.R. Tolkien is one of my favourite authors.

For the uninitiated,the events of Silmarillion come before the Hobbit, before the Lord of the Rings, much before most of the characters of either book existed. And if you are so uninitiated that you haven't heard of any of them, well, then dont bother reading any further. For you are not one who can comprehend the world of fantasy, there where my mind often flees for solace and silence,to dabble in awe and wonder, and to leave the suffocating bonds of reality. Fantasy is my favourite genre by far, and this is my first fantasy book review, so do forgive me if I get carried away.

So back to the book. Tolkien is in a wonderful position at the start, for he has carte blanche.  Imagine writing a tale that takes place before the Big Bang occurred, before time or space as we know it existed. Such was the empty canvas upon which Tolkien painted his universe. So he describes a God, Iluvatar, and His vassals whose song creates out of the void, Midlle-earth as we know it. Some of these vassals, christened the Valar, enter Middle-earth to govern it and make it fit for the children of God, elves and men. Then one of the Valar decides that he wants to possess all Middle-earth for himself. Enter Melkor, aka Morgoth, the antagonist for the most part, and the book describes deeds that were done by the Elves in their war against him. For Melkor stole from the elves the Silmari, three perfect Jewels crafted by the elf Feanor, in whom is preserved the Light of the Two Trees created by the Valar. Feanor and his sons swear an oath to wage war on whoever possesses a Silmaril, for in them too the darkness of possession is awakened. Thus Feanor and his people turn their back on the Valar and embrace a dark path of war, destined to consume their kin, and come to Middle-earth, where Melkor has entrenched himself. 

The book goes on to tell many tales of valour, heroism, sacrifice and love, and just as many of deceit, betrayal and malice. For me, most moving of all were the tales of the fall of Fingolfin and the story of Beren and Luthien.

Fingolfin, half brother of Feanor, faced with certain defeat and possibly the obliteration of his race, challenges the Lord of darkness Morgoth to single combat. The venture, although hopeless (for Morgoth is one of the Valar, and Fingolfin, no matter how great, is an elf), showcases the bold and limitless self belief that the elves had in themselves, and armed mostly with this belief, and a love for the elves of whom he was King, Fingolfin fought, gave Morgoth seven wounds, cleaved off his leg, but fell in the end. 

The tale of Beren, a man, and Luthien the elf maiden almost made me cry at the end, hopeless romantic that I am. For theirs is THE epic amid all the many love stories in the book, and theirs was the first union between man and elf. Beren, in order to win the right to marry Luthien, does as her father asks and seeks to wrest a Silmaril from the clutches of Morgoth. In this he is assisted by Luthien herself, for she cannot bear to be apart from him. The two achieve the impossible, not once, but twice, for not only do they manage to escape Morgoth's fortress with a Silmaril, but Beren also comes back from the land of the dead, as the sorrow and love of Luthien moves even the hardest hearts of the Valar.

One of the recurring concepts in the book I really enjoyed reading was The Gift of Men, that is death and mortality, which is also spoken of as the Doom of Men. This Gift the God Iluvatar gave only the race of men; the elves he made immortal. Death, which we humans fear so often, becomes an objecct of wonder for the Elves, for it signified a freedom from the cycles of the world, which they had not been granted. For them it truly is a gift, but few mortals would look at it that way. How many of us can really think of death as a gift? Can we keep in  mind that our mortality should drive us to value every second, and make something beautiful of it. And isn't death, to the organised mind "the next great adventure"(Yes, I'm quoting Dumbledore, in a Tolkien book review)? If you, like me believe that the soul is eternal, its not that hard to see. Funnily though I don't think Tolkien believes in rebirth et al. For he does speak of a place where the souls of elves go after death, but never what happens to the souls of men, and never that any soul returns to be born again.

And so if you are a fantasy fan, and haven't read the Lord of the Rings yet, I strongly suggest you read the Silmarillion first. The stories are just as rich and the narrative just as enchanting (though the chapter on the children of Hurin seemed to drag a bit). It will fill some of the gaps that the reading of the Lord of the Riongs presents, for  in that book, the events of the Silmarillion are spoken of in the way we would speak about the Mahabharata, as myth and legend alone. If, like me, you have read the Lord of the Rings already, still I suggest that you go back and read the Silmarillion. I can promise you, at the very least, a lot of "Ah thats what he was talking about" moments.