Past perfect: George Eliot's Silas Marner, the weaver of Raveloe

Author: George Eliot
Pages: 212
Written in: 1860-61

Lost and found

Every now and then, when I feel underwhelmed with contemporary works - some of it either because it's too sparse or simply lacking in quality -- I'm gripped by the urge to take up a classic. It allows me to soak my mind in the elegance of the English language...long-winding sentences that bristle with beauty, offering timeless insight into the human condition.
So last weekend I found myself scanning my bookshelf, seeing if there were any classics that I'd left unread and could take up. A quick search got me to Silas Marner - a book my grandfather gave me years ago from his collection.
Right away I must say the book lags behind in scope compared to Eliots' other novels, not quite posessing the wrenching emotional depth of A Mill On The Floss nor the narrative sweep of a Middlemarch, but it comes with a virtuosity and tenderness that makes it greatly readable. Importantly, Silar Marner shows the remedial influence of pure, natural relationships and the power of love when life has otherwise been unfair.

The book recounts the tale of a man - once full of affection and faith - forced to shun society when he's wrongly accused of theft. Silas re-settles in a countryside called Raveloe, where he gains the reputation of being cranky and mad, because he won't allow let anyone get close to him. His past life makes him so bitter that he lives the life of a recluse for years, mechanically carrying on with his work. His only source of pleasure is to gaze at the gleaming gold coins that he gets for his weaving work. He hordes it, and clings on to it dearly. All his repressed emotions are transferred towards the protection of his coins. Naturally then, he's grief-stricken and devastated when the gold gets stolen one day.
And yet, this loss of gold brings about a physical change in Silas. Earlier, he would close his doors and shun society in fear that someone would steal his gold. Now, he has nothing to hide. But emotionally, Silas is distraught at the loss. Which is why he leaps with joy when he sees gold hidden in the frost one Christmas night. But it isn't the gold he thinks it is. They are the golden locks of a two year old girl abandoned at his door. This treasure proves to be priceless, as a major transformation comes about in Silas as he brings up the girl, Eddie. Their relationship is touching, as Silas' frosty exterior melts away, revealing his tender fibres he'd kept locked in his heart for so long.
The other two important characters in the book are that of the well-heeled, Godfrey Cas and his wife Nancy. Their relationship as a married couple is one of deep affection and trust, even if they have many a crisis to overcome. Of course, they have a connection to Eddie.

There are some problems with Silas Marner. You're never sure why Godfrey Case marries a woman called Molly before Nancy. This part is very sketchy. Also, there are some chapters that are meant to give the reader a sense of the social scape in the country side. These parts tend to meander not adding anything substantial to the narrative. I'm guilty of skipping some of these portions.

As I said, the book is probably not in the league of Eliot's other two classics, but it's a neat story and can be an excellent introduction to the author. More importantly, my desire to read something of genuine value and pleasure was completely satiated.

Review: The Story Of A Widow

Author: Musharraf Ali Farooqi

Pages: 249

Price: 495

Publishers: Picador

Published In : 2008

It was with some enthusiasm that I picked up this book by Musharraf Ali Farooqi. There were positive reviews, and the author has his work as translator for the acclaimed The Adventures Of Amir Hamza of Ghalib Lakhnavi and Abdullah Bilgrami behind him. But this turned to be a very drab, vacious book on many fronts.

When one reads about a book set in a particular country or culture, one likes to get a sense of the place and its people. This one is based in Karachi and should have captured the essence of the Pakistani living and its inhabitants in a more textured, nuanced manner. But all Farooqi does is to give you a story that is too generic, plastic and facile.

The concept is interesting enough - that of a 50 plus widow who looks at marrying again and experiencing a sexual, marital happiness that she missed with her deceased husband who was too controlling and finicky. Not a bad plot. But the whole drama appears staged and unconvincing.
Mona, a 50 plus widow, attractive and comely, is quite content with her single status again after her husband's death. Her two daughters, the empathetic Ambar and surly Tanya are married, so the mother has enough time on her hands - something she never had earlier. Her husband has left her enough money and she has an efficient staff to take care of her spacious house. Her decorous social life is restricted to visits to her neighbour - the elderly Mrs Baig and her sister Hina and her husband Jafar.

The author gives us a rather telling glimpse into Mona's life with her husband Ahmad - who while he was a responsible man was unduly meticulous about finances and cared very little for his wife's feelings. She rightly believes she missed out a lot in life just being the ever dutiful wife and mother. So when Salamat Ali, a widower settles as a tenant in Mrs Baig's house, Mona shows him a passing interest.
Salamat we're told is a man of 50, but his habit of ogling at Mona using his binoculars or thrusting film tickets into her hand make him look like a lout, a sadakchhap. This appears odd to say the least. But more excruciatingly portrayed is Mona's extended family, a mob of despicable, gossip-mongers. Her sister Hina is somewhat considerate but that too in an overbearing and officious way which irritates Mona.

There is a tone of artificiality that runs through the whole narrative and neither the characters not their actions have adequate depth or nuance. The relatives goad Mona into marrying Salamat and then want her to divorce him at the first opportunity of him being proved a scamster.
The author makes a farce out of Mona's life in the end. He seems to conspire to keep her in a tremulous state all through. Still, she's the best written character of the lot. You get a sense of her dissatisfied marriage and her desire to be with a man who can value her.
It seems strange  though how she agrees to marry Salamat as she's never convinced about the man. Mona is not in love with him nor does she find him particularly attractive in any sense. The author gives Salamat Ali the air of a slimy fellow very early on, hence there are no surprises when Mona's world gets thrown into a disarray soon. To add to this Salamat is a very badly written character.
 At the end of it, one wonders what the point of the book is – that attractive widows must be on their guard against opportunistic, vile men?

Ruskin Bond's Notes from a Small Room

Author: Ruskin Bond
Pages: 171
Publishers: Penguin
Publishing date: 2009
Price: 225

A room with a view

Moments of inspiration come to all of us. These are times when our imagination takes flight and there's an urge to pen down a few lines. It happens to me during the monsoons - seeing how lovely everything starts looking. The rains are infinitely romantic and there's a regenerating beauty to the season that is quite hard to describe.
It is with this sense of endless wonder and child-like joy that Ruskin Bond writes from his small room about all things that make an impression on him. And with his ardor for nature, even an ant's movement doesn't escape his sensitive eye.
The book - most of it are entries from his diary- is an ode to all things close and dear to him, wherein Ruskin Bond describes the mountain steam lined by white blossoms with as much tenderness as the potted geranium plant in his house. His joy at seeing seedlings break out from mother earth in the monsoons is only equaled by the wonder he feels watching the variety of insects emerging after a hot summer.
Most of the descriptions are about nature but Ruskin Bond’s affection extends to many other things, of which he makes some poignant notes. My favourite chapters (if they can be called that, because most of them are no more than 2 pages) all relate to the author’s description of his personal life – his childhood, some tender moments with his father, his struggle to become a writer. Another touching episode relates to his type writer, which he couldn’t afford entirely and his clerk/housekeeper buys it for him.
Then there are some reflections on books, the way only a bibliophile would do it; talking about how books and their curative properties, the charm of pocket-books and what it means to be a bibliophile.

Most of these entries are random writings, penned down over the years by the author and hunted down to make a compilation. The result is a charming little book, with some of Ruskin Bond’s most simple and instinctive reflections. He tells you that his writing has not changed much, "That's because I haven't changed myself" he says. And that is true in some ways, as it's hard to tell which of these articles were written 20 or 30 years ago. They all carry Ruskin's trademark simplicity, a naivete but a refreshing candour. Above all, writing that reflects a rare humaneness and passion for life the way God created it.
There is no great philosophy or profoundity that Ruskin Bond tries to achieve in his writing (and he says so himself in one of his chapters). When a bright young thing asks him for his philosophy in life, he is unsure what to say even at 75. At first depressed at not being able to come with an answer, he later reminisces, "I realised no philosophy would be of any use to a man so susceptible to changes in light and shade, sunshine and shadow. I was a pagan, pure and simple, a sensualist; sensitive to touch and colour and fragrance and odour and sounds of every description; a creature of instinct, of spontaneous attractions, given to illogical fancies and attachments. As a guide, philosopher and friend, I am of no use to anyone, least of all to myself."

For me, the book is probably not as memorable as Ruskin’s others works like Binya’s Blue Umbrella or some other stories I read in his Childrens Omnibus. But it has a nestling beauty that comes with all things that are private and pretty- a favourite bylane, the fragrance of a flower or the arresting beauty of the morning sun rise

PS: There are almost 40 entries – with lyrical titles like ‘catch a moon bean’ ‘trees from a window’ ‘monsoon medley’ 'a lime tree in the hills' that instantly draw you in with its imagery.

Neil Simon's Plaza Suite - a play I adore

One play that I'm particularly fond of happens to be Plaza Suite, written by American writer Neil Simon in his collection of plays called A Visitor From Forest Hills. I remember being delighted by its succint humour achieved entirely through witty exchange of dialogues, gentle irony and deliciously etched out characters.
The play entirely hinges on dialogues between two of its central characters, the middle-aged husband and wife couple of Norma and Roy Hubley. Both are anxious as their only daughter Mimsie is getting married. We're told about Roy - a successful business who possibly is aggressive and ruthless in his professional deals but is nervous as hell when it comes to the business of marrying his daughter. Norma, his wife, is more soft-spoken, keen to keep up appearances and maintain her image.

So when Mimsie suddenly locks herself up in the bathroom minutes before her wedding, all hell breaks loose. When the play starts, you see Norma begging her daughter to come out. Unable to persuade her, she calls up her husband who is downstaires in the midst of preparations. He freaks out when he hears what his wife has to say, and both - start from requesting Mimsie to come out, then go on to intimidating her, then blackmailing her and then again begging. Beyond the fact that both are obviously worried for their daughter, they have their own specific reasons to be annoyed. Norma - earlier so thrilled by the preparations - is scared that a canceled wedding will cause her embarrassment. Roy - on his part - has spent a great deal on the marriage and like most men would is fretting about the costs. So after itemizing the large sums of money he's spent on heaps of food, liquor and musicians, he yells to her, "Mimsey, this is your father. I want you and your four hundred dollar wedding dress out of there in five seconds!"

Roy - a bit hyper and blunt - unleashes his anger on his wife blaming her for what their daughter has done. "You must have said something..." he yells. Norma is equally mad with her husband and keeps warning him to keep his volume low. Both argue a great deal - hurting each other a fair bit in the bargain, blaming the other for being a bad parent and generally being at cross purposes throughout. And yet, for all of Roy's temper and Norma's superficial concerns( she's sulking over her ripped stockings throughout), their relationship is not without some contemptous affection for one another.

The play is racy, light-hearted, fun-- with great many quotes and crisp exchanges. Yes, there is an underlying thought. Mimsie locks herself up precisely because she is scared of becoming like her parents. But the play is not a sermon on marriage and is more a frolicsome take on different personality-types.

-Sandhya Iyer

Book review: English, August

Author: Upamanyu Chatterjee
Pages: 288
Year Of Publishing : 1988
Price: 295

To be or not to be

I know English, August came a long time ago, and though I remember catching glimpses of the film and being intrigued by it, I never got around to reading the book. I finally did read it and was amazed at how fresh and timeless this Upamanyu Chatterjee book still feels. The book was written in the late 80s and recounts the author's stint as an IAS (Indian Administrative Service) officer in a small district called Madna. At that time, the book got a great cult following, not just for the story, but the way it was recounted –with generous use of cuss words, sexually explicit passages and all of that. I dare say, this remains as sharp a read as it possibly was then.

Born and bred in metros like Calcutta and Delhi, the book's 24 year old protagonist, Agastya Sen feels completely disoriented to be posted in an underdeveloped, far-flung place in Central India. The abysmal living conditions unsettle him. And with his habit of smoking marijuana and being stoned most of the time, Agastya finds himself in a perpetual state of daze, even as he listlessly goes about with his job. He's struck by the laidback attitude of the administrative community, trying to battle with the trying conditions of the place. The collector -Mr Srivastava leading a relatively lavish lifestyle - keeps the social scene quite vibrant. Work takes a back seat for everyone and Agastya, caught in lethargy and inertia, is happy to get away with doing little or nothing. Most of the time his head is spinning, as he wonders what a guy like him could be doing in a place like Madna. But such is the heaviness he feels all round him, that he cannot gather the will to pull himself together.
It’s a vicious circle and the author brilliantly and skillfully describes page after page Agastya’s growing sense of boredom, frustration and farcical existence.

“God, he was fucked – weak, feverish, aching, in a claustrophobic room, being ravaged by mosquitoes, with no electricity, with no sleep, in a place he disliked, totally alone, with a job that didn’t interest him, in murderous weather, and now feeling madly sexually aroused. His stomach contracted with his laughter. He wanted to rebel. He said loudly, ‘I’m going to get well, shave my head, put on a jock strap and jog my way out of here’

It’s really one person’s account as he goes by his life aimlessly, but Upamanyu Chatterjee infuses his story with such varied and colourful episodes, dots it with so many nuanced characters, creates such a perfect sense of the place, that you are effortlessly drawn into a narrative that stays vibrant in spite of the essential static life of Agastya. And all this is recounted with a brazen sense of abandon and wry humour that it makes you chuckle and smile.

More admirably, the author brings a rare emotional nakedness and searing honesty to his protagonist’s internal monologues and observations, not felt by me since James Joyce’s A Portrait of An Artist As A Young Man. There are several brilliant passages that bare the protagonist’s inner most feelings but I continued to be amazed by Upamanyu Chatterjee’s power of perception and his ability to wrench out those thoughts so well.

“The noise of the jeep made sustained conversation impossible foe which Agastya was happy. He could slide down in his seat till his neck rested against its back and, without chafing, allow his mind its restlessness. In a jeep, he would smile and argue with himself, you can do nothing about your mind or your future, not until the journey is over. In a moving jeep he was not vexed by the onus of thought....

Since one assumes that the author has brought a great deal of his own personal experiences during his posting in the book and Agastya seems to be his alter ego, one wonders why he didn’t use the first person. Not that it makes a big difference but one would think of it as a natural option to take, considering that the narration is entirely from the protagonist’s point of view. Maybe a second reading will throw some light on that.

To sum up, the book feels as fresh to read today as ever. Easily, this has to be one of the most brilliantly written and genuinely edgy reads for me.
-Sandhya Iyer

The Painted Veil

The Home-coming

Author: W. Somerset Maugham

Pages: 213

Publishers: Random House
Year Of Publishing: 1925

What do you do when you can't get over a lover who is clearly not worth it, has let you down and has behaved callously? Alternatively, can virtue alone in a husband compensate for passion? Is it duty towards others rather than a self-serving desire that lends our lives dignity and strength? These are some of the profound questions that Somerset Maugham's The Painted Veil raises. Set in the late 19th century, the novel's action takes place in both England and primarily China -which the British had invaded at the time.

Kitty, as a beautiful, young girl is used to a lot of attention since childhood. Along with her pushy mother, everyone imagines that Kitty would get herself a great match in marriage. However, things don't go as expected, and she doesn't find any of her suitors good enough. She gets desperate when her younger sister -- never considered a looker -- gets married to a prosperous Duke! Panic-stricken, Kitty hastily agrees to marry Walter - a staid and simple bacteriologist who falls madly in love with her. She accompanies him to China and tries to adjust to her new role as his wife.

Kitty -  frivolous and a bit shallow - quickly starts to feel bored with Walter.  Yearning for romance, she's exasperated with his silences and general indifference to everything around him. This is when she meets Charles Townshend, a charming, high-ranking government officer. Charles is everything that Walter is not, and Kitty finds him completely irresistible. Both quickly get into an extra-martial affair.

When Walter finds out, he is overcome with anger. Kitty - though disturbed by the discovery - considers it a blessing as she might now be able to divorce her husband and marry Charles.  Walter announces his decision to go to cholera affected town, Mei-Tan Fu to control the epidemic and he wants Kitty to come along. The latter is shocked. "I'm not going, Walter. It's monstrous to even ask," she says. But Walter's mind is made. He won't let her divorce him and will instead press charges of adultery on her and Charles. He gives her a chance though. If Charles can divorce his wife Dorothy and marry her, then he will let her go.

Kitty runs to Charles with the total belief that he would marry her, but is stunned to find that he isn't willing to sacrifice anything for her sake. He gently but firmly refuses to divorce his wife. Despondent and depressed, Kitty has no option but to join Walter. She's terrified at the prospect of going to a cholera-ridden town and when she reaches the place, her worst fears come true. She sees death all around her, the heat gets to her and she's left with very little company as Walter refuses to speak to her. Kitty is still desperately in love with her former lover, Charles. She makes every attempt in her mind to hate him, contorting his features and imagining him to be an ugly man. In her mind, she fully understands that Charles is nothing but a cad who cares for no one else but himself. And yet, because she is unable to get over him, her heart sinks with a feeling of despair.

Their kindly neighbour, Waddington, astutely gauges that something is wrong with the couple and becomes a good friend to Kitty. To escape her boredom, she visits the Convent, run by French nuns and is amazed at their sense of duty and commitment. Besides giving shelter to orphans and educating them, the convent is also in the midst of treating cholera patients. Her own husband single-mindedly works at improving the situation at the place and becomes somewhat of a hero for the women and children at the Convent.

The book is about Kitty's journey – from being a flighty girl fed on fantasy to someone who comes face to face with the real world. Her unbridled passion for Charles and her wistful state seem trivial when compared to the deaths she sees around her. She's already started to see herself as worthless when compared to the people around her –all of whom take pride in their duty towards others.






+





Kitty starts to understand her husband better but she still can't love him. She is exasperated thinking of how Walter continues to punish her when there are so many graver things before them. "Does he have no sense of proportion,” she wonders.
So finally when Walter succumbs to cholera and dies, she feels a tinge of sadness but is also relieved.

Kitty by now has had her spiritual awakening. Her revelation comes about in the last scene of the novel during her conversation with her father. Her mother has just died and the father takes this as an opportunity to announce that he is moving to another city on account of a promotion. For long, the father was neglected by the mother and daughters and Kitty comes to realize that he actually hated them. But when Kitty pleads with him to take her, he can't refuse. This is where she realizes how people constantly put their duty above their own feelings and this was what she was never able to do.

Maugham portrays Kitty's character with a rare sensitivity. She's weak-willed and naive but she knows it. She desperately holds on to her romantic notions and when they are all shattered, her recovery from it is rather painful. But in the end, the hurt cleanses and makes her look at life with mature, empathetic eyes.

Somerset Maugham's writing is simple, elegant with several deeply moving and profound passages. When Kitty in her distressed state converses with the Mother Supreme at the convent, the latter calmly tells her, "You know, my dear child, that one cannot find peace in work or in pleasure, in the world or in a convent, but only in one's soul'

Fortunately, Kitty gets close to finding her peace by the end of story.

-Sandhya Iyer

PS: It's wonderful how one discovers certain gems in literature through movies. I happened to see the literary adaptation by John Curran - made in 2006 - over the weekend and was deeply moved by the experience. Obviously then, I wasted no time in buying Somerset Maugham's The Painted Veil to see how differently the filmmakers had interpreted the story. There are many changes, but both the book and the film are exquisite works in themselves. And I'm glad I saw the film first because the book offered me a kind of back story to all the characters and made it a much more fulfilling experience.

Movie verses the book

There are several changes that have been introduced in the film. While Maugham's book is mainly about Kitty and her journey towards self-discovery, the film is about both Walter and Kitty and how these two people with nothing in common live together. In the book, Walter's character is an important one but not as much as it is in the film. In the movie, Walter - played brilliantly by Edward Norton - has a definite and smoldering presence.

The film essentially focusses on these two people - their hurried marriage, betrayal and then a vengeful revenge that Walter unleashes on Kitty. The very first scene makes it clear that Walter - who we know was very much in love with his wife - is in an unforgiving, determined mode. Kitty, on her part, is too depressed to have parted on a sour note with her lover Charles. The dreary life she sees ahead fills her heart with horror. It seems impossible that these two people should ever make a connection with each other again, but they do. Unlike the book, where Kitty - even though she starts understanding her husband better - never really accepts Walter, the film gives more screen -time and space to the relationship to develop.

One of the best portions of the film is when Kitty goes to meet Charles Townsend in his office. The book describes this scene with splendid irony. Charles is reintroduced in the book when Kitty reluctantly agrees to stay at his place after Walter's death for a few days. This is done at the behest of Charles's wife, Dorothy. He once again tries to seduce her with gentle, loving words. Her physical desire for Charles gets the better of her, and they make love. But Kitty quickly recovers. She sees him for what he is. Vain, manipulative and self-seeking. She realizes how hollow his words are. She takes a stand, decides to move out of the city and start life afresh.

Book Review: The Anger Of Aubergines

A slice of life

Author: Bulbul Sharma
Pages: 151 pages
Publishers: Kali
Year Of Publishing: 1997
Price: 150

This wasn't a book very easy to find, what with it threatening to go out of print. But a couple of friends made it possible and man, am I grateful!

It was a very favourable review on one of my favourite book sites, http://www.biblio-india.org/ and my own personal fondness for books that combine fiction with food that made me eager to lay my hands on this. The last book I read with a similar theme (food and women) was The Book Of Rachel by Esther David, which I absolutely loved and savoured. But while in David's book, food is mostly linked to the Jewish ethos and the simplicity of home made cooking, here, in The Anger of Aubergines (very inspired title), food -- while it is inseparably connected with the Indian way of life (ritualistic and otherwise) – takes a life of its own in the passion it evokes in people.

What sex is to man can be food to a woman ( they are certainly interchangeable of course) and beyond the uncontrolable urge the latter can feel towards it from time to time, food is also closely linked to a woman's emotions and her sense of well-being. This is one of the overriding themes in the 12 short stories that Bulbul Sharma so brilliantly pens down. At least 8 of these stories are sheer gems.

The stories abound in so many wonderful references to food – and there's a whole array here – and some pages go into details of how they are cooked, so that in no time you'll be salivating even as you read.
The book is an ultimate ode to food – because it sees its role as far more potent than it outwardly signifies. Between stories, it sees food as a source of power and envy, a thing of pride, a binding force, and many such things. The passion for food in women comes out even more strongly since most of the stories are set in a somewhat patriarchal, middle class ethos, where decorum and ritualistic demands need to be honoured.

The first story, Jars of Gold, sees food – in this case, pickles, as so precious that they are protectively guarded in a store room by the family's matriarch, Bauji. To the young protagonist, who has to make do with a very small piece of the pickle during meal times (the bigger portions are reserved for the men), the glistening pickle jars in the store room are a source of constant amazement. “I caught a glimpse of a row of pickle jars glowing tantalizingly in the dim, brown-paper-filtered light. There was mango pickle in jaggery, a large glass jar of sweet and spicy cauliflower and carrot pickle, and next to that sat the pride of Bauji's store room: ten little bottles of red chillies filled with spices.”

Train Fare – while it again reiterates women and their special connection with food – is really a wonder in terms of character sketch. Here, you have a very nervous Mr Sen undertaking a train journey with his mother, wife and daughter to Haridwar. He is stunned to see the passion for food the women have and the contented glow that their face takes on once their tummies are full. Here, food is seen as something wonderfully liberating to a woman, a permissible indulgence that helps them assert their choices.

Food is seen as power, a show of wealth and excess in Feasting with A Vengeance, where both the bride and groom's side want to outdo the other in servering their guests. “If one party served rabri loaded with pistachios, the other retaliated with kulfi flavoured saffron.....”
Similarly in Food To Die For, the grandmother takes great pains to cook the perfect and most elaborate meal for the pundit who is invited for her husband's shradh.
The author narrates both stories in an ironic vein, showing how the value and taste of food goes far beyond the events it is linked with. More than the eminence of the shradh or the marriage, it is the heavenly food that registers in everyone's mind.

Strangely, even when all other ties are lost, the adour of good food can keep people connected in odd ways. The Anger of Aubergines - the delightfully ironic title story -- describes an estranged couple who meet once in a week, when the husband drops in for lunch. He relishes the aubergines (handpicked from the garden) that his wife cooks for him, but neither of them exchange a single word. They have been following this pattern for years, so the husband is startled when the wife asks him if the 'salt is fine' one day. He is distressed as he wonders if his wife would initiate talk during mealtimes from now on and spoil it for him. Clearly, food is the only thing worth caring for, when relationships lose their meaning.

The most poignant story here is A Taste For Humble Pie, which recounts the tale of young, orphaned Bala, who is passed on from one indifferent relative to another. But as she grows older, her culinary skills come to the fore. She is an expert at making all kind of pakoras and soon enough, she is in much demand. The relatives now want her to remain with them, even if it means she could remain unmarried. So much so, that when a nice boy proposes to her, her relatives prod her to turn him down. The story ends on a sad note and is an anti-climax of sorts but succeeds in bringing out the selfishness that comes with the love for good life and food even if it is at the expense of others.

The only stories that don't really connect that well are Moonfish By Moonlight, Mushroom For Madness and Dead Man's Feast to an extent.
All the others are so acutely described that it makes you marvel at the author's power of perception and irony. Every story carries with it colourful and vivid details, recounted with an obvious sense of joy and wry humour. Also, being a woman, she manages to bring out traits in her sex the way only a female author could have done. And many of these are not flattering qualities...like a rather nasty description of how ravenous women eat in Train Fare. These are things a male author would rather avoid – even if he noticed – to remain politically correct. But women authors don't shy away from making observations that are unmistakably nasty.
Incidentally, Bulbul Sharma seems to love the word 'plump' which is uses at least a douzen times to describe any woman with a healthy appetite.

The book – while brimming with description of food– touches upon a number of relevant themes that makes it a rich experience.

It even has a couple of lip smacking recipes at the end of every story, which I'm determined to try out. The Amchur Alu, Orange Kheer, Spinach Pakoras and Hot Ginger-Honey Drink recipes appear especially delectable.
-Sandhya Iyer

The Age of Shiva

Author: Manil Suri
Pages: 454
Publisher: Bloombury
Price: 399
Published in: 2008

First things first. I think Manil Suri has a tremendous flair for creating drama and an astonishing ability of penetrating into human psyche. Which means, at certain points, The Age of Shiva touches the brilliance of V S Naipaul's A House For Mr Biswas in portraying human despair and chaotic family life with all its colourful and despicable characters. The author's biggest strength lies in creating interesting set pieces and keeping the narrative moving at a frenzied, rapid-fire pace. The language is simple yet wonderfully descriptive. All of this makes the book quite a compelling read.

And yet, the sum total does not add up to make this as ambitious a book as it would like to be.
For one, Manil Suri’s attempt to give the book an epic scale even while keeping it intimate is not always convincing. Spanning a period of 40 years since India's independence, the story somewhat awkwardly weaves in everything from episodes from the partition, the socio-political events around Nehru's time, the Emergency...all of it is there. Now, not all these events have a direct bearing on the characters which is what makes it nothing more than a contrivance. Then there is the evocation of myth, traditional rituals like karwa chaut explained in great detail. All of this makes the story a 'spiced up' Indian fare but authentically served nevertheless.

As I mentioned, Manil Suri has an acumen for dramatic plot points, which should make him a great script writer. The story's main thrust is on the mother-son relationship, so the author makes the unusual but intriguing choice of having the nondescript Meera as a narrator, addressing the story to her son, Ashwin. There are strong undercurrents of oedipal love as the reader will discover in the first page itself.
"Do you know how you thrust your feet towards me, how you reach out your arms, how the sides of your chest strain against my palms? Are you aware of your fingers brushing against my breasts, their lips trying to curl around something to hold on to, but slipping instead against my smooth flesh?"

It's a shock beginning and it would be easy to think of such writing as being titillating. No doubt, the author is a bit of a flame thrower - but the emotional audacity in Manil Suri's work is undeniable. And this is where the 'Shiva' allusion come in. It refers to the myth about Parvati creating her own son, Andhaka to keep her company in the absence of Shiva. That's the only connection here, so it's not really a title that encompasses the entire essence of the book. Not a strong allusion.

Meera, as she recounts her story, is the less fortunate daughter of the influential Sawhneys. Her elder sister, Roopa - blessed with superior looks - is pampered at home and she loses no opportunity in taking the nastiest jibes at her younger sibling. By a quirk of fate, however, Meera ends up marrying the guy who Roopa was going around with. Meera feels no particular love for Dev - though his quiet charm is attractive to her- and her decision to marry him is almost entirely driven by the fact that she managed to whisk at least one thing out of her selfish sister.

Meera, after being used to a lavish lifestyle, suddenly finds herself in very modest surroundings. Dev has a joint family, comprising a sympathetic mother-in-law, a vicious sister-in-law (Hema), Dev' brother Arya and his wife, Sandhya. (Surprisingly, Dev, who one supposes to be a very charming, articulate man going by the affection the two women shower on him, is relegated to the sidelines by the author). It's a bitter sweet life that Meera leads here, feeling frustrated at one point and at another time warming up to the affection she receives.

Meera's father, a well-to-do publisher and a proud rationalist, becomes an imposing presence in her life - something that she comes to grudge soon. Meera and Dev move to Bombay, so that the latter can try his luck as a singer. For all this while, there seems to be absolutely no passion between the couple. That is until their son Ashwin is born and things vastly alter. Dev- who so far is portrayed as a wimp - starts to acquire some positive shades, taking to fatherhood effortlessly. Meera - who so far was a picture of stoicism - is emboldened after turning mother. She sees her son as the sum total of her life, her only achievement and she would let nothing come in the way.

The book poignantly and sensitively portrays the lives of men and women - crushed and confused by their lot in life. The most heartbreaking episode is of course that of Meera's intense love for son, her conflicting emotions when she has to unwillingly separate their beds, her utter despair to see him move on with his life. These moments are wonderfully emotional and it's astonishing how Manil Suri can delve so deep into a woman's heart (his being gay could have a part to play here possibly).

The book really - for all its ambitions - is about a woman and her relationship with the men in her life. And to that extent, The Age of Shiva is a very engaging read. Not that it has no flaws. First of all, the novel has too many hateful characters - the kind of loathsome creatures that are hard to imagine. Again, there are other characters like Arya, Biji and to an extent Paaji that come across as being more real. In all this Meera's father's character (Paaji) is probably the most interesting one but the author burdens him with too much to do. He's supposed to be the political voice of the book and he single-handedly alters his daughter's fate at not one or two but five or six occasions. Otherwise also, some of the characters seem to slip out of their roles and behave in an unlikely manner.

Yet, The Age Of Shiva proved to be a riveting read where I'm concerned. It has some wonderful passages, great exchanges and superb conflicts.
-Sandhya Iyer

Book Review: Home

Author: Manju Kapur
Publishers: Random House
Year Of Publishing: 2006
Price : 395
Pages: 337


Family Matters




In this story set in Delhi's Karol Bagh family, every kind of tradition - no matter how outdated--- is followed. Honour comes above all individual aspirations and a woman's status in the family is solely judged by her ability to give heirs.
At a time when joint families are out of fashion in India, Kapur's choice of subject for 2006 is a bit suspect. But then given their perennial appeal on television channels, maybe not. And Kapur writers well, keeping the narrative engaging for more part. Yet, to see this household as a microcosm of what today's Indian homes represent would be a mistake. The long explanations of Karwa Chaut, the mythological tale of Savitri and how she brings back her husband Satyavan's life back from Yama and so on - all weaved within the story - give the awkward feeling that Kapur intends in some ways to cater to a foreign gaze or expatriates who staunchly preserve the idea of India being untouched by time and still rooted in age-old traditions.

Yet, for all its familiarity and a certain feeling of datedness, Home manages to sustain as a narrative purely because of the vivid characters that are introduced and enumerated in such colourful details. Also, being a woman, Kapur can penetrate better into the petty jealousies, insecurities and compulsions that play a major part in the joint-family set up. The author is acutely conscious of the complex mental make-up of her women characters and reveals the many unsaid emotions that they experience. Compared to the women, Kapur is less preoccupied with the men, so they largely remain in the sidelines.

Even if joint family as a concept is fading, Home's appeal is retained somewhat because all said and done, many of the values and conventions that it upheld haven't entirely disappeared. Also, it's an interesting character study or sorts, in a setting where human proclivity is understood better than anywhere else.

The story kickstarts well with Kapur tracking the fortunes of two sister - Sona and Rupa. The former gets married into a well off trader family, Banwarilals, while Rupa marries modestly to a junior government officer. Each one believes the other is luckier, with Sona especially whining about the step-motherly treatment she receives for being childless. The first 100 pages or more are free flowing, with standard descriptions of how newly married life would be in a joint family. The entire premise of this family life (as well as the book) is based on a woman's ability to bear a child, preferably male - so every daughter-in-law who comes into the Banwari family finds her status judged according to this one standard alone.

This obviously becomes repetitive after a point, and it's a surprise how the novel still manages to keep you glued. There are some bright spots for sure. Kapur cleverly overturns situations just when you think you know what's going to happen next. And it works because the rest of the novel doesn't shy away from stereotyping. So Sona's childless state is coincided with the death of Sushila- the daughter of the house and she leaves behind Vicky, her only son. One would imagine Sona to be delighted but she shows disdain towards the boy and finds it painful to accept him when he is thrust upon her by the elders. At this point, one can't fully comprehend her emotions and you presume Vicky would turn out to be the dark horse of the family. But none of that happens. And in fact, Sona's fears of the boy's nature are justified. This is one of the plus points of the novel.
The best and most poignant part of the novel is the character of Nisha - the prized daughter of the family --- who is the only one to put up a mild battle against the regressive attitude of her family.

For most part, Kapur presents the joint family system as both the preserver and destroyer of an individual. In Nisha's case, the effect is adverse and the irony is heightened, as her life takes an unexpected turn for the worse. Fate delivers a cruel blow to her, first when her love is thwarted by the family, as the boy is low cast and poor and second, when she suffers from a peculiar skin disease that robs her of her initial good looks. Meanwhile, from being the centre of the family's attention, Nisha is suddenly relegated to a inferior position because other younger daughter-in-laws come into the family. Nisha is unmarried, not as pretty as earlier and this is the time when the joint family set-up especially seems to crush her spirits.

The ending again beautifully brings out how life can look up again - with a slight readjustment of one's expectations after suffering a blow. Nisha finds her happiness when she least expects it. But this is a conditioned 'happiness' and she succeeds in the terms she has been taught to believe in. The system wins.
Manju Kapoor's attempt throughout the novel is only to 'show' but never 'tell', so the whole book is pretty much descriptive of what goes on, rather than any incisive, ironical commentary. The authorial voice is hardly there, so you are left to gather what you want from it. This is somewhat disconcerting - because it makes the narrative dispassionate and detached even at places which could do with some sharp satire. This makes the tone of the book very flat and it's only in the second half -with Nisha's character - that the irony gathers some steam.

The novel works because it holds your attention and you are keen to follow the fortunes of all the characters. Also, it's nice to see Kapur using very simple language, with the understanding that her characters are actually speaking in Hindi. No frills, nothing. It's basic English that adds a nice texture to the setting.

Brief thoughts on Anita Desai's Diamond Dust

Title: Diamond Dust and Other Stories
Published in: 2001
Genre: Short Stories
Pages: 224

Lot of imagery, lyricism in the language, and very descriptive, so Desai isn't always the easiest authors to read - especially if you don't necessarily have much patience for dreamy, languorous prose.
The first story actually put me off with its dialogues. When one is describing Indians in a distinctly urban Indian setting, the language must sound more or less authentic (with some desi words interspersed etc). But Desai gets them to talk stilted English, which mars the effect of an otherwise engaging theme.

But the next few stories get better. There's a great deal of artistry in the book, the themes are varied, the language is exquisite at points (and yet metaphors are forced.) There is great emphasis on imagery and visuals and there are at least two stories that are unforgettable. The Rooftop Dwellers about a single girl's predicament in a big city like Delhi and Winterscape, a evocative tale of two sisters, their shifting fates that ultimately become one, are both brilliant and testimony to Desai's undeniable writing prowess.

Strike

The Tamil ticket

Author: Anand Mahadevan
Publishers: Penguin
Price: 199
Pages: 274

One of the most striking aspects about Strike is that it has this delightful vein of humour that runs throughout the book. 

 Set in the late 80s, Strike revolves around the quotidian life of a Tam Bram (Tamilian Brahmin) nuclear family in Nagpur. The novel follows the life of 12-year-old Hari and his somewhat painful initiation into adulthood. Much of this is evocative of R K Narayan's wonderful novel, Bachelor Of Arts (BOA) and its teenage protagonist Chandran, who tries to broaden his horizons and look beyond the comforting but conservative setting of his Tamilian upbringing. Much like in Bachelor Of Arts, in Strike too, Hari, on one occasion, teams up conspiratorially with his buddy, Mohan to see an adult film - Ram Teri Ganga Maili .

But unlike Narayan’s in BOA where he points towards the limitations of human aspirations and how one learns to nogociate within that space, Mahadevan’s ideas actually run contrary to that.
Early on, Hari has to fight his urge to try out the 'much-vilified' non-vegetarian food when his Bengali neighbour serves him with crisply made fish. He eats it, only to see his mother raise hell and make him vomit it all out. His grandmother steps on it accidentally, falls on the hard ground and dies. So the family - along with their Kollu tatha (great grandfather) - embark on a train journey to immerse the ashes in the Ganges.
Most of the action in the novel happens in the train, where Hari's curious mind starts to question many of the adult practices, only to be shushed by his mother. He wonders how the Ganges can be considered clean when so much dirt gets thrown into it. The adult world is somewhat satarised from the prism of Hari's enquiring, non-judgmental view. Mahadevan is especially uncharitable towards the women characters - starting from Hari's own mother whom he mostly portrays as typically orthodox and nagging. He also observes how women in his colony who seem to suddenly become sexually uninhabited on Holi day.

In the days leading to his uncle's return with his American wife to their maternal home, Hari is both amused and surprised seeing his mother and grand mom poking some fun at her expense. "If they are so upset with mama, why are they making so many sweets," asks Hari innocently. "To make him feel guilty," says his grandpa crisply.

The men in comparison are portrayed with far more affection by the author. The men in the novel always understand things and are less fussy. Whether it is Hari's father Girish, Kullu tatha, grandpa, all are presented as calm, empathetic beings.

The central episode in the book again revolves around a second train journey, which Hari undertakes with his mother. Lots of small things happen, charming vignettes. The story doesn't really move ahead but the author keeps the narrative interesting, introducing a discussion on MGR - the matinee idol of Tamil cinema and the then Chief Minister, carried out by co-passengers playing cards. There's interesting Tamil folklore that is talked about by the women, even as the trains chugs along. This is also where Hari has his first sexual encounter with a eunuch!

All of a sudden, the passengers hear about MGR's death and the next thing they know, the train has been stopped by strikers - the actor's fans. This part is inspired from the real-life seige that happened in 1987 and Mahadevan as a child was travelling in that train along with his parents.
An amusing episode occurs when Hari's uncle brings them sharkara pongal (sweet rice) since the train has been halted. In fact, he brings enough for the whole compartment since the order was taken in his factory before MGR died and a holiday was declared. The rioters are livid as they think sweets are being distributed on the day of their Idol's death.

The last part is a bit cumbersome to read. Hari wants to check out the machine inside the train and this ends in a needless tragedy. Also, the narrative shifts gears unannounced. It no longer remains a story seen through Hari's eyes.

Yet, since most of the book hints at the conformist, pious and non-adventurous nature of his Tam Bram family, it's an ironic twist of fate when the family is advised to move base to Canada, following the train incident. From being over cautious, now the family is fored to throw caution to the winds.

Mahadevan novel is an entertaining novel about Indian sub-culture - the Tamilian ethos - recounted with both affection and wry wit. The flavour really comes out in the author's description of food - with delectable images of South Indian delicacies.


Interview with Anand Mahadevan
1. The seige is a real-life event and I believe you were part of that train....

The novel came slowly to life sometime in 2002-2003. I was just beginning to think about writing as a career and wanted to capture a time of strong personal and public emotion. And without a doubt, the most "revolutionary" moment I could think of was the strike in 1987 when MGR passed away and life itself seemed to drain away from Tamil Nadu. I was in the train then, a nine-year old with his family and I have vivid memories of being stuck in that train for hours, the iron carriages heating up intolerably as the water in the toilets ran out and the pantry car attendants barricaded themselves inside when the food ran out. In fact the Ashok Leyland factory next to Ennore station did send us vats of chakra pongal (rice sweetened with jaggery and cashews) as food. I had been up exploring with my brother - we were pretty much given the run of the platform and the train back then - and I still remember the visceral shock of coming back to my parents compartment (my father had fetched us) to see our mother eating the pongal. Usually -and how traditional we were! - she would wait till we had all eaten, but that day the stress had worn her out. The rules with which we had grown up had changed, and I remember that still and wanted to capture it with as much truth that I could bear to bring upon it. So the public revolution is the death of MGR and the dreams he wove together with light and sound on the silver screen, the private revolution I chose to cast as a sexual revelation for my pubescent protagonist Hari. Once these elements were set, I started creating a world before and its destruction through the strike.

2) The Tam Bram sub culture was an integral part of R K Narayan's works. But while he seemed to appeal for a certain passivity and comformism (In Bachleor Of Arts, Chandran is soon made to realise the limitations of his horizons and he backs off), you do the opposite with your book - almost satarising the community's lack of adventurism, isn't it? The more they try to be cautious, they seem that much more vulnerable to accidents - all externally brought about. For example, Savitri's chain gets stolen, there's fear of Hari's arrest and finally the family has to move out of India. It seemed you were making a statement there.

R. K. Narayan's works are clearly infused with much greater insight into the workings of Tam Bram sub culture than mine are, partly because I was raised in Maharashtra (Nagpur, Pune) rather than in Madras and I did leave India at age seventeen and so missed a large part of the adult interactions in this world. There is also the difference in time to consider with Narayan's stories set in a more timeless India. I wanted my hero Hari to be a provocateur in the sense that he channels disturbance into the family and the novel by allowing himself to experiment. His sense of smell, taste, sight and hearing are not yet restricted by cultural norms and no-go areas and thus he reveals the futility of his family trying to barricade themselves behind physical walls of concrete and mental walls raised with tradition and ritual. I wanted to question that system through Hari and reveal the parts that the adults had blinded themselves to through the child's eye.
I feel that Tam Bram is a warm and rich sub culture that is very supportive of its members (as long as they toe the line) but ultimately an exclusionary culture that still embodies the collective memory of an old India with clear caste and class delineations which may or may not have existed. Some aspects are quite at odds with the rich democracy ofIndia now and I could not reconcile the two in the pages of the novel, hence the flight out of India for my characters.

3) You yourself moved to Canada later on....was that the impulse behind having the family and Hari 'uprooted' and moved to another country? Or could it be read as Hari's journey to an 'open world' - a new world without the shakles of the past - something he seems to be at odds with all along?

There were several reasons for the move to Canada in the novel. I was struggling to match up Hari's actions on the page with their consequences in the context of the Indian community then. His actions had grown to have impact in the adult world around him and yet he remained a child protagonist, an actor in the adult world without recognition or power. And rather than trying to wait for him to grow up and return to these days as an adult (and face Radha, Vishu and theother characters - which I felt would turn the novel into a morality play but which happens in an entirely new and plausible way in RebeccaNesvet's theatrical adaptation of The Strike called revolutions perminute), I took the route of escape from India - one that many TamBrams have used to find greener pastures, but in this case it is a punishment for both Girish, who never evidenced a desire to leave, and for Hari, who is cut from everything he knows to start all over in Canada. It is a form of a "golden-cage" punishment, attractive on the outside, but still without the freedoms he is used to in India.

4) I read somewhere you mentioning that Hari's attraction towards other young men is a kind of surrogate sexuality to give release to his sexual urge. You say that this may not be because of his orientation but because of the fact that there is/was a taboo if one were to be caught doing anything with a girl. Is that what you wanted to convey? Because there is a definite chance of it being read as Hari’s homoerotic feelings. Personally, I think a lot of boys/girls are confused about their sexuality when they attain puberty. Were you alluding to that predicament as well?

I think of Hari's sexuality as being queer rather than gay. As you point out, he is very young at 12 and so doesn't quite fit into our adult conceptions of sexuality as straight/gay. Rather I think he is still very much experimenting with his sexuality and the newly discovered idea of maleness. And of course as sex is a taboo topics amongst the adults he is curious and yet scared of it all. I think what I meant earlier was that it was (and still is for the most part) taboo for young boys to hang out with girls and so there is a homosocial environment into which the budding sexuality of children is allowed to express itself. So the "hanky-panky" occurs among same sex social groupings not necessarily because the kids are homosexual but because it is just socially easier. I do think that Hari goes beyond this and has a queer sense of sexuality and over the course of the book becomes much more comfortable with alternate sexualities like Radha the hijra represents, but I still am not sure what his adult sexuality would look like.

5) I thought you, almost refreshingly, do not extol mothers. Here of course, you make Hari’s mother the primarily the object of satire and save for maybe one charitable mention, she's mostly presented as nagging and typically orthodox. On the other hand, the elder men in the book are all uniformly kind, gentle and understanding.

I must be honest here, I felt I was writing from a young boy's perspective who does not want to be coddled and thus has a slightly more cruel perspective on his mother's affection than is warranted. I did not want the mother to be a caricature of a nagger neither be a "mother India" type figure of kindness and love. I wanted her to be frustrated with her own lot and have human frailties too but which are hidden from Hari for the most part because he is a boy's boy. He enjoys the company of men and boys because he finds them to be less complicated than women - and in that he is a boy more than anything else, after all the other boys and men have experiences closer to his own. Hari is also at the stage where girls and women both frighten and excite him and so there is a reticence to engage with them.
6) The fact that you use a lot of Tamil certainly brings a certain flavour to the narrative. But I'm curious why you haven't explained any of it in a Index?
My editors and I took the conscious decision to try and impregnate the text around the Tamil words with the meanings of the words themselves. In the North American edition, the Tamil words are italicized for a western audience but we chose leave out the italics for an Indian audience. I also feel that in India, we never really stick to one language. Our conversations borrow freely from the multitude of languages and the richness of such vocabulary is a non-issue in verbal communication in houses, in the media and on the streets. I wanted to make it a similar non-issue on the page. Yes, the reader may be unfamiliar with the dictionary meaning of the word, however, the flavour of the word will not escape them as they read the sentence in the context of the storyline. That is my hope.
7) Many NRI authors when they talk about experiences in their home town tend to be sentimental. Somehow, even though you have a fondness for the Tamilian culture, you chose to go in for a tragi-comic form -where even serious scene is treated in a wry, irreverent, funny way. Is that how you percieve life itself?
I do think life has its serious moments and it has its funny moments. In this novel I was trying consciously to think about the actions as a child and my own childhood was filled with moments of such adventure and fun that I could not keep that sense of joy far from Hari. But your question is rather astute and I am reminded now of the fact that in the novel that I am currently working on, one of the characters says to another, 'It's true, life is a tragedy if one only feels it, one must think about it to turn into a comedy.'
I am nostalgic about India in the sense that the India I remember growing up in, barely exists now. But I also think that is a good thing. India needs to move and change just like us NRIs need to grow and open in our new homes and lands. The love for the country of our birth, its richness of culture and smells, and the warmth of its people will remain with us as long as we remain on earth, but I do think that one must never forget that such warm blankets of nostalgic memory sacrifice living in the present for the dreams of the past.
8) One quibble I had. I was wondering why you left the thread about Hari's friends (Mohan, Anamika) mid-way, never refering to it again.
I agree with your quibble, I too wanted a way for Anamika and Mohan to return, but what would they say to each other? I look at the Strike as being a cesarean cut, one that has severed Hari from his childhood. And with the trauma of this experience he has changed more than his friendscan imagine. In truth, I do feel that they would have accepted him back without question, and that their friendship would remain strong, butthat Hari would be the one to hold back, to be on his guard, to check himself lest he taint them with his experiences.

9) Also, the whole novel is from Hari's prism but towards the end - after the train accident, the authorial /adult voice just takes over. How do you percieve this sudden shift?

Yes, there is a dramatic shift in voice (although the remarkable point here is that while Indian reviewers note this with some sadness, Canadian reviewers have accused me of not making such a shift in voice at all and demand it instead!) because of the dramatic shift in Hari'splace in the landscape of the story. It is as if an earthquake has happened that has changed the social order. The moment of revolution turns the narrative topsy turvy and affects the way the story is told as much as what happens in the story itself. My inspiration for this was from a German novella written long ago by Heinrich von Kleist called Das Erdbeben in Chile where he uses a physical earthquake to show the breakdown of classes and civilized ethos.
The change in voice is also meant to suggest the change in power, as a child living in a child's world, Hari has a voice, an agency and anability to effect change within it. But as a child, he is voiceless and bewildered by the events. In the trauma of the events at the trainstation in Ennore, Hari goes silent, his actions are primeval in this adult world and the narrative now belongs not to the child's world but rather to this new world that Hari has cast himself into.

10) Would love to know what you will be writing next

I am currently wrapping up a manuscript looking at the lives of two cousins, both from a Sufi mystic family that has a hereditary role in taking care of a shrine in Pakistan. One goes to London and becomes radicalized and the other goes to America and becomes westernized. Both return to Pakistan and are forced into conflict over the land and lucrative revenue from the shrine and must reconcile their personal growth and ambition with their obligations to family and religion. The story is partly inspired by the struggles faced by a Pakistani friend of mine in the post 9-11 world. In working on this novel, I had a chance to visit Pakistan (a few weeks after the Bombay blasts) and I was surprised by the sheer generosity of the people and the horror they felt at the actions of the militants. My hope is that we can, as a people, begin to erase the boundaries that separate us and learn more about how similar we are through conversation rather than through wars and bullets.

11) A little about the literary works that have influenced you

I tend to read widely, growing up under the influence of the magic realists but also with a strong awareness of German literature and music(one of my majors at University was German); I read Indian authors with great interest and now am quite pleased to see the roster of Pakistani writers who are adding balance to the South Asian narratives that have dominated world literature. I tend to read books where a writer wields a formidable pen in the English language, not just in terms of plot but in terms of the sheer beauty of the prose. I am referring to authors like Shirley Hazzard and Andre Aciman published by FSG in New York who clearly are in love with the English language and whose books you want to take to a quiet corner so you can read them out loud to yourself.

The Thing Around Your Neck

The choke within

Author: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Pages: 218
Publishers: Harper Collins
Price: 299

My initiation into African literature started with Ama Ata Aidoo’s No Sweetness Here, a raw, deeply poignant collection of short stories that spoke of a land reeling under the after-effects of colonial rule and a population tormented by its past and inability to recogonise itself.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's new book, The Thing Around Your Neck, again a collection of short stories about Nigeria, comes almost 40 years after No Sweetness Here. And yet, much like Ama Ata Aidoo’s portrayal of a beleaguered population, reeling under a primitive mind-set or not being comfortable in their own skin and hence aping the West, Adichie’s book too touches upon many of these issues.

If Adichie’s brilliant last book, Half Of A Yellow Sun was a deeply affecting document of the Biafran war of the 60s and early 70s, her new book has the action shifting to America –where the author herself spends most of her time now as a professor. The past seems to weigh heavily upon all the characters, which makes them uncomfortable even if they’ve moved to a new world (US). In The Arrangers Of Marriage, a newly married girl is constantly urged by her husband to speak and act like the Americans, because that is the only way ‘they will be accepted’. He changes both their name to something that the Americans will find easy to pronounce. He insists that she eat ‘pizza’ and not cook Nigerian food, as he doesn’t want them to be known as ‘the couple who fill the building with smells of foreign food’
Adichie’s portrayal is a cruel one, one that mirrors the third world’s western fixation. But beyond that, it is also a very sad story where one would rather debase and toe the line in a rich country than revisit the horrors of their past.

The book’s title story, The Thing Around Your Neck is about a young Nigerian girl trying to make a living in America. Her new boyfriend is White, rich too. However, the excesses of the country and its abundance start to choke her, especially when she thinks of the rigours in her own country. The pain of the past is too deep for her to embrace the new world.

Every story that Adichie recounts is deeply evocative of the country’s past. Even personal stories have characters that are uncomfortable with their present because they has a gory past to hide. Tomorrow Is Too Far, Ghosts and The Shivering are all stories about longing and regret.
Adichie is also critical of present-day Nigeria and her disgust clearly comes out in Cell One, where she talks of police torture and cultists. There are also observations about the corrupt education system and so one – where you can slip a brown envelope and get an ‘A’

However, her most acerbic and hard-hitting story is Jumping Monkey Hill, where the author points out at the westerner’s need to stereotype Africans and other third world countries. An African Writer’s workshop, helmed by professor Edward Campbell, is held to encourage local English writing talent in the continent. However, Campbell dismisses many of the stories calling them either ‘irrelevant’ or ‘passe’ . When someone writes about lesbianism, he says that ‘homosexual stories of this sort aren’t reflective of Africa’. All this while Campbell keeps making passes at one of the female students, Ujunwa. The other contests notice his behaviour and explain to her that ‘what he felt for her was fancy without respect’

Every story carries a wealth of information about Nigeria and its socio-cultural evolution. Adichie’s stories are all deeply personal and political at once. Her easy style of writing – free of fuss – but with a keen understanding of human proclivity – is what makes this 31 year old one of the most important and engaging writers of her generation.

India on the 'write' path

From its elitist bearings, Indian Writing In English has successfully expanded in the last few years, not only adding great variety to its lists but creating a lucrative Indian mass fiction category as well

When best-selling author Chetan Bhagat saucily commented that he was determined to pull Indian Writing in English (IWE) from its high horse and bring it to the masses, one simply smiled.
IWE has been a niche affair for a long time; the bastion resting with expatriate writers- its only visible and known representatives. Salman Rushdie, Vikram Seth, Jhumpa Lahiri, Amitav Ghosh and Anita Desai… all came with undeniable literary merit and brought a great deal of credibility to the genre of IWE very early on.
Its appeal in India, however, remained restricted to the wine glass-clinking literati. This had to be disconcerting to an independent observer, firstly because it didn’t seem fitting that authors residing in the first world – no matter how good – should be the presiding literary masters of the third world. But more importantly, one was left baffled at how a ballooning English speaking class in India was bereft of a wider palette in the IWE segment.

The shift from the diaspora

The gap was so galling that one expected things to change sooner than later. The obvious question was why there isn’t a stronger presence of home-grown writers and why isn’t there enough variety to choose from in IWE? Is the publishing industry in India encouraging of desi English writers at all?
These were concerns one had until only a few years back, but since, the whole literary scene has seen a dramatic turnaround that has made the genre not only a fairly lucrative one but has given it a kind of ‘completeness’ it never had before. Like Crossword Prize winner for A Girl And A River, Usha KR says, “From graphic novels, gender lit, the young adult novel, thrillers, biographies and so on; the pre-eminence of ‘literary’ fiction is being challenged all round.”
Such variety bodes well for the genre and the industry as a whole. A special mention needs to be made about the ‘mid-brow’ mass Indian English fiction that most publishers admit “is where the numbers are.” Chetan Bhagat with his three best-selling books, Anurag Mathur with The Inscrutable Americans, The Zoya Factor by Anuja Chauhan, Manju Kapoor with Home and Difficult Daughters, and Abhijit Bhaduri’s Married But Available have sold in thousands. This has not only widened IWE in terms of what it stood for but has also enabled a welcome ‘democratization’ where more voices are being heard.
The non-fiction segment is getting equally strong with erudite academicians, politicians, corporate head honchos and scholars writing books. From Amartya Sen to Shashi Tharoor, Mukul Kesawan to Ramchandra Guha and recently Nandan Nilekani and Narayana Murthi, India truly has an enviable body of world-class writers in the English language.
Seeing a receptive audience, publishers are even translating classics in regional languages like Bengali, bringing a hitherto unexplored world to the fore.

What really changed for IWE?

So how and when did this change come about and what does this mean for a genre and industry that is seeing a healthy 10 per cent growth even in times of a global meltdown?
There are quite a few reasons that writers and publishers cite for the growth and expansion in the genre of IWE. The most important one is a change in the demographics over the last few years. “We forget how vastly the literacy rates have changed in the last two generations. We’ve gone from less than 30% literacy to less than 30% illiteracy, and a good bit of that is in English. So there is a larger potential audience, and the publishers and writers are now talking to a different demographic,” says author Omair Ahmad, writer of A Storyteller’s Tale.
The other important aspect is the attitude of the publication houses in the country, believed to prefer well-known authors to new ones. The aspiring desi writers were left to cool their heels for a long time. “So much so, that it started becoming easier for an Indian writer to find a publisher abroad than in India. There was a toffee-nosed ‘Raj’ attitude that many publishers here cultivated...until their foreign bosses themselves instructed them to look more seriously at the Indian market, which held such enormous potential,” says Janaki Visvanath, avid reader and book store owner of twistntales, Aundh.
The publishing houses may not agree with this assessment but the fact remains that tapping into the desi market was one of the key reasons why major international publishing houses strengthened their Indian divisions. Harper Collins started its functions in India in 2003 – at a time when the market was ripe for change. Lipika Bhushan, Marketing and Sales head at Harper Collins, says, “Until last year, we had about 75 IWE titles. We’ve already seen a jump of 38 titles this year till April, taking the tally to 108. I think the favourable attitude of the Indian readers has led to the change. More and more people are globe-trotting, but the more successful books in recent times are those set in India.”
One of the major reasons readers are gravitating towards IWE is because they find it relatable. These books delve into their collective consciousness.
With more desi Indian Writing in English coming to the fore, will the genre provide a more authentic Indian experience now? “I don’t think it is a question of ‘authenticity’ as recognition of the fact that people want to read stories set in their own milieu – the small town, the metropolis, the Indian family, an IIT or an IIM. They have the confidence to recognize that in today’s world the local can reflect the global,” says Usha KR.
It wasn’t before long that publishing houses smelled the coffee and realized they were sitting on a veritable gold mine.
An important reason for IWE getting visibility is the authors themselves getting savvy and aggressive in their promotional strategies. “It isn’t like earlier when the author would be living in a hill station and write books, oblivious to the world around him. Today’s authors conduct book launches in various cities, interact with their readers and talk about their works. All this helps them ‘connect’ with people and results in more copies being sold,” Janaki says.

The rise of the mass market for IWE

Most in the industry accede that Cheten Bhagat and Anurag Mathur turned the tide in broadening the appeal of IWE and making it commercially viable. “Certainly Chetan Bhagat is a very important name. Being a marketing person, he strategized the release of his books, the pricing and so on… and it bore dividends,” says Lipika.
Pricing is another aspect that has worked favourably for IWE. Says writer and columnist Gouri Dange, “Yes – a Chetan Bhagat at Rs 95 definitely makes a difference. People then don’t mind buying even an unknown writer, perhaps. I baulk at buying so many of my favourite western writers, as they cost no less than Rs 400!” she says. Naturally then, the bar has been raised for IWE. “At one point, a book that sold 3000 was considered a best seller, today that figure has gone to 15,000,” she Lipika.

Market and merit of IWE

The market is growing for sure, but most authors believe a career still cannot be made out of writing. Usha KR believes it may be premature to celebrate the coming of age of the exclusively desi market or that it is no longer necessary to be successful in the West. “What we are seeing today is just the beginning, the overture – the tempo is still to build up. I don’t think it is possible to make a living writing fiction exclusively, except for a few writers who are successful internationally and are the standard bearers of IWE,” she says.
Talking of merit, so far IWE has mostly had a western fixation, where a Man Booker winner automatically becomes a bestseller in India. With the genre growing, isn’t it essential to have our own critical bodies to assess our works than rely on the West? “While there is a great flurry of writing, we still have to go through the churn where the ‘good’ or the ‘long distance runners’ will be separated from the run of the mill. This is where our own critics and literary awards have a role to play in building credibility and establishing standards but that will take time as credibility has to be earned and the readers, the media and the market must come to have faith in the decisions of the critics and juries. The Western environment has managed this interplay very well, and in good faith too,” views Usha KR

Looking into the future

The future of IWE is tipped to have several interesting challenges ahead. Among the new trends that are expected are e-books and audio books. “What this means is that there will be more reading happening - the ultimate democratisation where you can hear a text even if you can't read it,” says Janaki.
For publishers, the challenge will be to tap into newer markers and sub-genres for IWE. Says Lipika, “Look at the childrens’ books, an area we have not explored at all. Why is it that there is such craze for Harry Potter and no Indian book for children? This is something we will be looking into. Besides that, I think our aim in the next few years will be to market our books in tier-2 cities like Chandigarh and Jaipur that carry enormous potential for growth,” she says.
Certainly it will be interesting days ahead for the publishing industry and IWE in particular.

Voices

“Any number of books get published in India in English, find a readership and sell reasonably. Reasonably, or modestly. But it’s important to admit that the bigger sellers among the literary titles tend to be those that have got published elsewhere also, and got attention in international spaces,” says author Geeta Hariharan, winner of the Commonwealth Writers’ prize for her book, The Thousand Faces of Night.

“Of late all I read is Indian writing in English. That’s where the most excitement is. It is young, vibrant and in spite of the fact that it speaks to maybe a small section of the 1billion population, it is writing affected by that billion, one way or the other, hence extremely important as a voice,” says reader, Raghu Kulkarni

“The Indian reader is still a toddler in many ways, so the mass market of Indian English fiction --- even if some of it may be “mid-brow”--- is a good enough beginning for this ever widening segment of readers. Edutainment is always the best way to attract any new audience. Slowly but surely, some of this readership might graduate to better stuff – reader and filmmaker Abhishek Bandekar