readersdigest.in 99 Reader’s Digest when a fellow cranker breaks into song to help us keep a steady rhythm. Before long, we have composed lyrics specifically for the task at hand. “Cranky, cranky, who is cranky?” I sing out with Jessica, a local gal working my side of the lever. The two guys on the other side reply: “Cranky, cranky, I’m not cranky!” The anchor up, we’re soon cruising along at eight knots (15 kilometres per hour), crossing paths with the eight other ships in the Maine Windjammer Association. From my perch at the front of the boat, where the bowsprit extends horizontally from the hull, I can see vestiges of a granite quarry that at one time was a major economic driver for the Penobscot Bay area. Blocks of cut granite still rest on rocky shores. Because it was located close to the water, making it easy to ship, the granite hewn from Maine’s headlands and islands was used to build famed US landmarks, including the Washington Monument, the Carnegie Library and the New York Stock Exchange. The cool wind picks up in force, so I head below deck to warm up. In the galley, Derek is cooking—or trying to, standing with his feet wide apart to maintain balance in the rolling swell while prepping our dinner of steelhead trout with pan-seared fennel and smoked basmati rice. When I tell Derek about seeing the granite blocks, he nods. “The schooner carried up to 30 tonnes of cargo, including granite,” he says. Opening a hatch in the floor, Derek points at dozens of half-metre-long bars, lined up in rows. “But these are made of lead,” he says. “They’re ballast. Without them, we’d flip over.” It feels good to know that we won’t capsize. So good, in fact, that I finally muster the courage to ask Captain Wells if I can steer the boat. Knowing I will not cause any major harm if I screw up—the captain is right beside me—I grab the helm, a polished bronze wheel about a metre across, by two of its hand grips. Still, I feel nervous. Sensing my hesitation, Wells tells me the ship won’t turn at the slightest motion of the wheel; there is no power steering. “You need big movements, a quarter-turn, to move the rudder and the boat,” he explains. He shows me where we’re heading, tracing a line on the nautical chart to Gilkey Harbor, about 12 kilometres northeast of Camden. Then he points at a gap between two landmasses in the distance. I set as my landmark the tallest hill I can see, on the mainland far in the distance. The Lewis R. French travels along at the speed of the wind; all I do is nudge it in the right direction. I’m navigating the old-fashioned way, and that’s when I feel it: My landlubber reluctance to go to sea finally ebbs away, like the wake that disappears behind us. I’m a sailor now—and my ship has come in. © 2021, susan nerberg. from a tall ship from back in time, canadian geographic travel (24 june 2021), cangeotravel.ca
BONUS READ MY STARTER D0G by Rona Maynard from the book starter dog: a virtual introduction MY STARTER D0G Adopting a dog in my 60s was never part of the plan. But Casey changed everything 100 october 2023
photograph by Jaime Hogge readersdigest.in 101 Reader’s Digest
102 october 2023 When my husband, talked me into rescuing a dog a few years ago, I worried about the downside: fur all over everything, arguments over walk duty. The time for a dog was decades ago, when we had a son at home to play fetch. At 65, we should be planning our next trip overseas, but Paul had always wanted a dog. For love of my husband, I said yes. But I doubted I could love any dog, much less the only condo-friendly dog on offer, a ragged-eared mutt. He had a great story, I’d grant him that. Born unwanted in Ohio, taught to sit and stay in a prison where incarcerated people train pups for adoption, then sent to a shelter where he waited for a home until he was spirited away to Toronto by a band of volunteers dedicated to saving dogs from death. We named him Casey. The first thing he did after galloping into our home was drench a chair with pee. He sniffed every corner and finally came to rest with his warm muzzle on my thigh. Maybe I could love him after all. ON CASEY’S FIRST MORNING I briefly forgot we had a dog. I padded out of bed, fuzzy with sleep, to find another creature sprawled on the TV couch. This had happened a good many times before, but in the past that creature was my husband, sleeping in the very spot where I meant to lounge with my second cup of coffee and the obituaries section of the New York Times. Paul sleeps best anywhere but the bed, and the TV tends to get him nodding in the small hours. The presence of a dog—our dog—was a marvel. Oh, yes. It’s you. Casey seemed to have expanded since the three of us had curled up with Grey’s Anatomy, two to watch and one to snore. In his languor, he pretty much filled the space, limbs every which way. His torn ear pointed straight up; the other flopped off the couch. I perched on the ribbon of space he’d left me and stroked his flank. Up went all four paws, his way of wishing me good morning. And a fine morning it was, with Casey in it. My ideal morning involved leisurely online perambulations in my bathrobe. At least it had until this day. But Casey needed his morning walk, which fell to me as the resident morning person. I couldn’t be late, or he’d have an accident. Everything we knew about Casey we’d learnt from his foster mom, Liz, who handed him over to us. She said I should take him out right after breakfast. Liz had a fenced backyard; all she had to do was open the door. Then she could hang out in her pyjamas if she chose. Maybe make some muffins, do a crossword, call her mother. But Paul and I lived on the eighth floor of a downtown Toronto condo building. For me, Casey’s morning routine required lipstick, eyebrow pencil and presentable attire. I’d laid everything out the night before—jeans and sweater for me, poop bags and liver treats for Casey. Reader’s Digest
His crimson leash hung on the coat stand. I remembered Paul’s first attempt at walking Casey, the circular stagger outside Liz’s house. I was in for a challenge with this bruiser. Whoever trained him knew something Paul and I didn’t. In my days working in publishing, I used to pull creative people into line. No, you can’t leave work when we’re in crisis mode, summer hours be damned. You want to misspell a headline “because it looks better that way?” Go back to fourth grade. After all the humans I’d tamed, how hard could it be to walk a dog? People did it while texting, hauling groceries and easing strollers over snowy curbs. The bolder ones did it on skateboards and bikes, and my neighbourhood’s fastest walker, a shepherd mix in an orange vest, scurried alongside a man on a scooter. Clearly, anyone could walk a dog—you didn’t even have to be ambulatory. This morning, we’d barely set out when a call rang out from behind, followed by a burst of laughter: “Who’s walking who?” Good question. We couldn’t seem to find our rhythm. Every few paces, a standoff ensued. My will against Casey’s nose. That nose. Low to the ground, sweeping the air, pulling us forward on a full-tilt quest for anything that smelled edible. Down in one running bite went the soggy pizza crust, the nub of chicken in the gritty remains of its Bonus Read He’s a master of the art of sleeping. readersdigest.in 103
104 october 2023 Reader’s Digest batter. Casey dragged me where the nose commanded, shoulders pumping. The exquisite precision of his nose recalled a hummingbird skimming a flower, yet the prize it sought might be the bloody feathers of a crushed pigeon or vomit from someone’s drunken spree. No relic of a living or once-living creature was unpalatable to Casey. When not engaged in the quest for food, the nose evaluated spots for a pee. Casey zipped across the sidewalk like a daredevil driver cutting through three lines of traffic, and came to a lurching stop at the hydrant summoning his nose. There he checked the accretion of canine pee that proclaimed to the neighbourhood dogs, I was here! He took his sweet time while a yellow rivulet spilled over the sidewalk and into the street. No matter how lavish the spray, he always had pee in reserve for the ritual known as marking. I thought I knew what it meant to walk my downtown neighbourhood. Check out the movies playing at the local theatre. Take note of a shoe sale, a new wood-oven pizzeria. Eavesdrop on conversations. All the while setting a pace, getting my exercise while my mind floated free. Walking was my gateway to an inner world in which I chose where to direct my attention. Not with Casey. I veered between meandering, waiting and a fair approximation of a drunken shuffle, both hands gripping the supposedly handsfree leash that looped around my waist (the dog walker’s equivalent of training wheels). Paul and I had a plan for Casey’s walking, an hour a day from each of us. Why had I worried about Paul holding up his end, when I was the slight one trying to stay on my feet? Pedestrians swerved to avoid us; hazards loomed on every block. Casey tried to chase cars that looked wrong for unfathomable reasons (just when I thought it was only orange cabs that set him off, he’d charge a black minivan). And that was the easy part. Squirrels sent him into warrior mode, with headturning ululations and acrobatic leaps that nearly knocked me to the ground. Before Casey, squirrels reminded me adorably of Beatrix Potter’s Nutkin. Now they seemed more like battlehardened ruffians on Game of Thrones, a tribe of them always ready to burst from the nearest sapling. While flying at a squirrel I hadn’t seen in time, Casey ran smack into a couple of pedestrians. The woman flashed a tolerant smile; the man scowled at me over his shoulder. At the rate we were going, someone might get hurt. Come to think of it, my shoulder was hurting already. I’d heard PEDESTRIANS AVOIDED US; HAZARDS WERE EVERYWHERE. AND CASEY TRIED TO CHASE CARS.
readersdigest.in 105 Bonus Read of strength training for golf and skiing, but dog walking? I checked my watch. Five more minutes and we’d finish the hour. We. The right word for Casey and me on the couch, gazing into each other’s eyes. Out on the street there wasn’t any we. Intellect against instinct, that’s what there was, intellect being the loser. We couldn’t make it home fast enough. Just as I let my guard down, Casey had a set-to in the lobby with a neighbour’s Lab, Betsy, infamous for roving the halls at night. Her owner looked us both up and down, lip curled. “Rescue dog?” To lighten the mood, I mentioned Casey had spent his puppyhood in prison. “You’re brave,” he said, pulling Betsy away from my jailbird. The elevator seemed to crawl to the eighth floor. Casey ran to Paul’s arms for some vigorous rubbing and the question that cannot be asked less than twice, with escalating volume: “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” WE HAD A GOOD BOY, alright, but it soon became clear that we’d both have to up our walking game. Paul got into trouble at St. James Park, beloved for its gazebo and landscaped gardens, when Casey had a noisy meltdown over a squirrel. An elderly man shook his finger at Paul. “That dog of yours is a nuisance. Don’t you realize some of us come here for a little peace and quiet?” He pointed to a wisp of a dog perched on its owner’s lap like a stuffed toy on a satin pillow. “That’s how a dog should behave. And until your dog gets the message, I suggest you keep him out of this park.” The night after Casey was exiled from the park, he lay on what we already called ‘Casey’s couch’, twitching as he snored. I ran my fingers along the cleft in his skull, where his ginger fur darkened to rust. I’d never know for sure what Casey dreamed, but I figured a squirrel was involved. Go, Casey, go. Run the varmint down. A dog trainer, Laurie, soon paid us a house call. She looked younger than our daughter would be if we’d gotten around to having one, but dog people on Yelp said she knew her stuff. I’d told her to expect a squirrelcrazed, trash-chomping rescue mutt, I TOLD THE DOG TRAINER TO EXPECT A SQUIRREL-CRAZED, TRASH-CHOMPING RESCUE MUTT. billed as a Lab/pug mix, although who could say for sure? Laurie was sure. “He’s all hound.” With that pointy snout, he couldn’t be anything else. And this explained a lot about our would-be squirrel assassin. Like every hound who ever chased prey, Casey was designed for the task, with a nose that ranks among the wonders of the animal kingdom. His
The unlikeliness of our comfort together magnifies the joy of it. 106 october 2023 Reader’s Digest
readersdigest.in 107 Bonus Read ‘squirrel attacks’, as we called them, expressed his greatest gift. Some dogs were born to bark at strangers; ours was born to hunt rodents. I figured we had the better deal. Laurie put Casey through a few paces. He sat, stayed, lay down as he had been taught in prison—and as he’d do for us if we learnt to speak his language. “You lucked out with this guy,” Laurie said. “He wants to please.” He could have fooled me, but Laurie was the pro. The three of us took Casey to a freeand-easy park where teens shoot hoops and no one would get fussed about a ruckus. The idea was for Laurie to watch Casey do his worst, and as we neared the first squirrel-inhabited tree he rose—no, soared—to the occasion with his full repertoire of sound effects while I, the clueless human at the end of the leash, stood and bleated, “Casey, stop!” I half-hoped Laurie would exclaim at his antics. If Casey had to raise hell, let him be the loudest, most epically acrobatic hellraiser she had yet seen. How many squirrel-chasing dogs do back flips, then jump up to try again? For him the leash did not exist, nor did failure. Every squirrel was a promise of victory. Casey was my Don Quixote charging at windmills, my pratfalling Buster Keaton. Laurie watched the show with her hands in the pockets of her hoodie; she’d seen every move before. “Like I said, all hound. You want his attention on you, not the squirrel. That’s going to be your challenge. So let’s get to work.” The Lauries of this world don’t really train dogs. They teach perplexed humans to stop doing what doesn’t work and acquire more constructive habits. Laurie reminded me a little of Annette, our couples’ counsellor back in the striving years. Whatever longforgotten muddle we were in, she’d seen it all before. How hard we’d worked with Annette in her basement office with the pinepanelled walls. How thoroughly we’d prepped for every session. If she’d given marks, we’d have aced her course. “You’re remarkably well-matched,” she once told us, peering through the enormous glasses women wore in the days of shoulder pads. “It’s a miracle that you found each other.” Her version of Laurie’s “You lucked out.” With Annette, Paul and I tuned in to the sometimes mystifying but basically well-intentioned people we were at heart. We were about to begin the corresponding process with a dog, who had never forgotten a birthday, stormed out in a huff or blamed either of us for a jaime hogge thing. Compared to making a marriage, I WASN’T GETTING THROUGH TO CASEY, THE TRAINER SAID. MY COMMANDS WERE JUST NOISE.
training a dog should be a snap. I wasn’t getting through to Casey, Laurie said. My entreaties were meaningless noise, a sound soup of his name and half-hearted marching orders. Nature gave Casey a mission: slaughtering creatures who, in his mind, had no right to exist. To interrupt him, I’d have to make some noise. I had three options: whistling, shouting or a vigorous hand clap. I never learnt to whistle, and clapping is no good with gloves on. That left shouting. As squirrel after squirrel romped by, I tried to summon a respectable shout: “Casey! Casey!” How could it be that the name I loved to murmur was so hard to shout with conviction? Paul shook his head (in our class of two he was the star). Shouting had always come easily to him—too easily for my liking, but with dogs it served a purpose. “More authority,” he said. “More volume.” The authority part I could nail. At 65 I’d damned well earned the right to be a feisty old dame. I demanded refunds with aplomb (and got them). I told wait staff not to call me ‘dear’ and shambling 20-somethings to make room for me on the sidewalk. I complained and corrected with ease. But nobody loves a woman who shouts. In my childhood home it was well understood that only my father had the right to shout—and he could erupt without warning. Sober, he quoted Yeats to my sister and me at bedtime. When we modelled new outfits, he would bow to us and ask, like a gentleman from an old movie, “May I have your telephone number?” (Telephone: an old-fashioned word, even circa 1960.) But when he was drunk or hung over, the smallest thing could get him going, like the double boiler for his oatmeal. “What’s become of the blasted thing? Is this any way to organize the kitchen cabinets?” The rest of us would wake to a percussion band of clatter. And I’d know in the pit of my stomach that the day ahead was going to be a stinker. Fear had a sound: shouting. What I feared was not so much my father’s anger as my own. Because he was a man—the man of the house, in the language of those times—he got to blow off steam. Because I was a girl, I didn’t. I should keep my head down, stay out of Daddy’s way, do my best to placate this overgrown baby in the guise of a man. Now I had Laurie’s permission to shout. More than that, I had marching orders. For Casey’s sake, I would learn to let it rip. Reader’s Digest 108 october 2023 ANGER COULD CONSUME HIM, BUT UNLIKE ANY HUMAN I’D KNOWN, CASEY DIDN’T HOLD GRUDGES.
readersdigest.in 109 Bonus Read AFTER OUR FIRST SESSION with Laurie, I walked Casey with her voice in my head. I practised shouting, “Hey!” when Casey jumped into predator mode. The pavement didn’t split and swallow me up. I sounded loud and proud. Better yet, Casey started to get it—not every time or even half the time, but often enough, especially if I followed “Hey! Ca-a-a-SEY!” with a sharp tug on the leash. Then the treat, then the neck rub. “Good boy,” I would say, as Laurie had taught me. I was asking a lot of Casey. In the presence of a squirrel, he was anger incarnate. His eyes blazed; his hackles rose. I thought hackles were only an idiom until I saw the band of rage down Casey’s back, where his fur is darker and coarser. When they stiffen, he looks bigger, more threatening, as nature intended. He was an officer of the laws of nature, determined to wipe lesser creatures from the earth. One squirrel affronted him; a bobbleheaded flock undid him. Anger consumed him quickly but vanished with the squirrel. Casey’s anger had an urgent purity. Unlike any human I’d known, he didn’t hold grudges. He wouldn’t ruminate on what he could have done to that squirrel if not for me, the spoilsport clutching the leash. Casey and I walked together as a biped and a quadruped, an ageing woman and a young dog, a secondguesser and a creature of impulse. One who cleaned up, one who drooled on the floor. One who compared recipes for roasted Brussels sprouts, one who had to be restrained from licking barf off the sidewalk. It was our differences that held my attention, rather than the shared pleasure of the outing. Casey had his world, I had mine, and therefore I didn’t think of him and me as ‘us’. But before long I found myself speaking of the places I shared with Casey—our places, mine and his. The mural where I posed him for a shot, the park where we made friends with a juggler practising his moves. I was beginning to understand who we would be to each other. We were Us now, and it was enough. The unlikeliness of our comfort together magnified the joy of it. As long as squirrels roamed the streets and parks of Toronto, there would be passing bursts of anger that didn’t change a thing. What we had, as a woman and a dog, underscored the miracle of any two fallible beings, committed to opposing points of view, planting the stake in the ground that is Us. Paul will be Paul, Rona will be Rona. In the beginning came a you, a me. One I WAS BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND WHO WE WOULD BE TO EACH OTHER: WE WERE “US” NOW.
who slept late, and one who equated purpose with rising early. One who left the marriage when our son, Ben, was a toddler, saying, “I never loved you” (me, exhausted by my young marriage and younger child), and one who said, “It’s not over. Let’s try again.” One who knew what things should be, and one who didn’t get it (actually, that would be both of us). From differences and disappointments, we created Us. And as Us, we brought Casey home. Us-ness, once you’ve found it, can accommodate a fair bit of tension. Some days I couldn’t stop Casey from charging at squirrels number one through 17, but he calmed down by squirrel 99. With a multitude of squirrels about, we always had another chance. I arrived at a grudging respect for the squirrels, who would stare Casey down with what looked to my human eyes like amusement. Squirrel by squirrel, day by day, we started to find our groove. We sometimes walked entire blocks without incident, Casey’s tags clinking in time with my steps and his leash vibrating gently in my hand, now that I’d learnt not to grip it. He knew every variation on our route. If I didn’t pick his favourite, he would tug, as if to ask, “You’re sure about this?” I was sure. A slight disagreement on the route was no big deal for a simpatico pair like us. WE WERE RIPPING THROUGH our value pack of poop bags. Casey was remarkably productive, often filling several bags in a single walk. I didn’t mind, though. Scooping gave me a chance to do one thing right every day. And the humble task literally grounded me. It forced me to tend the cracked and mottled sidewalk, the sodden leaves at the edge of a walking trail. It was a bondage I shared with all dog folk who care enough to do the right thing. The woman bending from her wheelchair with practised caution, the elderly walker favouring a bad knee. The young parents exclaiming, as their toddler scooped for the family dachshund, “That’s it! Good girl!” When I started walking Casey it was early spring, when receding snow exposed a winter’s worth of blackened excrement in every park. It clumped at the rims of hedges and dotted the sidewalks, a desiccated record of human can’t-be-botheredness. So many scofflaws about, making me a target for those who hold dogs in contempt. Some people hate dogs for indiscriminate jumping, others for disturbing the peace with their barking. What unites them all is their loathing of poop. I’d just disposed of Casey’s first of the Reader’s Digest 110 october 2023 IF I DIDN’T PICK HIS FAVOURITE ROUTE, IT WAS NO BIG DEAL FOR A SIMPATICO PAIR LIKE US.
readersdigest.in 111 Bonus Read day when someone approached us with an open Clive Cussler novel in his hand and headphones blasting cacophony into his ears. As he passed, he yelled over his shoulder, “I hope it’s not your dog who just left his business on the sidewalk! It’s a pox on the city!” The last time I’d heard the word ‘pox’ used in the Shakespearean sense, I was trying to ace an English course. Full points to Mr Multitask for literary flair, but his logic stung. He didn’t turn his head when I called, “Not us!” Us. Any scorn directed at Casey is really directed at me. When you get down to basics, I was scooping because I loved him. I hoped my fellow humans would look benevolently on him, or at least not disdain him. Every time I bent for Casey, I proved that Yeats was right: “Love has pitched his mansion in/ The place of excrement.” I no longer missed walking with Paul. Walking with a dog had distinct advantages. If Casey took any notice of my mood after a rough night’s sleep, he showed no interest in what this meant for him or when I might snap out of it. He still sauntered beside me, ears sliding back to catch a rustle in the grass no human could detect. I didn’t have to earn the good cheer enveloping us. Its engine was Casey’s zest for the minutiae of his day—the stained wall that must be peed upon because no other wall compares, the Paul and I agreed that we would each walk Casey for one hour a day.
postal clerk who must be greeted for a biscuit from her tin behind the counter. On Casey’s map of pleasures, I was like the earth and the sky, reassuringly present but not the focal point. As Laurie had taught me, I crossed the street to dodge cats, darting toddlers, unpredictable puppies—anything that might flip Casey’s anger switch. He took exception to dogs offleash (they made him feel insecure), dogs with enormous furry heads (not dogs, as far as he could tell) and a good many large black dogs (who knows why?). Meanwhile other dogs took exception to him for similarly unfathomable reasons. When I couldn’t remove Casey, I’d distract him by throwing a handful of treats about. I knew we’d met a milestone when Casey had a full-throttle squirrel attack close to where we’d first walked with Laurie. Loud, proud and fast, I executed my three-step routine: the shout, the tug, the “Good boy.” Someone waved, a professional dog walker whose three charges were all sniffing the same patch of grass. “Nice work!” she called. How long had it been since I was asked, “Who’s walking who?” One day I had a brainwave: Us-ness might serve a practical purpose. Casey has the enviable canine gift for sleeping anyplace he happens to be, from the back seat of the car to a friend’s yard. I have the human gift for rolling worries around in my brain when all I crave is sleep. In the middle of a restless night, I went looking for a soporific book and found Casey zonked out on the TV couch. He didn’t stir when I sat down beside him to stroke the soft fur on his neck. He exhaled, sinking deeper into his rest. He sounded almost human, but then every human sigh is mammalian. Hey, Casey. Take me with you. He’d left me just enough room to curl up and make his firm, warm chest my pillow. Unlike all other pillows in my life, Casey’s chest expands with his breath. His fur smells pungently of himself. No matter what he’s kicked up on our rambles or where he’s pushed his snout, he smells exactly as he does. My headful of niggles rose and fell with Casey’s breath like a boat on a calm sea. I didn’t yet know I was taking liberties: a five-kilogram human head is a not-inconsiderable burden for the chest of a 14-kilogram dog, and any dog hates to be confined. But Casey was too far gone to throw me off right away. He supported me for about five breaths, enough to remind me how deep and slow a breath can be. I’ll never paint like Matisse or write Reader’s Digest 112 october 2023 I KNEW WE HAD MET A MILESTONE WHEN I STOPPED CASEY’S SQUIRREL ATTACK.
readersdigest.in 113 Bonus Read a poem like Emily Dickinson, but Casey let me believe that I could sleep like him, my personal master of the art. For the sleep of my dreams, I’d gone to extraordinary lengths. Bought a king-sized mattress that adapts to my weight and body temperature, its materials developed by NASA. Followed a regimen of pre-bedtime baths and stretches. Taken heavy-duty sleeping pills. Consulted a sleep psychiatrist to help me kick the pill habit and learn the rules of ‘more efficient sleep’. On a night of broken sleep not long after Casey joined us, I found him dead to the world on the couch. What he knew about sleep no human could teach me. Falling asleep, like falling in love, is about letting go of expectations, loosening your grip on control. I learnt this watching Casey. Sprawled or curled nose to tail, eyes shut or half open, he got the average dog’s 12 to 14 hours a day. All I asked was seven. With a little help from my canine coach, I had become a whole new sleeper. It didn’t occur to me then that he could coach me better if he were in the bed, at my side. Roughly half of dog people sleep with their animals, but I’d made a rule—no dirty paws on our 300-thread-count sheets—and I was sticking to it. I returned to the bedroom, where the sheets had cooled while I had been hanging out with Casey. My side of the bed looked like the shipwreck of my night so far—a tangle of sheets, eyeshades and layers of clothing added, then subtracted, in my search for the right body temperature. Paul’s side lay untouched while he slept in his favourite armchair. I positioned myself on the neckcradling pillow I need to take with me everywhere. The white-noise machine whirred. I replayed the moment Casey and I had just shared—his fur against my cheek, his breath lifting me—until I slipped into a dream of Us. FROM THE BOOK STARTER DOG: A VIRTUAL INTRODUCTION, BY RONA MAYNARD. COPYRIGHT © 2023, RONA MAYNARD. PUBLISHED BY ECW PRESS. REPRODUCED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH THE PUBLISHER. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. For the Record The fastest half-marathon run while pushing a pram is currently held by Lauren Stroud of the United States. In 2019, she completed the half-marathon in one hour, 22 minutes, and 29 seconds. In June 2020, India’s Vaishnavi S—a long-time yoga practitioner set a new record when she burst three balloons using just her back in 6.84 seconds. Sweet Pea, an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie, walked a record 10 steps while facing backward and balancing a 5-ounce glass of water. FROM GUINNESSWORLDRECORDS.COM
114 october 2023 LAUGHTER The best Medicine I’ve been trying to finish writing a book about surviving bankruptcy, but I can’t get out of chapter 11. —Glen Young A man is struck by a bus on a busy street. As he lies dying, he calls out, “A priest! Somebody get me a priest!” A police officer checks the crowd—no priest, no minister, no man of God of any kind. Then out of the crowd an elderly man comes over. “Officer,” he says, “I’m not a priest. I’m not even a Catholic. But for 50 years I’ve lived behind St. Elizabeth’s Church, and every night I’ve listened to the Catholic litany. Maybe I can be of some comfort to this man.” The officer agrees, and the elderly man kneels down over the injured pedestrian and solemnly intones: “B-4. I-19. N-38. G-54. O-72 ...” —jewishmag.com When you hear a statistic, always ask about the other side of the statistic. For example, 44 per cent of marriages end in divorce. Now, that’s a scary number. But it’s not so scary if you look at it from a different perspective. If 44 per cent of marriages end in divorce, that means 56 per cent of marriages end in death. —Don McMillan, comedian, on Dry Bar Comedy What do you call two Egyptians who pass gas at the same time and cartoon by Jim Benton
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readersdigest.in 117 Reader’s Digest for the same reason? Toot-in-Common. —Ian Davis Bruce Springsteen Lyrics That Hit Differently as I Age ‘Baby, we were born to run’ Or walk, depending on my knee. ‘Dancing in the dark’ If I’m dancing, this is the only lighting that makes sense. ‘You ain’t a beauty, but hey you’re all right”’ Biggest compliment I’ve received in a decade. ‘Meet me in the city’ Or, hear me out: Wanna just go to P. F. Chang’s in the mall? ‘Everybody’s got a hungry heart’ That’s why my doctor prescribed a statin. ‘Oh, oh, oh, I’m on fire’ It’s a hot flash. —Jeff Bender and Talia Argondezzi in McSweeneys.net A farmer’s wife becomes ill, and her husband sends for the doctor, who hurries over with his black bag in hand. After examining the patient, he steps outside the sick room and asks the farmer for a pair of pliers. A few minutes later, the door opens and he asks for a hammer and chisel. “Doctor, what’s wrong with her?” asks the distraught husband. “Don’t know yet,” replies the doctor. “I can’t get my instrument bag open.” —medindia.net Once upon a time, a man poured himself a glass of red wine and sat down on his wife’s white couch that no one was allowed to eat or drink on … — @squirrel74wkgn My dog Sam is great for exercise. I let him into the backyard, he leaps the fence and I spend the next two hours looking for him. —Derek Thompson Reader’s Digest will pay for your funny anecdote or photo in any of our humour sections. Post it to the editorial address, or email: [email protected] SURREAL LIFE FUNNIES Artist Nadia Tolstoy has a peculiar view of life. Can you guess what she’s drawing? © BY THECOFFEEMONSTERS™ – EXPLORE THE MONSTERLICIOUS CREATIVITY AT THECOFFEEMONSTERS.COM Belly Laugh. Answers: 1. Face-Lift. 3. Looking Sharp. 2.
118 october 2023 ENGLISH After a stellar career filled with cinematic masterpieces like Goodfellas, The Wolf of Wall Street Taxi , Driver and Gangs of New York, director Martin Scorsese reunites with actors Leonardo DiCaprio and Robert De Niro to bring his first ever Western to the big screen in KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON. The epic three-and-a-half hour crime drama is based on the nonfiction book Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI, written in 2017 by journalist David Grann. The plot centres around the brutal murder of at least 20 members of the Osage Native American tribe in the United States in the 1920s, a case that sparked a major FBI investigation involving J. Edgar Hoover. The film releases in theatres on 20 October. Fans of films like The Big Short and Moneyball can look forward to DUMB MONEY, a David and Goliath biographical comedydrama starring Paul Dano, Sebastian Stan, Seth Rogen and Pete Davidson. Based on the true story of the ordinary people who flipped the script on Wall Street and got rich by turning a failing video game store called GameStop into an anomalous success by manipulating investors through meme culture and online hype, leading to a major upset on Wall Street. The film releases in theatres on 13 October. Films RD RECOMMENDS Lily Gladstone and Leonardo DiCaprio in a still from Killers of the Flower Moon Poster for Dumb Money photo credit: (top) india picture
readersdigest.in 119 HINDI Actors Ratna Pathak Shah, Dia Mirza, Fatima Sana Sheikh and Sanjana Sanghi star in DHAK DHAK, directed by Tarun Dadeja. This feel-good film centres around four women who come together to ride their motorbikes all the way from Delhi to Umling La, the world’s highest motorable pass. Their landmark road trip turns as much into an adventure of a lifetime as a journey of selfdiscovery and transformation. The films releases in theatres of 13 October. The cast of Tarun Dadeja’s Dhak Dhak LOKI SEASON 2 The long-awaited second leg of the Marvel series Loki comes to Disney+ Hotstar on 6 October. The new season sees the time-variant hero and Mobius (Owen Wilson) encounter O.B., a mysterious new character played by Oscarwinner Ke Huy Kwan. THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER Based on the works of Edgar Allan Poe, this horror series finds wealthy and ruthless siblings Roderick and Madeline Usher forced to face past secrets when the heirs to the dynasty start dying at the hands of a mysterious woman from their youth. Coming to Netflix on 12 October. #WATCHLIST: 0N OUR RADAR MUMBAI DIARIES 2 This season sees the medical crew at BGH rally to save lives when a devastating deluge threatens to submerge Mumbai even while each battle must their past demons and personal strife. Coming to Amazon Prime Video Poster for Loki Season 2 on 5 October. The cast of Mumbai Diaries 2 Reader’s Digest
120 october 2023 Set between three countries, Burma, India and England, and spanning three generations, Three Countries, Three Lives traces India’s journey towards Independence in 1947 and explores racial attitudes under the influence of the Raj. An Indian Tamil born in Rangoon, Carter recounts her unusual childhood, the Mandalay bombing of 1942, her coming of age at the end of the British occupation, and her remarkable experiences as a doctor and as a woman following independence, in both India and, later, 1960s England. A poignant and revelatory memoir, the book offers an acute insight into life under the Raj, the racial prejudices of both British and Indian society, and the changing lives of women in this transformative period of history. YOU MAY ALSO LIKE ... For Now, It Is Night by Hari Krishna Kaul (HarperCollins) Through a comprehensive and unique collaborative translation project, For Now, It Is Night brings Kaul’s stories to English readers for the first time. This collection of short stories, set against the backdrop of political upheaval and societal transformation relay the poignant echoes of a land and culture in flux, unfurl a world of complex emotions and reflect the indomitable spirit of a people navigating a sea of change. Three Countries, Three Lives: A Doctor’s Story by Lindy Rajan Carter, Aleph Book Company Scope Out Technofeudalism: What Killed Capitalism by Yanis Varoufakis (Bodley Head): Drawing on Greek myths and pop culture, economist Yanis Varoufakis explains the revolutionary transformations brought about by Big Tech. Memoirs of Valmiki Rao by Lindsay Pereira (Penguin): Set in Parel, this contemporary retelling of the Ramayana is set against a Mumbai burning post the demolition of the Babri masjid. Why Didn’t You Come Sooner?: Compassion In Action—Stories of Children Rescued From Slavery by Kailash Satyarthi (Speaking Tiger): The Nobel Peace Prize recipient looks back on his decades-long work rescue and rehabilitate victims of child trafficking. Books Reader’s Digest —COMPILED BY ISHANI NANDI
readersdigest.in 121 Meera Mukherjee (1923– 1998) reimagined the warlike Durga as a dynamic folk deity. She has abandoned her weaponry, and—like Mother Nature or Gaia— begets verdure and lush foliage from her every limb. Her ornaments, raiment and her tresses are vines and creepers that luxuriate all over her form. They are also like the rivers coursing through the fertile heartland of Bengal. Her headdress is the crescent moon—symbolizing her consort Shiva. She stands alone, and the demon, Mahisashura, whom she had famously vanquished, and even the lion, her mount, are conspicuous by their absence. Although she had a German academic training, Meera Mukherjee forged her own style and casting technique— cire perdu or the lost wax process—adapted from the Dhokra imagemakers of Bastar in Madhya Pradesh. Mukherjee believed in collaboration and inspired village Muslim women to embroider kanthas based on children’s drawings. Like many of her famous contemporaries, Mukherjee had given shape to the clay image of Bakulbagan Sarbojanin Durga Puja in Kolkata. The one she designed in 1990 was similar in conception to this bronze sculpture of 1997. In both, the goddess is in a garden state. Mukherjee’s work is a celebration of the lives of ordinary folk and an expression of her yearning for a life beyond the commonplace. — BY SOUMITRA DAS Durga by Meera Mukherjee Bronze, 10.2 x 11.7 inches, 1997 copyright and image courtesy akar prakar, collection kiran nadar museum of art STUDIO
122 october 2023 In The Fraud, Zadie Smith’s first swipe at historical fiction, old strengths and new prowess join hands to delightful fruition REVIEW Writing a believable, engaging work of historical fiction is difficult enough. Writing one that also works as an allegory for modern times is threading the needle, really. Look at Arthur Miller’s classic play The Crucible, for example. Structured as a fictionalization of the late 17th century Salem witch trials, this 1953 play also worked as a scathing commentary on one of the biggest American issues of that decade, McCarthyism i.e., the American government’s persecution of individuals suspected to be Communists. Zadie Smith’s new novel The Fraud pulls off a similar tightrope act. While it follows a small set of English characters in the 1860s (and their reactions to a widely publicized legal case pertaining to fraud/ identity theft), Smith’s allegorical skills make it clear that she’s also talking about the ‘shadowy elites vs the common man’ framing of Trump-era politics. The central character, Eliza Touchet, is housekeeper and editor to her novelist cousin William Ainsworth—well past his prime and more than a little jealous of the success of his friend Charles Dickens. The fiercely intelligent, pragmatic and often sardonic Touchet has literary ambitions of her own, after many years editing her overthe-hill cousin’s ponderous, little-known works, not to mention wining and dining his writer friend. She’s even tasked with arranging last-minute nuptials when her cousin impregnates former maid Sarah, a working-class woman, who happens to be younger Queen of her Craft By Aditya Mani Jha Author Zadie Smith photo credit: alex cameron
Reader’s Digest readersdigest.in 123 than his daughters. The real-life fraud that Smith fictionalizes here is the Tichborne case from the 1860s. A man thereafter known as ‘The Claimant’ claimed to be the long-dead baron Sir Roger Tichborne, despite the fact that he spoke no French (which the real Tichborne had learnt in infancy) and was over a 100 pounds heavier than Sir Roger. Across England, ‘The Claimant’ wins the support of working-class people in particular (like Mrs Sarah Ainsworth) who see him as fighting the elites of society. In Smith’s masterful hands, this case becomes not only a vessel to explore 19th century England’s blind spots—the colonial slave trade, women’s rights, large-scale inequality and obsession with societal status—but also the obvious parallels with Trumpism, wherein a hereditary billionaire convinced vast swathes of America that he’s fighting for them against the ‘elites’ (whose definition changed according to political convenience). Through the reactions of Eliza, Sarah, William and others, we realize their respective stakes in 19th century British society; why they behave the way they do. Sarah, for example, trusts The Claimant blindly and is liable to believe in all manner of conspiracy to back up her beliefs. Without hammering the point repeatedly, Smith lampoons contemporary conspiracy theorists using Sarah’s character— we can clearly visualize her, for example, falling for QAnon or ‘red pill’ fictions today. Over and above these weighty themes, though, The Fraud is also a delicate little tragicomedy about the lives of writers. Smith is at her comedic best while talking about William Ainsworth’s declining skills and disconnect with ground realities. For example, we are told that he has written a whole novel set in Jamaica without once stepping foot on the island. The extent of his knowledge comes from a colonial propaganda booklet. Elsewhere, Eliza hides a scathing critical assessment of William’s bibliography, written by Richard Horne. She then remembers the man himself, in a touching, funny–sad passage: “She remembered Richard Horne: he was one of the clever young men she had regularly fed and watered, back in the Kensal Rise days, and it was her memory that he, in common with everyone else around that dinner table, had liked William very much. But liking William and reading him had long been vastly different matters.” The Fraud sees Zadie Smith at the height of her powers. Longtime fans will be delighted to see both familiar strengths (quicksilver dialogue, eerily perfect balance between exposition and character development) and newfound skills (a very American mode of straight-faced political parody) in full bloom.
124 october 2023 A Red Card In this month’s roundup, we have some ‘starstudded’ goings-on. Igor Stimac, head coach of the Indian football team, found himself in the midst of a serious fumble. As it turns out, Stimac has been looking at the position of the planets to pick his playing squad. The Indian Express reported that the coach had reached out to astrologer Bhupesh Sharma—introduced to him by then secretary-general of the All India Football Federation (AIFF), Kushal Das—with a list of probable players for India’s face-off against Afghanistan in the Asian Cup qualifier. And based on Sharma’s planetary prognosis, players were picked. This wasn’t just an off-side lapse in judgement; Stimac had exchanged over 100 messages with the soothsayer between May and June 2022, and the Indian team played four matches CARTOON BY RAJU EPURI “Heh ... and they said motorcycle gymnastics was a useless skill!” It Happens ONLY IN INDIA
readersdigest.in 125 during that period. When questioned, Stimac said that he had been “convinced” by others to check upon Sharma’s possible effect in sports, but he was “shocked” at the size of Sharma’s contract. Das on the other hand, thinks the country has gotten full value for the `12 to 15 lakhs paid to Sharma for his services as “India qualified for the Asian Cup”. After all, being a responsible sports body, the AIFF couldn’t leave such things up to fate. source: INDIANEXPRESS.COM Aw Rats! If you believe the Northern Railways’ Lucknow division, and its substantial expenses to affect rodent control, one might think that these furry pests must be scurrying up and down every pole and gauge along that network. After all, the division admitted to spending a whopping `69.5 lakhs on rat control in three years, in response to a Right to Information (RTI) query raised by activist Chandrashekhar Gaur. The result of the Division’s well-funded attempt? A grand total of 168 rats— that’s `41,000 a pop! Gaur had raised the RTI for the Northern Railways, which comprises five divisions: Delhi, Ambala, Lucknow, Ferozepur and Moradabad, but only Lucknow came through with a detailed response on the query. From the rest of the division, Delhi and Ambala have provided fuzzy details, while Ferozepur and Moradabad continue to avoid the trap. Such a no-expense-spared approach to pest control has us wishing that things were more squeaky clean. source: ECONOMICTIMES.COM Power Tripping The office of the SubDivisional Magistrate (SDM) in Uttar Pradesh’s Bareilly was recently subject to much Internet infamy. In a video going viral on social media, a man called Pappu can be seen crouching like a chicken, in front of the Mirganj SDM Udit Pawar. Pappu, along with a few others had turned up to register a complaint about an alleged encroachment by Muslims on a cremation ground. The ‘chicken crouch’ was allegedly punishment meted out to Pappu, because he had turned up to the office, three times. Pawar denied any such act on his part and insists that the wannabe complainant had taken on that ‘fowl’ pose of his own volition. But the social media quicksand Pawar found himself in, has led to his removal. And here we were, thinking the bureaucracy only pushed papers. source: INDIATODAY.COM —COMPILED BY NAOREM ANUJA Reader’s Digest will pay for contributions to this column. Post your suggestions with the source to the editorial address, or email: [email protected] Reader’s Digest
126 october 2023 PIC-A-PIX: HAYLOFT BY DIANE BAHER; IT ALL ADDS UP BY FRASER SIMPSON Brain GAMES Sharpen Your Mind 4224 411114 1711111171 2 4 2 2 3 3 10 2 2 1111 121 1111 2 2 A + B = C B + C = D D + E = G C + G = F E + H = F Pic-A-Pix: Hayloft mediumReveal a hidden picture by shading in groups of horizontally or vertically adjacent cells. The numbers represent how many shaded cells are in each of the corresponding row’s or column’s groups. (For example, a ‘3’ next to a row represents three horizontally adjacent shaded cells in that row.) There must be at least one empty cell between each group. The numbers read in the same horizontal or vertical order as the groups they represent. There’s only one possible picture; can you shade it in? It All Adds Up difficult Each letter from A through H has one of the eight values: 1, 2, 8, 9, 10, 12, 19 or 21. No two letters have the same value. Determine which number goes with each letter to make the equations correct.
Reader’s Digest SORTING APPLES BY EMILY GOODMAN ; MUSEUM TOUR BY DARREN RIGBY; (APPLES ILLUSTRATION) YULIIA KONAKHOVSKA/GETTY IMAGES For answers, turn to PAGE 128 1 1 Sorting Apples easy One of these apples is not like any of the others. Which is the odd one out? Museum Tour medium On a visit to the Museum of Stubbornness, Amit picks up a guided audio tour that leads visitors through the rooms in a prescribed order. In the spirit of the museum, Amit decides to pick his own route. Both the official route and Amit’s route go through every room once, with no backtracking and no rooms skipped. Using the clues below, reconstruct both routes on the map. (North is at the top of the map.) 1. Other than room #1, Amit doesn’t visit any room in the intended order of the tour. 2. The recording tells visitors to head east from room #1. 3. Amit’s fourth room occupies a corner of the building. He left this room heading south. 4. The guided tour’s fourth room has more doors than its fifth room. readersdigest.in 127
128 october 2023 Reader’s Digest BY Louis-Luc Beaudoin BRAIN GAMES ANSWERS FROM PAGES 126 & 127 184 5 3 7 9 2 6 34 6 9 7 859 27 1 1 4 3 58 184957632 627438951 359261487 712384596 943516278 865792143 276849315 598123764 431675829 SOLUTION To Solve This Puzzle Put a number from 1 to 9 in each empty square so that: Ê every horizontal row and vertical column contains all nine numbers (1-9) without repeating any of them; Ê each of the outlined 3 x 3 boxes has all nine numbers, none repeated. 1 2 4 3 5 6 11 10 8 7 1 2 3 4 8 5 7 9 10 11 6 9 Pic-A-Pix: Hayloft It All Adds Up A = 8, B = 1, C = 9, D = 10, E = 2, F = 21, G = 12, H = 19 Sorting Apples The apple on the upper right. It’s the only one with two leaves on its stem. Museum Tour The numbers represent the guided tour, and the line follows Amit’s path. SUDOKU
readersdigest.in 129 1. schmutz n. (shmuts) a dirt b joke c deli meat 2. schlep v. (shlep) a run b haul c pass through 3. meshuggener n. (muh-’shu-ge-ner) a cute child b foolish person c important date 4. mensch n. (mentsh) a payment b talent c person of integrity 9. shonda n. (‘shahn-duh) a assistance b star c scandal 10. plotz v. (plahts) a misunderstand b burst with emotion c hide 11. shtick n. (shtik) a weird idea b ditty c comic routine 12. schlock adj. (shlahk) a shoddy b entertaining c funny 13. kvetch v. (kvech) a complain b laugh c rush 14. mishegoss n. (‘mish-i-goss) a craziness b bundle of papers c worrying trend 15. schmooze v. (shmooz) a play b chat c introduce 5. nosh v. (nahsh) a explain b snack c forget 6. bubbe n. (‘buh-bee) a grandmother b little one c hot drink 7. kvell v. (kvel) a walk noisily b cry c rejoice 8. bissel n. (‘bi-sl) a little bit b letter c secret Don’t get all verklempt, but this issue we’re celebrating the many expressive words English has borrowed from Yiddish. So have some chutzpah and go for it, but skip the schmaltz. Whether you’re saying “Yay!” or “Oy vey!” by the end, you can find the answers on the next page. By Mary-Liz Shaw Reader’s Digest WORD POWER
Reader’s Digest 130 october 2023 1. schmutz (a) dirt Only after my job interview did I realize I had schmutz on my face. 2. schlep(b) haul Heavy rain made schlepping my groceries even harder. 3. meshuggener(b) foolish person “He’s a meshuggener if he thinks he can park there,” Mahima scoffed. 4. mensch (c) person of integrity Being called a mensch is a huge compliment. 5. nosh (b)snack Every Sunday, Saurav and Nikhil meet at the coffee shop to nosh and gossip. 6. bubbe (a) grandmother Though oatmeal raisin cookies aren’t his favourite, Asit often makes the recipe his bubbe passed down to him. 7. kvell(c)rejoice Tora was kvelling when her daughter graduated at the top of her class. 8. bissel (a)little bit Aunt Chitra had a big breakfast and now just wants to eat a bissel for lunch. 9. shonda (c)scandal “Did you hear about that bank manager who stole deposits?” David asked. “What a shonda!” 10. plotz (b) burst with emotion Don’t plotz, but it looks like the dog soiled the carpet again. 11. shtick (c) comic routine Michael quit touring and is doing his shtick in Las Vegas now. 12. schlock (a)shoddy Dad bought all these schlock souvenirs during a family vacation to Myrtle Beach. 13. kvetch (a) complain No matter how hard we try to please some people, they manage to find something to kvetch about. 14. mishegoss (a) craziness Amid the mishegoss of rushing to pack, Sana forgot her toothbrush. 15. schmooze (b) chat The annual convention is a great time to schmooze with industry bigwigs. Word Power ANSWERS Vocabulary Ratings 9 & below:Meh 10-12: Mishmash 13-15: Mazel tov! SILVER SCREEN COLLECTION/GETTY IMAGES Schlemiel, Schlimazel Any fan of the 1970s sitcom Laverne & Shirley can recite the little ditty at the show’s opening: “Five, six, seven, eight, schlemiel, schlimazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated.” While fun to say, it means bupkis (nothing). Both schlemiel and schlimazel are Yiddish for an unlucky person, with schlemiel suggesting more of an incompetent or a bungler. And hasenpfeffer is a German rabbit stew.
readersdigest.in 131 1.Pumpkins are berries. True or false? 2.What former American astronaut, now a U.S. senator, chased a co-worker around the International Space Station while wearing a gorilla suit? 3. What nocturnal bird found in South and Central Amer ica is nicknamed the ‘ghost bird’ due to its large eyes and haunting call? 4. Which Australian city briefly held the names Batmania and Bearbrass before settling on its current name in 1837? 5. In which Central Asian country is the Darvaza gas crater, a geological formation also known as the ‘Gates of Hell’, disco ’ - vered in the 1970s? 6. What kind of leaf fried in tempura batter is an autumn snack in Osaka, Japan? 7. For security reasons, baristas who work at a Starbucks located in Langley, Virginia, do not take customers’ names with an order. In what U.S. federal building is it located? 8. The Indian subcontinent moves northward about five centimetres a year, causing what landmark to grow even taller? 9.Which agency of the United Nations was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize twice, first in 1954 and again in 1981? 10. A new rock formation first dubbed ‘plastiglomerate’ in a 2013 research paper is made up of sedimentary granules and what else? 11. What historical figure is said to have posted an influential statement on a church door in Germany on 31 October 1571, now known as Reformation Day? 12. Among what famous wreckage was the rusteating bacteria Halomonas titanicae discovered in 2010? 13. What term, which today describes a person averse to new technology, was inspired by the likely fictional leader of a group of textile workers who revolted against industrialization in early 1800s England? Maple leaf. 6. Turkmenistan. 5. Melbourne. 4. The great potoo. 3. Mark Kelly. 2. True. Answers: 1. Martin 11. Plastic. 10. UN High Commissioner for Refugees. 9. Mount Everest. 8. CIA HQ. 7. Luddite (after Ned Ludd) 13. The Titanic. 12. Luther. BY Beth Shillibeer CREATIV STUDIO HEINEMANN/GETTY IMAGES Reader’s Digest TRIVIA
132 october 2023 Reader’s Digest A Trusted Friend in a Complicated World Backbone, Metronome by Alex Gorodskoy, exclusively for Reader’s Digest