Jana Aranya by Sankar / Satyajit Ray

I discovered Jana Aranya through Satyajit Ray, one of the most illustrious auteurs in cinematic history. Written by Sankar (Mani Shankar Mukherjee), it was a novel in a collection titled “Swarga, Marta, Patal” (Heavenly realm, Earthly realm and Lower realms, translated in resonance of the Lokas in Hindu philosophy). Another one from the collection, titled “Seemabaddha” (Company Limited) was also made into a film by Ray. These two films, along with “Pratiddwandi” (Adversary) are a part of the famed “Calcutta trilogy” – a set of stories based in the turbulent Calcutta (Kolkata) of the 70s.

Ray(behind camera) during shoot of Jana Aranya, with AD Suhasini Mulay

Naxalism, an extreme form of communist idealism inspired by Mao and Guevara, started by Charu Majumdar in Naxalbari in North Bengal, had spread across the state. It had taken a hold of the imagination of the youth, particularly College and University students. They wanted a revolution, by violent means if necessary.

                “They are neither afraid to die, nor to kill”

Naxalites unleashed brutal violence on people who, according to them, were a “part of the system”. Jhumpa Lahiri’s book “The Lowland”, though a work of fiction, describes the horrific events transpiring in Bengal, particularly Kolkata.

                “They ransacked schools and colleges across the city. In the middle of the night they burned records and defaced portraits, raising red flags. They plastered Calcutta with the images of Mao.

                They intimidated voters, hoping to disrupt the elections. They fired pipe guns on the streets. They hid bombs in public places, so that people were afraid to sit in cinema hall, or stand in line at the bank.

                Then the targets turned specific. Unarmed traffic constables at busy intersections. Wealthy businessmen, certain educators. Members of the rival party, the CPI(M). The killings were sadistic, gruesome, intended to shock. The wife of the French consul was murdered in her sleep. They assassinated Gopal Sen, the vice-chancellor of Jadavpur University. They killed him on campus while he was taking his evening walk. It was the day before he planned to retire. They bludgeoned him with steel bars, and stabbed him four times.”

Eventually, the West Bengal state government went all out to quell the movement, eliminating many, often in the manner of a classic encounter killing – letting them loose in the pretext of a release and shooting them from behind. Similar to the manner in which the elder brother Udayan is killed in “The Lowland”.

                “For a moment it was as if they were letting him go. But then a gun was fired, the bullet aimed at his back”

Unemployment was sky high, and the general mood extremely pessimistic. All three films of the Calcutta trilogy are in this backdrop, and while “Pratiddwandi” has a more direct connection to Naxalite movement, with the protagonist’s brother having joined it, the other two touch upon it tangentially. Nonetheless, one gains from cognizance of the social and political context of the times to appreciate these films.

Somnath Banerjee is fresh graduate, looking for a job. He and his friend Sukumar are among the hundreds of thousands looking to fill a precious few open positions in the grim employment scene. Unable to get a job, Somnath decides to start his own business as an order supply agent, or in plain Bengali – a “dalal”.

The “middleman”

Someone who would supply the goods that an interested party wants to purchase. Hence the English title of the film, “The Middleman”, though Jana Aranya would literally translate to “Forest of people”, the human jungle one has to deal with.

He is aided by an experienced mentor, an old acquaintance Biswanath Bose, or Bishu babu, who provides the launching pad – office space, tips and some vital contacts.

Bishu babu sells an elephant

When Somnath asks Bishu babu what he could supply, he says – “anything, from pins to elephants”, then goes on to narrate, in his own affable manner, an anecdote of how he managed to once dispose of an Elephant on behalf of a beleaguered businessman.

As Somnath gets initiated, he is helped by in particular by Adak. Somnath, according to Adak, he has an appeal that evokes sympathy in people. When Somnath asks if it’s his look of helplessness, Adak replies it’s because he’s still “straight”, and not learnt the tricks of the trade yet.

Adak – on Somnath

Adak introduces him to Natobar Mitter, who calls himself a public relations man, in reality a well-connected individual with deep contacts in the local business scene.

Somnath is about to land a lucrative contract that will assure him of a steady stream of income – supplying optical whitener for a textile factory. He meets the chief officer of the plant, Mr. Goenka, to push the deal through. But he is perplexed about the deal still not materializing, despite the right signs, and seeks Natobar Mitter’s intervention. Mitter uses his expertise to dig deeper into Goenka, and unearths that in order for Somnath to seal the deal, he has to provide Goenka with an escort. Somnath’s motivation falters, in a conflict of moral values.

Mitter – convincing Somnath

He is finally compelled, after a discussion with Mitter, to sidestep his ideals and face reality.

Things get murkier when the prostitute he is trying to arrange for Goenka turns out to be none other than his old friend Sukumar’s sister, Kauna. Ray alters things a bit from the original story, where the sister isn’t aware of Somnath being the liaison. In the film, Somnath makes a final attempt to turn back, asking Kauna to return home. But she refuses. Though Somnath succeeds in getting the contract, he relents on his ideals. The “do not disturb” light outside Goenka’s hotel room fades into the perturbed eyes of Somnath’s father, waiting for his return in the semi darkness of a power cut. Somnath’s shadow precedes him as he makes his entry, symbolic of the shadowy business world he’s stepping into.

Back home, after the deal

The film ends in irony as he announces his success, much to his father’s relief, as his sister-in-law, in whom he had earlier confided to the degeneracy of his trade, casts a circumspect gaze from behind the curtains.

The story provides a dichotomy between success and ideals that Ray likes to explore. He returned to this theme again in Shakha Prasakha (1990), his penultimate film, co-produced by Gerard Depardieu, where an ailing father realizes that the success of his own illustrious children have not been without compromise.

Although it has been over two decades having read the original story in Bengali, I do recall that it was highly readable, despite the complexity of theme. Ray’s film adaptation is equally approachable, but goes beyond. The narration, like many of his other films, is a chef d’oeuvre of composition.

Opening credits

The opening sequence in the examination hall, with Maoist graffiti on the walls and rampant copying in open defiance of the invigilators, transitions into a series of freeze frames of youthful faces in boisterous laughter, as if celebrating their ability to mock the system. As the opening credits continue to roll, Ray’s incisive orchestral score slowly unfurls in the background. One of the finest montages in cinematic history.

Pradeep Mukherjee portrays Somnath’s innocence and confusion with natural ease. Other notable performances are by Utpal Dutt, a doyen of Indian cinema, who plays Bishu babu, Somnath’s gregarious benefactor, and Rabi Ghosh as Natobar Mitter, the glib public relations officer – both seasoned actors. Ray cast them frequently in his films, including his final feature, “Aguntuk” (1991).

While the film’s cornerstone theme is the price of success, it also eulogizes entrepreneurship. One doesn’t always need a significant capital to get started. Enterprise and openness are keys to success, especially in adversity.

The film was made in black in white, in 1975, when most of the world had already moved on to color. In fact Ray had already switched to color in 1973 with Ashani Sanket, and the Feluda story Sonar Kella in 1974. Jana Aranya in b/w is an aberration, as all his films thereafter are in color. It’s unfortunate, in my opinion, that someone of the stature of Ray, who was already among the directorial luminaries of the world, was unable to find enough financing to make Jana Aranya in color. Or was it a conscious choice, in tune with the prior two films of Calcutta trilogy?

Suheldev by Amish

If you were to ask a High School student in India if she has heard of Suheldev, chances are that she would reply in the negative. Likewise for the battle of Bahraich. Not because Suheldev was a fictional character, or Bahraich a fictional location. This important king and a very significant battle are simply left out of school level text books, quite likely from College or University level text books as well. The reason is because in India, History is taught from the perspective of invaders. This tradition was continued by socialists and Marxist historians after independence, with nefarious intent. Sadly even now, after more than seven decades of independence from the British and a Nationalist government at the helm, no major attempts have been made to revise text books to include the Indian perspective. The importance of this retelling of History from the perspective of Indians is extremely significant to avoid a lopsided view. To borrow an African proverb, quoted often by Sanjeev Sanyal –

“Until the lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter”

Thus, major leaders and events are hidden from the mainstream, Suheldev and the battle of Bahraich among them. To use Amish’s own words –

“Sadly, many of these heroes and heroines have been airbrushed out of our history books.”

Of late, thankfully, we have intellectuals like Sanjeev Sanyal and others playing a vital role in helping people rediscover these heroes. Amar Chitra Katha does its part. And a large part in being played by popular authors like Amish Tripathi, whose brand of historical fiction add color to these events and characters.

Suheldev is based on the historical character Raja Suheldo Pasi, who led an alliance of Indian kings to rout a large Turkic army in 1033, at the battle of Bahraich. Back then, India was the wealthiest economy in the world. It attracted invaders with the intent of conquest or plunder. Mahmud of Ghazni invaded India seventeen times and destroyed the Somnath temple. The Turks, however, were deterred after Suheldev managed to unite several kingdoms in resistance, and decimated the Turkic army led by Salar Maqsud, Mahmud’s nephew. The damage was so brutal that the Turks did not invade India for the next one hundred fifty years. That is how significant the battle of Bahraich was. And that is why it is all the more significant for popular fiction to unravel such heroes. More people will start asking questions after discovering these missing figures who played a vital role in the continuity of Indian civilization against relentless foreign invasions. Textbooks do not do them justice, but with their infusion into popular consciousness, Governments and committees will have little choice but to revise textbooks to include the likes of Suheldev, Rani Abbakka and Lalitaditya, so history is retold from the lion’s perspective, and not to always glorify the hunter.

In the book’s Foreword, Amish mentions that this book is a team effort, where the first draft is written by something called a “Writer’s Centre”.

                “…the genesis of the story and the final writing is done by me, while the team drives the first draft”

This is a strange concept for me, as the first draft is most deeply connected to a writer’s consciousness.  It’s the purest physical link between assimilation of ideas and their outward expression. To give it up to others would mean a lot, and I do not understand the motive behind such compulsion. But I’m not complaining, as long as the journey is good. And for this book, it’s been a very positive experience.

The work is cohesive and fast paced, with the right hooks to keep you engrossed. Don’t be surprised if you want to keep returning to finish it, or even wrap it up in a single sitting. That’s the desired outcome of a well written book, and this one achieves it exceptionally well. Through short chapters and a tight story line, its primary concern is to portray Suheldev’s emergence from a guerilla leader to one leading an Indian alliance to a resounding strategic victory against the Turks.

A theme of Indian unity is prevalent through the book. Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Dalits, Kshatriyas forsake their differences to unite against a common enemy. This is essential for preserving the ethos of Indian civilization that the Turks were out to destroy. To quote Sanjeev Sanyal from “The Ocean of Churn” –

                “The Turks were unbelievably cruel towards Hindus and even fellow Muslims, but they seem to have reserved their worst for the Buddhists. One possible explanation for this is that they themselves had converted to Islam from Buddhism relatively recently and felt that they had to prove a point”

The narrative is also quite filmic, maybe with deliberate intent. Gory battles, of which there are many, are vividly etched. There is also a hint of romance in the otherwise bloody tale. And an intrigue about Aslan that keeps one guessing until the end. All these elements and a strong sense of patriotism prevalent throughout the book, could be easily espoused to a screenplay, and a Bollywood hit in the hands of a competent director. Perhaps brand Amish already has that in mind. Har Har Mahadev. And a few years from now, if you were to ask a High School student in India if she has heard of Suheldev, you know the answer is likely to be a resounding “yes”.

Life Over Two Beers And Other Stories by Sanjeev Sanyal

Life Over Two Beers And Other Stories is Sanyal’s first published work of fiction. In his own words

“—it sent me on a happy journey and I will probably remain primarily a non-fiction writer.”

This collection of mostly satirical short stories is very approachable. A quick read, it elicits a smile or an acknowledgement every now and then during the course of its reading. Acknowledgement of ones familiarity with Indian politics, bureaucracy or simply, Indian-ness.

There are fourteen short stories and a couple of poems in this work. Sanyal is an economist, a former banker turned bureaucrat and draws from his own experiences in corporate and social circles.

                “…satire, by its very nature, is based on a caricature of real-world social mores”

We have probably met our Mrs Rudra from the title story, with “large red bindi and kohl-lined eyes”, fudging data for a foreign grant and throwing her weight when faced with the truth

                “…I do hope you know who you are talking to…Do you know how many government committees I serve on?”

, seen perpetually stalled government projects, as in “The Caretaker”, met pretentious socialites like Dolly Roy whom Rishi “The Used-Car Salesman” uses unsuspectingly to launch a second career.  Or balked at a gasbag highbrow like Dr. Surojit Halder who unwittingly becomes the subject of a social experiment in “The Intellectuals”.

The funniest story is perhaps “The Troll”, where Mrs. Deshpande, a middle class housewife with an anonymous social media alias “Bubbly Bento”, prompts a dubious fact checker website of opposing political views to unravel her real identity, with hilarious outcome. It’s easy for anyone familiar with contemporary political landscape on twitter or other social media to draw parallels.

While a couple of stories, “Waiting till the time of Cow-Dust” and “The Return of Imagination” seem abstruse, the pastime of a hobbyist, a couple of others do stand out, and hints that Sanyal can turn out more poignant pieces.

“The Reunion” – where a Dev, a compulsive gambler milks an old friendship to sustain his obsession, and “Books” – where bibliophile Vishwas, a freelance journalist, discovers his lost collection of books through a chance meeting with a successful businesswoman, who turns out to be the same girl from his village that his father had once tried to get him to marry – make it worthwhile for the reader to anticipate future works of fiction from Sanyal, even if occasionally.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

Stieg Larsson became a sensation with the publication of his Millennium trilogy. Sadly, only after his untimely death. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the first of the trilogy, is a page turner and keeps one glued till the end. I had already seen the movie. I wish I hadn’t. While you can make an exceptional film out of an ordinary book, in this instance the book surpasses the film.

It is a first class tale of crime and detection. But don’t expect an exposition of the criminal mind a la Thomas Harris, creator of Hannibal Lecter. Harris and Larsson both worked for the press, and wrote macabre crime thrillers turned mega international movie hits. But their works aren’t quite similar. While Harris dissects psychology, Larsson probes racism. And politics. The criminal is in the forefront for Harris. Not for Larsson. Instead Blomkvist and Salander, the two protagonists, take center stage. Not much is revealed about Salander’s past in the first book.  We know she is on the social fringe, somewhat of an iconoclast, with a troubled history. Prone to violence. Unforgiving. Gifted with photographic memory, and razor sharp hacking skills. Blomkvist, a successful journalist, a celebrity, is on the other end of the social spectrum.

“She had no faith in herself. Blomkvist lived in a world populated by people with respectable jobs, people with orderly lives and lots of grown-up points”

Despite differences, some inner traits converge. A friendship grows. That, towards the end almost develops as love. Both have a penchant for details, and a relentless drive in their pursuit of justice. And promiscuity.

Larsson manages to successfully portray a flawed character as a protagonist. Don’t judge a book by its cover, he says. Both ways. How else can such grotesque crimes hide behind the Vanger facade.

This first volume is more of an introduction to the Salander character, with more to come in the next two. It is much more about Blomkvist, so the title is somewhat misappropriated. But we do realize that she’s the real protagonist. Deeply wronged by society, Salander is not one to be cowered down. She’s a fighter. Mistrustful of social norms and authority, she deals with problems in her own ways, a trait that eventually helps her solve the final piece of the Harriet Vanger puzzle. And save Blomkvist’s life. That makes her a hero.

I said earlier that the book is better than the film (I’m referring to the Swedish production starring Michael Nyqvist and Noomi Rapace). That may be a tad harsh. A film often can’t really live up to abook in its entirety, without turning itself into a TV series. Certain elements are left out or altered for brevity – Dragan Armansky, the Wennerstrom probe, Blomkvist’s daughter and her role in providing him with a vital clue, Salander’s hustle to bury Wennerstrom, Blomkvist’s affair with Cecila Vanger. But standalone, the movie does a fine job, despite the changes. And the visuals in your imagination are solidified, be it iconic Stockholm landmarks or frigid Norrland vistas.

From Heaven Lake by Vikram Seth

When Vikram Seth traveled through China almost twenty five years ago, the country was much less fashionable in popular parlance than it is today. Sinkiang and Tibet are likely to be far more accessible to the tourist today, possibly even to the hitch hiker, which is what was Seth’s choice incarnate – an interesting albeit woeful one, but without which the travelogue would likely have remained unattractive or half done.

Seth was a Stanford exchange student in Nanjing University when he wrote this book (1983) and the origins of his unconventional journey back to his home in Delhi for the summer vacation was a rather impromptu one – when he, tired of the limiting insights through a conducted tour, broke away from the school party to undertake this extraordinary detour on his own.

It is an engrossing read, not merely to discover the ethereal beauty of the harsh high desert landscapes of Western China and Tibet, but also for the human interactions – his bonhomie with Sui, the erratic but good natured truck driver with whom he spends the longest part of his trip, his travails on the way, the family he befriends in Tibet and their unenviable legacy in the gruesomeness of the Chinese occupation, and so on. It is probably well known that Seth, a polyglot, was quick to pick up Chinese during his stay in China (he has published a translation of Chinese poets for that matter) . This helped him immensely on the way, to talk to the people in remote places with little knowledge of the outside world, much less English.

He is observant of the hospitable nature of the Chinese people, despite the secrecy of its Government:

“Time and again, with no thought other than kindness, people have helped me along in this journey. And this experience is merely a continuation of what I have felt throughout my travels in China: a remarkable warmth to the outsider from a people into whom a suspicion of foreigners has so long been instilled.”

It is interesting to note that Seth compares the communist autocracy of China and India’s fledgling democracy, a theme at the heart of Aravind Adiga’s successful novel The White Tiger. This was when Adiga was nine years old. Yet the similarity of their observations, although via quite different vehicles, is striking, and only helps crystallize the viability of such comparisons.

“I think about what the two countries have done for their people in the course of the last thirty years. One overwhelming fact is that the Chinese have a better system of social care and of distribution than we do. Their aged do not starve. Their children are basically healthy. By and large, the people are well clothed, very occasionally in rags. Most children in the eastern provinces go to school for at least five years; this is in practice, not just(as in India) on paper. Tibet will take a long time to achieve the standard of living of other parts of China; however, in this comparatively prosperous part of Tibet I have not, for instance, seen signs of malnutrition.

….

“I am often asked about the relative success of our two large overpopulated countries in satisfying the most basic needs of their people. What is sometimes forgotten when making this comparison is that, except for the greater mineral wealth of China (a result of its far greater land area), all the a priori advantages lie on India’s side. India’s needs are fewer, and its agricultural production possibilities are greater. First, less clothing and heating are required for the average Indian than the average Chinese: everyone in the north of China needs both a heavy overcoat and heating fuel in winter. Secondly, India has more arable land per capita, more sunshine for double and triple cropping, and a better potential for irrigation. Yet despite all this, the average Chinese is better clothed, better fed and better sheltered that the average Indian.”

Yet Seth is not unsympathetic to India’s achievements, its democracy.

“But the Indian achievement of the last thirty years has been in a different, more nebulous, and in a sense more difficult direction. The country has not fragmented: a whole generation of Indians has grown up accepting that an independent and united India is the normal state of affairs. In the first few years of a nation, that is already a great deal: one cannot expect patriotism.”

I wonder what Seth’s views would be today, with all the separatist movements in Kashmir and the North East. But while critical of censorship and infringement on personal freedoms following Chinese dictatorship, Seth lauds, and rightly so, the democratic framework in India, however fragile. We do hope to see it pay off in the future, though this appears a distant prospect till this day.

Finally, he concludes, rather abstemiously:

“I now see that China’s achievements are solid but have serious drawbacks; and that is about all that that can be said about India’s, too.”

Quite diplomatic. But undeniably true.

I seem to have gone off in a tangent while writing about a travelogue. But these were too relevant and inescapable in my perspective to ignore. Coming back to the travel aspect, Heaven Lake, from which the book derives its title, is actually a pristine lake in the North western province of Sinkiang. It is from here that Seth, deserting his school troop, retraces his path all the way back to Nanjing and then to Beijing in eastern China in order to obtain his passport, money, and a Nepalese Visa (which he didn’t eventually need, being an Indian citizen), thus completing a circuitous loop all the way back to Liuyuan, from where he continues further south to Lasha, then Kathmandu and home to Delhi.

I have an interest in Tibet, and have written earlier about an older, marginal turn of the twentieth century book by an European traveler (Amaury de Riencourt), who visits Lasha, virtually unknown then to Westerners, via Sikkim. Since then, Tibet has been far more exposed to the rest of the world. While the political aspect is almost unnoticeable in Seth’s book, it is delightful to read about Lasha once again, the city and its grand monasteries, their resilience and decay. In Potala, the seat of Tibetan Buddhism and once the residence of the Dalai Lama, Seth is overwhelmed by the inspiring experience of the mystical rituals.

One thing that distinguishes Seth’s book from the run-of-the-mill travelogue is the occasional doggerel. Besides their literary value, they are filled with quaint observations which are simply charming. Here’s a bit from a longer piece, which he had written while in the truck after a particularly difficult stretch:

Here we three, cooped, alone,

Tibetan, Indian, Han,

Against a common dawn

Catch what poor sleep we can,

And sleeping drag the same

Sparse air into our lungs,

And dreaming each of home

Sleeptalk in different tongues.

There’s one particular piece, of prose however, which struck a chord in me, perhaps due to the fact that I too, Mystic Wanderer, have been drifting away from my homeland, in this course of life. Seth is in Nanjing, before setting out for Beijing, and enjoys a valedictory meal with a friend, which includes some California wine. This makes him nostalgic, for California, and he observes:

“…I recall drinking sherry in California and dreaming of England, where I ate dalmoth and dreamed of Delhi. What is the purpose, I wonder, of all this restlessness? I sometimes seem to myself to wander around the world merely accumulating material for future nostalgias.”

How eloquent!

An Equal Music by Vikram Seth

Michael, a brilliant but temperamental violinist, finds that the love of his life happens to be living in the same city he calls home: London. Julia, a pianist, his first and only love, is someone he cannot forget, though they had parted on unfavorable terms ten years ago. He clings on to her memories, from their days in the conservatory in Vienna, the deep influence she has had on him. Initially aimless after the separation, Michael eventually finds some footing in life, joins a quartet, has a schedule of sorts and a decent livelihood, though her absence haunts him constantly.  She has moved on, has married, and has a son. But when they meet again, she discovers that she still loves him. Michael, blinded in rekindled passion, refuses to acknowledge the futility of their tryst. Impetuous, the possessive lover begins to form an unbearable threat between Julia and her family. Deeply hurt, she tears herself away with steely resolve. Michael, heedless of his career as a musician, withers away. Yet, despite the irreconcilable separation, it is music that strangely binds him to life, and the cause of living.

 

An Equal Music is a love story. But not just so. Music, and the lives of musicians, is a parallel theme, which becomes inevitable, an outcome of the central character’s profession and the first person narration. Michael’s world, his friends, his activities and interests involve classical music at some level. Seth paints this world with authenticity – whether bringing up an arcane Beethoven Opus, discussing contrapuncts or fugues, or with musicians talking about the finer aspects of playing a piece – everything is very realistic. This is to such an effect that it could lead a reader who is only somewhat familiar with classical music, to delve deeper. Seth’s accomplishment is not merely in the depth of his writing about music, but also his success in keeping the work extremely engrossing at the same time. Divided in short, manageable chapters, the book is a page turner, in the restrained manner of his earlier novel – A Suitable Boy.  Love, the central theme, comes in many forms. The illusory passion possessing Michael, his bonds with his father, and the altruistic love of true friends. Finally, there’s the love of music, which permeates, without intrusion, the entire course of the novel. The fact that Julia, like Beethoven, is deaf, and yet continues playing, which sustains her, as it does Michael, is Seth’s tribute to the redemptive powers of music. There is also subtle humor now and then that keeps one light hearted. The eccentric Piers, a member of the quartet that Michael belongs to, is probably the most memorable of the side characters, his tactlessness reminding me of John Cleese in Fawlty Towers.

It is not a dark and serious work like, for instance, Disgrace. With hope and humour, Seth counterbalances delusion and disjointedness. While this makes the work less depressing, it also takes some of the edge off.

 

The title of the book is from a John Donne verse, which appears before the beginning of the novel:

 

And into that gate they shall enter, and in that house they 

shall dwell, where there shall be no cloud nor sun, no

darkness nor dazzling, but one equal light, no noise nor

silence, but one equal music…

 

In the course of reading, it becomes apparent that this kind of writing would not be possible without the writer’s love and interest in music. At the end, in the Author’s note, Seth acknowledges that, saying: “Music to me is dearer even than speech.”

It his his love for music that enables such a virtuoso performance.

The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai

It is not a badly written book. But not one “that” well written to deserve an award, and least of all one as prestigious as the Booker. So why did The Inheritance of Loss win the Booker?

Answer:

a) The rest in running were no better

b) The judges blundered

c) My perceptions are, well, questionable.

 

I hope it is option c. But reading the book I felt otherwise.

 

Sai, an orphaned teenager whose parents died tragically in Moscow, is left to the care of a reclusive and disillusioned grandfather, a retired Judge and former ICS officer of the British era, now residing in a desolate Kalimpong bungalow. The judge has a cook, whose son Biju is an illegal immigrant in the States, jumping from one small time job to another to stay afloat. The book hovers between the present life of Sai, the judge and the cook in Kalimpong in the backdrop of the Gorkhaland movement, and Biju’s struggle to find a foothold in New York, interspersed with flashbacks of the judge’s past, his cruelties and illusions of grandeur that have soured his taste for life

 

 

So why is this much vaunted book undeserving of its praise and accolades? Here I attempt a brief five point reasoning:

1. Stiltedness : The overall effect appears stilted. It seems the author has tried to force fit herself into ideas of the region and its political climate (Kalimpong, Gorkhaland), the characters, and the result has carried forth in the writing. It has lead to characters hard to empathize with, despite numerous situations where it is called for.

2. Exoticism : There seems to be a clear intent to sell this book to people who are not familiar to India. Exoticism can go beyond mangoes, guavas or chutneys. They tread into long stereotyped rituals like child marriage, subjugation of women, negativism among low level business class Indian immigrants in the USA and so son. The writer’s desire of satire, if any, falls flat, the humour impotent.

3. Incoherence : While the narrative shifts from present to past, from Kalimpong to New York, from Gorkhaland politics and marginalised victims to Saeed Saeed and his desperateness of becoming an American citizen, the transitions are ill made and jittery, hardly Booker calibre.

4. Bad dialogue : The dialogues in Inheritence are not only pathetic but also profuse, which adds to the pain.

5. Failed experimentation: Desai tries non conventional structures, like an oddly punctuated list, or expressions, in the middle of a paragraph. Or even broken half formed sentences given the fullness of whole. While this is novel and does garner some attention, it is not hard to notice the lack of any resounding effect in outcome. Experimentation for its own sake. While Rushdie creates power and Arundhati Roy almost poetry, Desai manages only a hodge podge of something needless.

 

Is the book really that bad? By no means.You can certainly give it a try, though you might be hard pressed to finish it. Desai deserves credit for the research in hill politics and civil servant’s lives, for coming up with something substantial to say in over three hundred pages that perhaps took her years to write and which in no way can be undermined by a review that has taken only minutes. My regret is that with all the content for drama and conflict, the possibility of scintillating characterization and scope, the work frizzles out to produce only something average, that someone will read and forget, with its characters hardly lasting in our memories.

That is where the book fails, and the reason why I felt that option (a) or (b), or both combined is the most plausible answer to the question I had earlier asked.

A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry

If you missed the Introductory bit…

Dukhi, the father and Ishvar and Narayan, fed up of the oppression of lower castes, sends his sons to his friend Ashraf, so he can train them as tailors, breaking away from the erstwhile caste dictated professoin of chamaar. Narayan then returns to the village, setting up his own enterprise, his son Omprakash being sent to join his unmarried uncle Ishvar and Ashraf chacha, to train as a tailor. But Om loses his entire family when a vindictive upper caste landlord burns Narayan’s and Dukhi’s homes, decimating them. Following the annihilation, Ishvar and Om go to Bombay, to make some money before returning, planning to set up their own tailoring business.

After much searching, they finally land a job with Dina Dalal. Dina has herself fallen into bad times. A widow for sixteen years, she was managing to keep up with her home based sewing business, until her eyes began to falter. To pay for her rent, she plans to take up a paying guest and also run a tailoring business – both with her friend Zenobia’s help. Zenobia gets her in touch with a friend of their schooldays, Aban, who now lives in a faraway hill station, her son Maneck studying for a diploma in Refrigeration and Air Conditioning in Bombay. Maneck’s search for an accommodation, in the face of hostel ragging, turns out to be an opportune moment for Dina. She simultaneously receives a contract with Au Revoir exports, to stitch garments for them based on paper their patterns. All she needs is a couple of tailors, whom she finds in Ishvar and Om, themselves desperate for a job. Circumstances thus bring the quadrangle together.

Maneck and Om, despite their huge differences in backgrounds, become good friends. For a while everything goes smoothly – the orders are delivered in time, Maneck is relieved to find a new place, Ishvar and Om find a settlement, and Dina no longer has to beg her brother Nusswan for rent money. Then police drive Ishvar and Om out of their homes, their chawl destroyed under the city beautification scheme. Dina’s tailoring work suffers, but still limps along, as Ishvar and Om find a makeshift dwelling in the streets, under the awning of a pharmacy. But they are soon rounded up and driven out of the city along with a bunch of beggars, to provide cheap (free) labour to an irrigation project – another outcome of civic beautification scheme, wherein pavement dwellers were strategically eradicated. Dina’s work comes to a standstill. When Ishvar and Om return after their many travails, she is willing to give them accommodation in her own flat, letting them sleep in the verandah. Maneck, an idealistic boy, who does not believe in needless social divisions, is overjoyed. What starts for Dina as a survival strategy, to keep her business running by not losing her tailors, metamorphoses into her compassion for the destitute uncle nephew pair. Superficial customs fall apart as the four share the same food, the same bathroom, plates and glasses. Maneck is joyful in Om’s company, the two enjoying their teenage escapades.

Things however take a drastic downturn when, at the end an year of successful business and bonhomie, the tailors decide to take a vacation to their native place, to visit Ashraf chacha and to find a bride for Om, whom Ishvar is desperate to get married off. Maneck too, at the end of his diploma, decides to spend some time at home, before returning for his degree. Dina, alone, awaits their return in the hope of resuming her business, missing their presence. She remains waiting. Dreadful things happen to Ishvar and Om back in town. When they return to the city, broken and invalid, Dina has already lost her flat to her oppressive landlord. She’s back to staying with her brother – her will broken, freedom taken away. Maneck, instead of returning to Bombay, is sent to Dubai by his father, for a job. Their camaraderie is disrupted for good, with the heartbreaking fate of the tailors.

However, there is more heartbreak in store in the epilogue. A word of warning: If you feel, like me, that the book is sufficiently complete before the epilogue, don’t bother delving into the epilogue. It will depress you further, to encounter more deaths and the deeper revelation of the Ishvar and Om’s horrible fate. I’m not willing to disclose it here in my review.

Coming to the characters, Dina is the one most complete of the four. We see her as a young girl, growing up under Nusswan’s strict vigilance. The guilt ridden, puerile Nusswan, though critical at times of Dina, ultimately wants her well being. He’s always there for her – when she needs that extra money to pay her rent, and in the end when she is evicted from her flat and has no place to turn to. In some ways, Nusswan reminds me of Arun, Lata’s snobbish brother in Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy. Both are caring towards their sibling(s), although in their own obnoxious ways. Dina’s marriage to Rustom is beautifully captured, the essence of their love disregarding the entrapments of wealth. Dina, though having become more skeptical in the hard times, has a heart of gold, as Maneck discovers in the gradual melting away of her hard outer shell, much to his delight. She is strong and independent, turning down the proposas that Nusswan brings after Rustom’s death, urging her to remarry. She remains in their old flat, braving the accompanying challenge of earning her own living, rather than succumbing to a more sated lifestyle she could have easily chosen. In the end, it is sad to see her crumble, her resistance giving way to a strange kind of peace that comes right off the pages, a sort of acceptance of defeat, a kind of tiredness in the face of insurmountable injustices she has witnessed. “I have seen enough,” she seems to say. “I don’t care anymore of what happens to me and world around.” Nusswan himself is surprised, missing the old Dina and her confronting habits.

Maneck’s character seems underdeveloped. Although we do get a sense of his isolation and depression on being away from his home and due the rift with his father, it also appears that he is a rational man, more mature than his years – from his sense of respect for Dina and from his modern ideas of marketing to resurrect their dwindling family business. This does not justify his final outcome, at least in the manner portrayed. There seems to be wide gap between his year in Bombay with Dina and the tailors, to his return nine years later (in the epilogue…there, I’ve already told you some of it!). The years in between are vital to his transformation and of which there’s simply not enough.

The Ishvar and Om characters are sufficient. One is moved almost to tears in the atrocious events befalling their cursed lives. At the same time, Mistry is successful of casting in them a philosophical wisdom, especially in Ishvar, a sense of detachment in the face of all adversities.

A few things are overdone, like the entire beggar entourage including their Beggarmaster, whom I found quite implausible. The haircollector turned psychopath turned holy man is also much too surreal. There are some mouthpieces – in Vasantrao Valmik and the Sikh taxi driver in Delhi (again, in the epilogue) – who shed some light on the emergency and degenerating political scene of the country thereafter.

The book has a prologue and an epilogue. While the prologue is very relevant and sets up the tone, unobtrusively introducing us to all the four principals, the epilogue, as I mentioned earlier, could be curtailed, without affecting the depth or completeness of the work. The one thing the epilogue does is to drive home the pain a few notches further.
Mistry’s style is extremely fluid and I’d rank him above the formidable likes of Vikram Seth and Amitav Ghosh in that department.

The work is substantial, over five hundred pages, or was it six hundred. Not once however it is ever tedious.

A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth: Mago, Homosexuality!

To give readers nuances of Bengali life, Vikram Seth uses some clichés, like a mother awed by Tagore and the household poetry of the Chatterjees. This doesn’t come off as too tiresome, since Tagore was(and still is) a tremendous influence in Bengal and art and literature have a significant place in the lives of most cultured and educated Bengali families like the Chatterjees. One thing that strikes a discordant note however is the use of the idiom “Mago”. Not only it appears stilted and unnecessary in its excessiveness, it is also rendered incorrectly. These are two separate words: “Ma”, meaning mother and “go”, which is a term of endearment. “Go” is also used in other ways, like “O’ go” – in which a husband calls a wife (or the other way round), and in exclamation, such as “Ma go, what a mess!”

Some have argued that Maan and Feroze are gay partners. Maybe. But just because they share a bed on one occasion simply doesn’t imply it. What’s of far greater consequence is their magnanimous friendship. Maan saves Feroze’s life from a raging mob. Later he stabs Feroze, almost killing him. Yet Feroze forgives him, knowing the true Maan behind the delusional madness of the moment that had spurred the knifing. It simply blows any kind of sexual overtones to dust. In context, it should be noted that physical closeness, like holding of hands and laying a hand on another’s shoulder is common among close friends in India, or at least used to be during book’s times. It cannot in anyway be misconstrued for sexual intent.

A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth

Title: A Suitable Boy Author: Vikram Seth Read: Aug 2007

 

The fictitious city of Brahmpur in the fictitious state of Purva Pradesh, with its fair mix of Hindus and Muslims, is the reflection of a north Indian city, like Lucknow, famous for it’s Nawabi heritage. Purva in many Indian languages means North or Uttar, so Purva Pradesh is really a reference to Uttar Pradesh state in northern India. The backdrop of real events and locations in post Independence India grants credibility to the unfolding tale. Among these are communal conflicts, zamindari act, Pul Mela stampede(a reference to the great Kumbha Mela), Calcutta(the city where Seth was born) and Praha Shoe Company(Bata Shoes) run by the Czechs in Prahapore(Batanagar) near Calcutta, Nehru and elections. Poetry – from the stilted hilarious doggerels of Makhijani to the sombre verses of Amit, from deplorable Kakoli couplets to Urdu ghazals – coupled with glimpses of the absorbing qualities of Hindustani classical music reveals Seth’s versatility. City and country life are laid bare from the perspective of varied ends of the social spectrum – from the exceedingly rich (Nawab of Baitar for instance) to the abjectly poor(Kacheru’s struggle in extremely hard conditions of a Rudhia village), from the political and power hungry to the laid back and artistic. Amidst all these events and motley mix of characters, the earnest search of “A suitable boy” for Lata by her mother, Mrs. Rupa Mehra, remains a buoy that, though often underwater, resurfaces from the beginning till the end.

In the end, Lata does make a wise choice. However, the fete meted out to Maan is cruel. Couldn’t there be an alternative way for him to turn away from Saeeda Bai? Mrs. Mahesh Kapoor, being the frail woman that she was, could have died (even without a shock), and her last request could have veered Maan away, without jeopardising his father’s political career. Of course, it would be less dramatic – the vacillations of friendship and enmity and the whole suspense of elections would probably have to be sacrificed. Mahesh Kapoor would have won hands down, a consolation, however small, on his wife’s departure. Such a turn of events wouldn’t have been deleterious. By then, the reader is already in too deep. It is to Seth’s credit that after a fumbling acquaintance, one gradually gets enmeshed in the sea of personae – the intelligent and slightly reserved Lata, the hysterical Mrs. Rupa Mehra with her “two tight slaps”, the insouciant and love-lorn Maan, anglophile snob Arun and his licentious wife Meenakshi, rigid Rasheed, forgiving Feroze, confident but boorish Haresh, youthful Kabir and his absent minded father Dr. Durrani with his protege and Kedarnath Tandon’s son Bhaskar the mathematical prodigy, level-headed Pran, ideal Savita, brooding Amit of the “Fever Bird” and cemeteries, flippant Kuku, dreamy Dipankar, shamshuing Varun…the list goes on. A consistent set of characters is equally matched by an eloquent narrative which is helped immensely by breaking up the extensive work (longest novel in English language) into short, eventful chapters – some of them merely a page or a few pages. Although this does compensate somewhat for the size, one cannot but be aware of the immense number of pages devoted to events spanning about two years (or less). However, patience is richly rewarded as the people and locales grow on you and upon completion, there is a longing to surmise what could possibly happen next. In other words, a wish (no, I’m not kidding) for it to be even longer.

 

© 2007 mystic-wanderer