A 1000 splendid moments!

A thousand splendid moments!

It isn’t easy for a novel to make the reader’s conscience move. And not just in a way that the final few lines of the book moisten the eyes and cause a mild, albeit real, choke in the throat. It has to be a fabric of words that has gone beyond the need to convincingly narrate a tale and brought the fictional characters to life in such a way, that the reader feels – really – what they feel. When they are hurt, s/he feels the pain; when they rejoice, s/he joins in unconditionally. Their triumphs and failure are mirrored in the most natural of ways in the kind of life the reader is leading. On days when they are blue, the reader finds solace in that shade of a morose emotion too. On days when they struggle to keep their sanity alive, the reader applauds them, cajoles them and eggs them on with that unique channel of loud silences only a good book can establish between these two pristine entities. Such a book – dear reader, is Khalid Hosseini’s second offering after his first masterpiece ‘The Kite Runner’ – ‘A thousand splendid suns’ (ATSS).

When I bagged the book at Frankfurt airport last summer I was never in doubt of the kind of quality I could expect from Hosseini. Having read his debut novel and having blinked away the moisture in my eyes at the end of it whilst embroidering it with a genuine smile, I was sure that ATSS would certainly do the same – if not in the same hue – but in a way quite similar. And boy was I right! As I read the final few lines of ATSS yesterday, I couldn’t help blurt out ‘Goddamn man!’ and find myself feeling hurt, happy, content and frustrated – all at the same time. If a book can stir up these kinds of emotions, then I think the author has succeeded.

The story and summary of ATSS can be found anywhere on the net. Hence, going into those details again would be rather futile. What I do want to emphasize on, however, is how the book exposes the deeply scarred lives of women in Afghanistan. The paradigm shift that takes place in Kabul, from women holding important positions in government offices, to being beaten mercilessly with a broken antenna by a Kalashnikov wielding Talib official for straying out of the house without a male companion, is truly gut-wrenching. It is in these shocking contrasts, that ATSS finds success as both a story and a journey of ordinary humans caught in extraordinary circumstances.

We follow the trails of the harami child from Herat – Mariam – whose illegitimate father Jalil sacrifices her life for his ‘social status’. We are led into the wild and nauseating world of a quintessential male chauvinist of a demon called Rashid – who despite being almost thrice as old as Mariam, marries her and gifts her a lifetime of physical and mental abuse. We are hand held into the warmth of young Laila and Tariq’s world of friendship and love. A blossoming couple who, despite being the future of Afghanistan, become symbols of man made cruelty and inhumane bestiality. We watch, speechless, as Laila’s and Mariam’s paths cross in the most unexpected of ways, as they both end up taking a journey from being spiteful and angry women put together by fate, to becoming soul mates to each other when confronted by a common, rather lethal, adversary. Every kick, slap, shove and smack they receive, feels like a blow on the reader who absorbs their grief with the helplessness of Laila’s daughter Aziza and the despair of Mariam’s vacant eyes. It is in these excruciatingly gory episodes of human suffering it is that we are witness to human glory as well. Whilst we are the silent audience of a once graceful and gorgeous Afghanistan turn into a sorcerer’s den at the hands of Koran thumping arrogant Mullahs, we are rudely introduced to a life most of us know probably nothing about. ATSS is a story that highlights that one fundamental fact that human cruelty has no limits. But then – human love too has no borders. If humans can seem unconquerable with their vile ways, there exist humane pockets too who are able to live a life of cowards, but die like heroes. True and valid heroes.

In Hosseini’s ATSS, every woman suffers at the hands of an ignorant and violent man. As Nana, Mariam’s bitter and abandoned mother tells her…

“Learn this now, and learn it well, my daughter: Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always. You remember that, Mariam.”

While ‘The Kite Runner’ explored the depths of honest friendship and the true value of it in a war torn nation, ATSS celebrates the wonder that is being a woman in the darkest depths of tragedy. I found myself feeling disgusted on several occasions for being a man as I was shown the ugliness that hides behind the veils of fake morality and miscued ethical compasses we men,we arrogant self appointed masters of all that is holy and decent, carry around as our guiding lights. In a world where a large section of the educated society sits oblivious to the grief of those who are a hundred times less fortunate than themselves, ATSS comes to us as a stinging slap in the face. And it is in such moments – such splendid moments – that I fell in love with the book. Each time I got smacked, the more I wanted to read that sentence again. Nothing like an ounce of truth in a world hell bent on giving us fiction, isn't it?

The message ATSS delivers is timeless. If I had to summarize it, it would be that any land that does not respect women has no future, no hope and deserves no mercy. A message that gets more relevant with each passing day. A message, as I bask in the masterpiece that ATSS is, I hope will be heralded to millions of splendid readers.

"One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs,
Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls. "

Thank you, Mr. Hosseini. I share your pain and I sincerely applaud your effort in sharing it with folks like me. ATSS now officially is in my all time favorites!

PS: A few more quotes from the book I thought worth plugging in here.

"And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last… This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings."

"And the past held only this wisdom; that love was a damaging mistake, and its accomplice, hope, a treacherous illusion."

"She would never leave her mark on Mammy's heart the way her brothers had, because Mammy's heart was like a pallid beach where Laila's footprints would forever wash away beneath the waves of sorrow that swelled and crashed, swelled and crashed. "

"Mariam lay on the couch, hands tucked between her knees, watched the whirlpool of snow twisting and spinning outside the window. She remembered Nana saying once that each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all the sighs drifted up the sky, gathered into clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below. As a reminder of how people like us suffer, she'd said. How quietly we endure all that falls upon us."

"She remembered Nana saying once that each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all the sighs drifted up the sky, gathered into clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below."

"Mariam always held her breath as she watched him go. She held her breath and, in her head, counted seconds. She pretended that for each second that she didn't breathe God would grant her another day with Jalil."

"Perhaps this is just punishment for those who have been heartless, to understand only when nothing can be undone."

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The Inheritance of loss - a review

There is an undeniable vein of cruelty and regret that is peppered all over Kiran Desai’s Man Booker Prize winning novel ‘Inheritance of loss’. It not only showcases human vulnerability in those moments but also highlights a wide range of issues that seem so relevant in today’s apocalyptically poised world of a million worries. Everything from shifting globalization, economic divides, displacement, post colonial effects on a nation, terrorism and that oh-so-familiar thread of jingoistic ownership is brightly highlighted in the story. A theme, I thought, most recognizable given the black and white we witness in each tabloid spill.

The tale opens with Sai, an orphaned teenage girl, moving to her UK educated grandfather Jemubhai Popatlal Patel (a retired judge) in Kalimpong at the foothills of the Kanchengunga. She is in love with her Nepalese tutor Gyan. Staying with the judge and Sai is the cook whose son Biju is in New York, working and existing as an illegal immigrant in various desi and American outfits.

The core of the story runs in two parallel segments. One, that of the judge and Sai and their life in Kalimpong which is on the verge of a Gorkhali insurgency in demand for a separate state for themselves – Gorkhaland. The second strand is that of Biju and his encounters with the ever illusive ‘American dream’ far away in the chaotic and detached Big Apple. While Biju is busy moving from one menial job to another, the cook is proud of his ‘Amreeki’ son and continues to write to him requesting him to find similar glory for his friends and acquaintances. A habit Biju has a very hard time making his father realize as being a counter-productive exercise for someone as volatile as him.

Sai’s entry into his life forces Patel, the judge, to reflect upon certain dirty facts about his own past. As a young chap who had set sail to Cambridge University, Patel has his personal collection of bitter memories from that stint. Racial abuse, humiliation and blatant disregard to and the intense damage to his self esteem continues to haunt the judge. This, despite his achievements as a government official in Independent India. This throbbing vein of cruelty that was meted against him erupts in an endless barrage of rape, abuse and disrespect for his young wife – Nimi – who ends up becoming the victim of Patel’s immense hate for the West and everything related to it. A hate that is the result of consistent neglect and nonchalant shame.

...he forgot how to laugh, could barely manage to lift his lips in a smile, and if he ever did, he held his hand over his mouth, because he couldn't bear anyone to see his gums, his teeth. They seemed too private. In fact, he could barely let any of himself peep out of his clothes for fear of giving offence. He began to wash obsessively, concerned he would be accused of smelling. To the end of his life, he would prefer shadow to light, faded days to sunny, for he was suspicious that sunlight might reveal him, in his hideousness, all too clearly.

There are also a string of second level characters in the book – the Anglophile sisters Lola and Noni; Father Booty, a Swiss national residing, as is later known, illegally in India and Uncle Potty – an incorrigible drunk who finds his solutions at the bottom of the bottle – who contribute to the goings on in their very well defined personalities.

The book discusses a wide range of issues that we, as Indians, should be able to identify with. The disintegration of the moral compass, the obviously visible corruption of our governing systems, and the infinite seeming struggle of the common man to achieve that one ounce of common peace – all of this mushrooms around the characters and their journeys.

Having read a lot of Rushdie, I could not help but find similarities in the way Desai stitches her narratives. I remember mentioning in my reviews of Rushdie’s work, how he enjoys running sentences. This is more evident in Desai’s work than any other I have read so far. Something as simple as a boy getting ready for a challenging day of learning and knowledge at school is described in one lengthy paragraph!

...Fed he was, to surfeit. Each day, he was given a tumbler of fresh milk sequined with golden fat. His mother held the tumbler to his lips, lowering it only when empty, so he reemerged like a whale from the sea, heaving for breath. Stomach full of cream, mind full of study, camphor hung in a tiny bag about his neck to divert illness; the entire package was prayed over and thumb-printed red and yellow with tika marks. He was taken to school on the back of his father's bicycle."

But despite this attempt to appear as a clear devotee of Rushdie’s style, there also exist some masterpiece of lines that hold your attention to the narrative with the sheer brilliance of their execution.

“He retreated into a solitude that grew in weight day by day. The solitude became a habit, the habit became the man, and it crushed him into a shadow. But shadows, after all, create their own unease, and despite his attempts to hide, he merely emphasised something that unsettled others. For entire days nobody spoke to him at all, his throat jammed with words unuttered, his heart and mind turned into blunt aching things.”

“…; a banana that in the course of the journey had been slain by heat. No fruit dies so vile and offensive a death as the banana, but it had been packed just in case.”

“Romantically she decided that love must surely reside in the gap between desire and fulfillment, in the lack, not the contentment. Love was the ache, the anticipation, the retreat, everything around it but the emotion itself.”

Despite the very obvious political backdrop such as this, I never thought the novel was political at all in the way it showcased its characters. It came off more as an image of the effects commoners have to go through caught in the middle of such strife. What did become clear was Desai’s view of how everything Western isn’t actually the way to progress. Her skepticism of the West is clear in many extracts that discuss the anglophile sisters Lola and Noni and their ‘sanitized elegance’.

Desai’s point is driven home by her conclusive attempt at examining how post-colonial rule has done more harm than good in the developing nations. Her lines like “in its meanest form, brand-new one day, in ruin the next." seems like the perfect way to describe the disastrous mess that India can be considered sometimes. It could be because of this conclusion that Biju is subjected to a direct wave of rage and fury, an emotion he was quite remotely located from in New York, his first day back home. Desai suggests, that for folks like him and others caught in the same puddle of uncertainty, escape is not an option. And as Sai concludes…

"Never again could she think there was but one narrative and that this narrative belonged only to herself, that she might create her own mean little happiness and live safely within it."

Desai’s artistic expression cannot be denied in ‘The inheritance of loss’ despite the oddities that she highlights. The underlying effect of western influence of civilizations such as India is a painful truth we are made to acknowledge. And for this, I would definitely recommend a read.

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