ShaK's Book Reviews

A 1000 splendid moments!

2010-05-14T09:01:00.005+02:00

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."

The Inheritance of loss - a review

2010-04-17T10:13:00.004+02:00

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.

A book about 'Sharam'

2009-06-06T17:04:00.018+02:00

The controversy surrounding the reign and relationship of late Prime Minister of Pakistan Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and his Commander-In-Chief at the time, Zia-Ul Haq has captured the imagination of the world for a long long time. I had heard vague stories about this conflict as a boy but had never really understood what had ensued before and after the successful coup that Zia undertook, overthrowing Bhutto and becoming the President of Pakistan himself. This was one of the primary points of attraction that led me to read Salman Rushdie’s book, aptly titled, ‘Shame’.

Released in 1983, ‘Shame’ revolves around the lives of similar characters with very identical stories with a good amount of ‘RR’ – Rusdhie Realism – thrown in. The book opens with the life of Omar Khayyam, a boy borne to three sisters who live in a fortress like mansion in Nishapur (interestingly the same place the actual poet Umar Khayyam was born) somewhere on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The sisters have locked themselves away from the world and use a contraption known as ‘The Dumb Waiter’ to correspond with the planet outside for their daily needs – rice, vegetables et al. Growing up in a sequestered wall-fort like this one, Omar is fed with the strong sense of void and a bizarre sense of issues (including vertigo and lack of self confidence) by the 3 sisters – Chunni, Munni and Bunny – out of which no one knows who the real mother is. Despite the boundaries that confine this Mowgli of a fellow, he continues feeding himself all the literature, arts and science he can find in books lying around the dusty closets. He masters several languages and becomes a self-taught scholar but he knows, he just knows, that he will become an anthill if he continues to stay with his mothers. With great effort he finally retaliates and tells them he needs to get out, much to their shock and surprise.

Horrified maternal gasps. Six hands fly to three heads and take up hear-no-see-no-speak-no-evil positions.

They reluctantly let him go out and attend school from where he moves on to pursue medicine and becomes an immunologist. It is when he reaches Karachi, that he befriends the playboy millionaire Iskander Harappa (Isky – Bhutto) who is married to Rani Humayun. Also in this mix is General ‘Old Razor Guts’ – Raja Hyder (Zia) is an army hero who is married to Bilquis Kemal. After a shocking stillbirth (where the baby is strangulated by the umbilical cord), Bilquis bears two daughters – Sufia Zinobia Hyder (also called ‘Shame’) and Naveed Hyder (also called ‘Good News’).

The theme of shame continues as Sufia suffers a brain fever as a child and is clinically labeled as mentally challenged. She, as it turns out, thus becomes the receiving pot of all the shamefulness and shamelessness that the family has to offer, absorbing all of it within her until that sleeping subconscious of Sufia becomes an uncontrollable beast that rips off heads of turkeys and attacks Naveed’s groom on her wedding day. To keep a check on her behavior, Raza takes Omar’s help who ends up falling in love with this woman with a child’s brain.

Elsewhere, an awakening is taking place. On his 40th birthday Isky decides to put past him the flamboyancy of his money throwing years and follows his call for the nation. He forms the ‘Popular Front’ (as in PPP) and is idolized by his daughter Arjumound Harappa (also called ‘Virgin Ironpants’ given her obstinate will to reject men forever).

The story then follows a similar pattern based on actual events. Isky becomes the Prime Minister of the nation and does everything possible to ensure that the diplomats, the ambassadors, the other attaches are kept under his strong thumb. An approach some see as being down right dictatorial. It is in such headiness that Isky promotes Raza as the CIC despite the fact that Raza has several seniors above him. Given Raza’s non-political demeanor, Isky’s calculation is that he will have nothing to worry about. And this is where, as we have seen, Isky goes horribly wrong. Plagued with the fathering of ‘Shame’ in his own house, Raza starts getting annoyed at the way Isky goes about handling the system. Isky’s rude obnoxious attitude and a mouth that can spew out several foul creatures at once soon starts getting on Raza’s army honed nerves. It is then, that he decides to impose Martial Law in the country by leading a coup against Isky. Isky is arrested on the charges of murdering his brother’s son (Little Mir) and is thrown into the most hideous prison cells in the world and tortured in ways unimaginable. After 2 years of this, Isky is sentenced to death by hanging although as it turns out, Rani Humayun and Arjumound do not see rope marks on his neck when they examine the body. It is revealed that one of the army generals had shot Isky in the heart thanks to Isky’s belligerent and never-say-die mind-set. A move that then heralds the beginning of a Pakistan that is headed by the base mantra of faith as Sufia prepares to finally be taken over by the Beast completely.

‘Shame’ documents a lot of facts with Rushdie’s usual tonic of magic realism. Everything from Sufia’s drastic transformation from being the blushing child-in-a-woman to the ghastly beast with yellow fire in the eyes is portrayed with chilling descriptions. At one point I actually thought of Sufia herself as being a representation of the country. Born normal – attacked by an infliction – left with an adult body but an immature brain – now looked at with suspicion and fear. A beast within a child’s soul. It was in this metaphorical tribute that I found ‘Shame’ most successful at.

What this also did, for my own sake of historical know-how, is forced me to read up whatever there is to know about the Bhutt0-Zia reign. It was interesting to see the palpating synergy Bhutto had in his speeches (videos on YouTube) and the calm composed almost regressive approach that Zia shows in footage. I sometimes found myself wondering, what indeed would have happened had Bhutto not promoted Zia up the order? Would Pakistan become a very different country from what it is now? Or was Bhutto’s approach to things so predictably askew that his downfall was only a matter of time to which Zia became a reason? I guess we will never know.

‘Shame’ is a must read for those who want to know about that critical phase which proved to be the maker/breaker of the country’s future.

..ShaKri..

'Moor' than required?

2009-06-02T22:23:00.012+02:00

True. I have read quite a bit of Rushdie. In fact from everything he has written I have probably read more than 50% of it. And yes. I have immensely enjoyed the whimsical liberties he takes with his audience – be it in prose or in the stitching together of a scene that – and this has to be said: sometimes turns out less surprising than what you’d have probably expected from him. True: I know I am not reading a spy novel, but still. A dash of tangy twist never hurt anyone, Sir. Also true: Rushdie isn’t the greatest when it comes to unexpected turns like some of the other authors (well, the classics being O Henry and the like) I have come across. But if ever there was an author who could pen down words you’d have never heard of – Rushdie is your man. If not for nothing else, I sincerely urge you to pick up a Rushdie just for the sheer headiness with which he makes one entire paragraph get to print without using a single full stop. A habit I find myself getting used to these days. A dangerous habit, I must confess.

With that little bit about SR, we come to his work ‘The Moor’s Last Sigh’. This book was originally released in ’95 and took me over a decade to get around to reading it because well, it just did. One of the reasons I am currently catching up with the backlog of Rushdie’s work may have been a result of the exuberant egging on that ‘The Enchantress of Florence’ gave me with its unique combination of simple to understand Moguls and impossible to remember Italiano references!. Since then, I have not only re-read ‘Haroun and the Sea of Stories’ but also I am currently reading his take on Pak and its historical journey post-Independence - ‘Shame’, which I must admit is good reading. You can expect a review on that shortly too. I also intend to re-read ‘Midnight’s Children’ since well, I need the rush of high voltage vocabulary from the mouth of Sinai once more!

‘The Moor’s Last Sigh’ is segmented into 4 parts – ‘A house divided’, ‘Malabar Masala’, ‘Bombay Central’ and, like having a song with the title track in a music album, ‘The Moor’s Last Sigh’. The plot follows the family line of one Moraes Zogoiby also known as ‘Moor’. He is the fourth and final child of Abraham Zogoiby and Aurora da Gama, whose roots are seeded in the Christian/Jew existent region of good old coconut oiled fish-curry laced Cochin in God’s own country. They are basically a spicy family – literally, since they deal with all sorts of condiments. From cardamom to clove. From whole pepper to cumin. They’ve got it all. And the spice that runs in their blood – O brother. One look at every woman in their family and you will know who runs the ship! Right from white haired Epifania (Moor’s Gread Grand Mummy!), through to her daughter Isabella Souza and then to her tough nut of a daughter Aurora da Gama. Each of these women contain a specific din of confidence and power that, it sometimes seems, is embedded by their hereditary allegiance to all the spices!

Moor is a man with a bizarre disability – he is aging twice as fast as he should. Meaning, if he is 5 years old, his body resembles that of a 10 year old boy. So by the time he is 20, he looks like he is 40…and so on. Or as SR puts it his age is ‘2x’ – you get the point. Needless to say this leads to several interesting subplots with his anatomy and the fact that at some point he looks as old as his own mother. The base for the title comes from the tale of Boabdil (I had to look this fellow up after reading this book), who was apparently the last king of Granada. Aurora, Moor’s mother, is a gifted painter and a very serious influence in the way Moor grows up in a house with 3 elder sisters – Ini, Meeni, Myna…well, of course, and then Moor. Each of the girls meet a fate that, to put it blandly, isn’t the most ideal. Each one of them is a victim of the choices they make, much like the rest of us I suppose.

The book, through its 4 major chapters, traces the origins of the Zogoibys right from the shores of Cochin all the way to the hedonistic cocaine hub called Bombay (this is a story set in the 60s – 80s Bombay so the word ‘Mumbai’ hadn’t quite stuck yet) and then ends in a quiet little pocket of Spain called Benengeli, where Moor eventually meets his fate and takes stock of his life thus far. Moor’s journey is peppered (pun intended!) with some very strong female influences – his mother Aurora, his sisters, his first love and sex partner (his tutor Dilly Hormuz), and the maniacal crazed she ‘thing’ called Uma who seeds, successfully, the fruit of mistrust in Moor which essentially tears the family apart. Hmm…where have I heard that before? As I said, if Rushdie’s books were stripped off of all the verbal gloss, you’d find a pretty straight forward tale almost every time. That’s the one thing I’ve always felt was Rushdie’s most painful Achilles Heel.

The one thing I noticed right away about Moor’s narrator-like approach to the tale was how similar it was to ‘Midnight’s Children’ where Saleem Sinai does the same by recalling his grandparents from Kashmir and then on towards himself. But unlike Saleem’s tale, there is no major progressive connection to the nation’s story in ‘The Moor’s Last Sigh’. Rushdie is famous for this ‘magic realism’ approach which very easily blends magical contexts into a realistic scenario. Even here, that takes place almost in every page. As the reader follows the roots of Moor and how he came about to exist, we start noticing patterns of the divine, the supernatural, the inexplicable and the prophetic, all stitched into the same fabric that Moor’s reality is shown as being set against. What with his fast slipping age-disability factor (actually I never saw that aspect as a disability at all!) and the constant feminine shadows under whom Moor continues to discover his past, present and future, SR very daftly combines the themes of an India still yawning from its Independence and the dizziness with which Bombay was finally getting the unique definition we all are so proud of today. Right from its ‘Ganapati bappa maurya’ to its reverence to Bollywood with strong inclusions of Nargis (yes! From Mother India!) and her, the then beau, Dutt Sr., SR captures it all in his unique flair.

Alright: things I didn’t find too exciting – the routine deaths. There came a time when I wasn’t sure if I was reading Rushdie or G.D.Roberts’ ‘Shantaram’! What with the, almost, intense underlining of the mafia world in Bombay and its role in Moor’s life, I somehow felt at one point that the story was definitely inspired by a lot of Bollywood masala. Also, the generous injection of sex that always seems to find its way in Rushdie’s books (well maybe with the exception of ‘Haroun…’, I think…) and leaves you feeling a tad surprised at its occurance. Moor, despite his age related disability and a seriously deformed hand (of course which he uses to knock down tough blokes in rings once, and then makes a career of it) seems to be getting regular bedroom action with what one can only imagine are ‘too easy’ girls! Somewhere there, right there, I felt a tad shortchanged with Moor’s characterization given its shockingly ironic reality.

Ah well: ‘The Moor’s Last Sigh’, despite everything else, still makes for complex reading just like any other SR book. If you are looking for an appetite that needs catering in the form of Herculean metaphorical references dished out with a mélange of word soups and whimsically placed scenes, then this book is a good one. Some of his sentences, seriously, just go on and on! For a humble and ‘A-B-A-C’ reader like me it becomes a tad too hard to grasp what it was I just read. But then, as I always say, with SR, the struggle is the glory.

So here is to another struggle and another glory. A little less ‘Bollywood action’ next time, Sir? Maybe, just maybe, a few shorter sentences? And something genuinely subtle and thought provoking, albeit, with your usual dash of ‘magic realism’? Yes? Please? Pretty please? OK then. Thanks.

..ShaKri..

The enchantment of globalisation

2009-05-25T11:15:00.002+02:00

It took me a little over a month to finally finish reading Salman Rusdhie’s ‘The Enchantress of Florence’. Given the rather unsettling schedule I sometimes end up with, it becomes hard for me to do the one thing I love more than writing – reading. Despite that, I have now made it a thumb role to read at least 3 full length novels every year. A resolution that actually worked quite well as I wrapped up ‘The 3 mistakes of my life’, a disappointingly ‘Bollywood-ish’ tale by Chetan Bhagat and ‘The Kite Runner’, an amazingly well portrayed poignant tale of two Afghan friends by debutant writer Khaled Hosseini. My ambitious attempt at getting hold of Kiran Desai’s much acclaimed ‘The Inheritance of Loss’ didn’t find the day of light as last year went by like a blur. I am still awaiting a chance to read that book.

Nevertheless, I wanted to finish reading one complete piece of work early this year but thanks to other commitments that didn’t happen until now. And so, I finished consuming ‘The Enchantress of Florence’ by Rushdie in about 5 weeks. And so here are my impressions about the book.

The main plot opens with a yellow-haired European, possibly in his early 20s, arriving in Fatehpur Sikri to get an audience, a private one at that, with the then Mughal Emperor Akbar. The reason: he is here to tell a story. Oh, of course it isn’t all that simple either. This story is no simple lullaby laced folk tale mothers sing to their drowsy little ones late at night. Oh no. This one is a tale that basically claims to connect the East to the West. An interesting look at how globalization would have probably worked in the 16th century. This young European – who calls himself ‘Mogor dell’ Amore’ (Mughal of Love) soon starts catching the otherwise skeptical and hedonistic emperor Akbar's fancy. After the initial attempt at underlining the ridiculousness of the tale and the obvious seeming inaccuracy about the possible timeline, Akbar’s closest advisors – Raja Birbal and Abul Fazl – deduce that there could be more to the young man than what meets the eye. His claim of being Akbar’s grand uncle (son of Babar’s sister – a woman named Qara Koz who had left Hindustan to Persia and then onto Italy befriending many men along the way) seems insanely out of context. But then, this challenges Akbar’s belief in what is real and what isn’t. With each passing day that Akbar spends with the story teller, he is drawn to wonder about the various concepts of reality that he has surrounded himself – religion, faith, humanity, the notion of God, love and above all, his role as an emperor and the present guardian of the grand Mughal Empire.

The emperor thus decides to give the fellow a chance and begins to listen to his tale to see if there is any real sense of connection at all. And if there is, then he even contemplates including the foreigner as part of his royal heritage – even before his wayward and sex-crazy son Salim and the other incompetent sons he has lost hope in for good. With the story of this mystical enchantress – Qara Koz (Lady Black Eyes)– the foreigner begins to weave a world of words that is both magical and full of surprises. The book is injected with a high dosage of generous sexuality given the way one could easily imagine how sex wasn’t really a taboo back in those days. In fact, one quick reference to the Kama Sutra can tell us that India (Hindustan), as a region, underwent a sad circumcision of its own wealth of culture once the slavery to the colonial landlords began. That said, it is easy to understand how sex would have easily played a major role in Akbar’s regime what with the harems and publicly acknowledged brothels swarming with unrealistically gorgeous women. Women one can only think of as fiction in today’s context. A tragic figment of current India’s imagination that is draped in designer clothes and painted with 2 inch thick cosmetics to look remotely appealing.

The story then shifts rapidly from one place to the other traveling West along with the mysterious woman named Qara Koz – Babar’s long lost sister and clearly Akbar’s grandmother whose son this European claims to be. Right from the three friends in Italy – Ago Vespucci, Il Machio and Nino Argalia – whose days of boyhood turn into fables of varying degrees of adventure – right to the Medici dynasty in Florence under whose rule Qara Koz goes from being a saint incarnate to a cursed witch in a very short span of time. The journey of a strong willed and enchanting woman in a completely male dominated world sits bare. How much of this past from this European’s tale does Akbar really consider? What does he deduce once the tale has been told and what happens to the foreigner based on the level of authenticity it creates for the emperor and his reign? Why does it end up being that Akbar has to completely abandon and relocate from Sikri and head to Agra instead? These are some of the issues addressed as the story chugs along.

There is no denying that Rushdie has put in exhaustive research for this piece. His ‘Bibliography’ itself is about three pages of the book so no surprises there. He also says it took him ‘years and years of reading’ to be able to write this book which he also says took him close to a decade. Either way, ‘The Enchantress of Florence’ definitely comes off as the product of a well investigated writer.

While all that is alright, it definitely makes for complicated reading. There are some references to people and places in Italy that is just not comprehensible to the common reader. Notwithstanding the italicizing of non-English words that Rushdie seems to adore, the running sentences (sure, it is a story within a story but should there not be a benchmark!) become too much to follow sometimes. There are several places where I had to re-read the paragraph to understand, hopefully, what I was supposed to. There are also some liberties taken with Akbar’s details too such as making ‘Jodha’ a figment of his regal imagination who he looked at for psychological and carnal satisfaction. In keeping Princess Hira Kunwari as a separate entity, Rushdie rules out the possibility that the two could have been the same person. Something that is quite the opposite of what I have grown up reading with the famous 'Jodha Akbar' concoction that is so prominent in India. Also, the constant reference to Prince Salim as a brothel happy pervert who would have special herbs rubbed on his member for maximum satisfaction of Manbhawati Bai, who he later marries, is interesting too. It was refreshing to read Emperor Jahangir’s youth through Rushdie’s research work. Again, quite the opposite of his Romeo like image built by the Indian media and his alleged liason with a nauche girl named 'Anarkali', I thought. According to this book - non-existent.

‘The Enchantress of Florence’ definitely gives a new perspective to the Mughal regime as we have known it. Sure, it is a fictional piece but with some very relevant references to the kind of world we now live in. The constant changes and its evident metamorphosed effects of globalization and nomadic migration that is taking place each day around us is well documented in the tale. While I don’t know how apt it is to suggest this book to someone who isn’t familiar with Rushdie’s work, I would still recommend that you read it for what its worth. Just don’t worry too much about remembering names and places since there are too many for the layman mind! Just enjoy the piece as a tribute to a greatest Mughal emperor that ever lived.

..ShaKri..

Haroun's mirror to reality?

2009-02-26T16:52:00.007+01:00

‘But but but,’ I thought as I finally finished the last lines of Rushdie’s ‘Haroun and the sea of stories. ‘This is no children’s book as was proclaimed originally!’, I went on still reeling under the dizzying array of the thrill ride I had had during my record time of reading it in a flat 2 days. Of course, given that it is less than a 6’ x 9’ paperback of 211 pages makes it easier. And the reason I used the three ‘buts’ was to quote the effervescent Butt the hoopoe, a large mechanical robotic bird in the story that has a mind of its own. But more on that later. For now, let me tell you about this piece.

For starters, the title of the book gives us an impression that it is about a story teller and his seemingly infinite and possibly unending supply of stories. Yes, and no. Yes, because it indeed is about a motor mouth called Rashid Khalifa who stays in a city called Alifbay – a fictional place that, as Rushdie describes it, is

“a sad city, the saddest of cities, a city so ruinously sad it had forgotten its name”

and that it sits next to

“a mournful sea full of glumfish, which were so miserable to eat that they made people belch with melancholy”.

It is in sentences like these that one really sees why Alifbay might have been an interesting place to visit – for perhaps the sheer joy of enjoying its sadness that hung around like its dull air. Rashid lives with his wife, Soraya and a young son named Haroun. Now, Rashid is a story teller. Oh but no ordinary chap this! He in fact has such tales spilling out of his being that local politicos are always vying for his gab to get their speeches spiced up with Rashid’s tall tales. In fact, telling a story and telling it well is pretty much what Rashid really knows how to do. A fact that, despite the obviousness of the case, Soraya detests immensely. So much so that she decides to elope with her upstairs neighbor – Mr. Sengupta – and leaves behind a grief struck husband, a shell shocked son and an inconsolable Mrs. Oneeta Sengupta.

Young Haroun does everything possible to cheer up the stone silent Rashid but nothing seems to work for long. It is then that one of the biggest politicos of the area – Butto (also referred to as ‘Snooty Butto’ thanks to his mean demeanor) – invites the father and son to come on over to the city of K to deliver another impressionable version of his speech. Given his rusty skills that have been stunned into silence after Soraya’s unwelcome departure, Rashid’s only words are – ‘Ack! Ack!’ – which, needless to say, infuriates Butto no end. The father-son duo are then packed off across the Dull Lake to a place where they can regain their postures and deliver a more packed performance for the audience the following day. They are hosted on Butto’s luxurious houseboat – The Arabian Nights Plus One – a place that Butto is highly proud of.

An interesting occurrence takes place that night. Rashid would have always told young Haroun that the source of his tales came from the tap that supplies infinitely fresh stories from the ‘Sea of Stories’. He also adds, that a Water Genie comes along to fit it every time the water runs out. Haroun doesn’t believe a word of it. If anything he feels shortchanged for being mocked at by the father. This, probably would have been true, had Haroun not found a puny little fellow in bright blue whiskers and a large turban trying to dismantle the tap from Rashid’s bathroom the night they spend on the houseboat. The Water Genie, who identifies himself as Iff, tells Haroun that indeed Rashid was a subscriber to the tales from the planet of Kahani, a place far far away, and now his subscription was being revoked due to lack of use. Haroun immediately grabs the Disconnection Tool and demands an audience with The Walrus, who he is told is the one who makes decisions related to such subscriptions.

What follows next is a myriad of a classic Walt Disney style adventure that takes Haroun to the planet of Kahani on the back of Butt, the mechanical Hoopoe bird along with Iff. On this planet are two cities, we are told – Gup City and Chup City. Gup is where the sun shines bright, people chatter and birds fly free. Chup is the opposite. Dark, black and layered with gut wrenching shadows that are out to pollute the sea of stories and ensure that every tale ever told is contaminated with their sadness. More characters emerge in this part of the tale – Prince Bolo, Princess Batcheet, General Kitab, King Chattergy, Blabbermouth, Mudra, Khattam-Shud (the kingpin villain of the Chuppee clan in Chup city), Mali and of course, the Walrus. Does Haroun then get the audience with the Walrus as Iff had promised? If not, then how will he get his father to finally become the kind of story teller he had always been? And how does he suddenly get involved in the large crusade that begins where the Guppees, tired of the incessant polluting of the story strands in the sea of stories, wage a war against the vicious Chupees?

Rusdhie taps on some very relevant themes by making this look like a cult Disney feature where a child is taken to a magical world filled with mythical creatures, talking plants and friendly mechanical birds. He peppers it with several metaphorical references to the one word that makes it worth living a life – communication. Every name, every place, every character and every icon in the book overflows with references to communicating with one another. It focuses on just how important it is for the people of Gup (meaning the fellows who are always the ones pulling out fresh stories and looking for happy endings) vanquish the deep seeded darkness of the Chups – the silent ones who only wish to pollute and poison every fresh story with their own hideousness. Those self serving bastards who are out to kill a good story with a horrible ending by making it useless, old and absolutely worthless.

The one thing which I loved more than anything else about this particular piece by Rusdhie is its satirical look at the kind of world we live in. Through his own stamp of unique symbolisms, Rusdhie drives home a point that says it very clearly – people, talk. Tell a story with a happy ending and the world will start becoming a better place. Let the Gup start taking over the Chup and maybe, just maybe, the planet of Kahani will overflow with fresh stories once again that will fill many a tap for many a Rashids around the world. Despite the marketing of this book as a children's book, I somehow could not think of a way any adult should miss out on reading its relevance. According to me, this is a must read by Rushdie.

..ShaKri..

About kites and the sky

2008-08-22T13:34:00.002+02:00

If there ever was a book that showcased the true essence of Afghanistan’s lost glory – then this is probably it. Debutant writer Khaled Hosseini, an Afghan himself, takes us through a journey of friendship, betrayal, shame, innocence and above all – humanity. What struck me as unique right away is his simple style of narration. Being a Rushdie reader myself, the subtle use of colorfully peppered verbose word play was truly a refreshing treat. It is through this kaleidoscope of varying hues, that Hosseini brings us images of a country on the verge of hardcore ‘Talibanisation’ while the warlords are brewing their pots ready to take over the land. It is through the eyes of young Amir and his childhood friend, Hassan, that we are taken across the gorgeous landscapes of an angelic land called Afghanistan.

The book opens with the narrator, Amir, a well bred Pashtun lad who has grown under the looming shadow of his giant of a father – Baba. It is through his idealistic ways of how life should be led, that Amir first gets an introduction to his role in the larger social context despite the fact that Baba does not think much of Amir given his lack of commitment to anything. It is in this sense of apparent regret, that Amir chooses to find an ounce of solace with his friend, Hassan. Hassan – another very important nugget of moral value who later on becomes the only reason Amir is able to redeem himself. Hassan, the Hazara, lives with his father Ali, the family servant. Amir and Hassan grow up amid lush green valleys of the countryside enjoying the many wonders their land has to offer. Their main priority is the kite flying contest which Hassan is an expert at. We are told that he is one of the best kite runners there is. The winner of this contest is the kite that survives the vicious attacks of its opponents and is brought back alive from the skies after the event is done with. It is his keen sense of instinct as to where the kite will land that never fails to impress an otherwise snobbish Amir who is still in the process of self discovery.

In this concoction of friendship and brotherhood appears a huge wrinkle by the name of Assef. He is a miscreant by nature who is a very mean and violent older lad. He is infamous for his brass knuckles which he uses to constantly threaten a more timid Hassan and Amir. As things turn out, Assef becomes a pivotal point in the story’s narration when, after the kite flying contest, on realizing that Hassan has not yet returned with his winning kite, Amir goes looking for him. In one of the dark and silent alleys where no human eye would rove, Amir is shocked to see Assef brutally raping Hassan along with a few other lads. Despite the obvious shame in this heinous event, Amir isn’t mature enough to actually come to terms with this ghastly episode. Their friendship suffers immensely after this as Amir, despite knowing that he could have saved his friend, stood stunned in silence as the violent act was committed. Without being able to come to terms with his guilt, Amir decides to label Hassan a thief and gets rid of him from their house. This, despite what Hassan had told him time and again - 'For you, a thousand times over...' It is in that deep seeded honesty that Hassan is born with, that Amir finds it impossible to see him in the eye anymore.

The story then takes a fresh look at Amir’s life after this incident. As Amir and Baba escape out of a Taliban controlled Afghanistan, Amir never forgets about Hassan and what he did to him. The father and son head to the United States where Amir starts a new life and grows up becoming an American each day. But nothing makes him forget what happened in that alley that dark day after that thumping victory in the kite contest.

Time rolls on as Amir finds a new lease of life in the United States. He finds love, in Soraya, an Afghan woman who lives in California. It is after this, that Amir runs into Rahim Khan – the guardian of their family, who tells him what happened to Hassan after they left. A truth that prepares Amir to return to his land of redemption – to his Afghanistan.

Hosseini’s book is more about well placed surprises than anything else. And these come wonderfully at regular intervals keeping the goings on riveting. While the plot itself seems to be made for a movie, which it did become eventually, I don’t think the justice that is done to such a wonderful tale can ever be seriously translated to celluloid. There is a little ounce of that extra something, that additional drop of sensitivity that words carry, which is almost impossible to portray on film. It is in this sense of extremely delicate portrayal of the innocence of humanity, that Hosseini scores the most.

‘The Kite Runner’, according to me, is a classic. It has all the ingredients of a delightful story told from the eyes of an anti-Hero who is out to seek his redemption. A tale that is truly relevant in times that demand a little bit of soul searching in all of us. And for that, I'd recommend it - 'a thousand times over...'

..ShaKri..

A film script, perhaps

2008-07-25T13:37:00.000+02:00

It was by sheer accident that I ended up reading ‘The 3 mistakes of my life’. Someone had given my brother this book and he hadn’t gotten around to reading it. So, last summer while in India, I found it lying around and so I decided to give it a look see. Now, I had never actually heard of Chetan Bhagat before this so I wasn’t even sure what to expect. And so I began thumbing the pages of this piece.

The premise was simple and the language was plain. There was nothing, how do I put this, ‘novel like’, in this book as such. It was like a really lengthy blog piece that almost anyone could have written had there been a structure and a plot given. It had all the delicious elements – friendship, cricket, love, romance, sex, betrayal, politics, religion, violence…oh you name it. Add a rain drenched heroine and a lost mother looking for the other twin son of hers and boom! You have yourself a Manmohan Desai style movie! I wasn’t too thrilled with the extremely casual vocabulary either. Now I say this cautiously but with two vital reasons – one, because I have actually been closely acquainted with down to earth English with Sir RK Narayan’s books. No one can come close to document a small town’s simple life with the tongue in cheek humor like he used to. Or for that matter Mr. Ruskin Bond’s delightfully poignant, sometimes amusing, tales from hilly Darjeeling or Dun. So yes, I do know good writing when I see one. Somehow, this piece came off as a work that was, well, written for a Bollywood potboiler. Maybe it was then that I started reading more about this Bhagat person, and I realized that most of his other works (‘Call Center’ and ‘Five point someone’) were aimed at being just that – script like in their approach.

So we have the writer himself – Bhagat – gets a message from one Govind, a young man from Gujarat who is about to commit suicide. This sends a shiver down the writer’s spine as he desperately tries to get hold of this boy. He eventually does and makes him spill out the truth about why someone so young like him would want to attempt such a heinous crime. What follows is Govind’s narration of what happened to him that led him to take this step.

The tale essentially revolves around three friends (a trend that became popular after ‘Dil Chahta Hai’ become a blockbuster) – Govind, Omi and Ishant. Govind is a fatherless chap who wants to start a business and in quintessential Gujarati fashion is plotting of ways to make some extra moolah. Ish, short for Ishant, is a cricket fanatic who forgets to even wear clothes whenever a match is being telecast. Omi, the more subdued of the three, is a pro-Hindu lad who has an immensely political uncle called Bittoo Mama. So, with the help of some interesting business moves, the trio actually manages to open a cricket goods shop next to the temple that is managed by this portly Bittoo Mama. As time flows by, a little boy named Ali, comes into this assorted array of personalities. Apparently Ali is a master batsman who suffers from a disorder that makes him extremely attentive to a cricket ball. So much so that he just has to whack a sixer off of each one regardless of how it is bowled. Alright, so let us assume this is a realistic premise. Now seeing this, Ish takes the boy under his wings and starts to train him up. In fact they even manage to sneak into an India-Australia match and befriend an Australian cricketer! Hang on, there is more. And this Australian actually sponsors the tickets and visa for these boys – remember, out of no major affection except to see the young Ali perform – and takes them to Sydney. Wait, there is still a little bit left. And there, despite intense coaxing from the officials to get Ali to become a legal resident, the boy refuses saying he will only play for India and no other country. Did I forget to add the word ‘jingoism’ to the list above? Add to this the fact that Govind has secretly fallen for Ish’s sister Vidya and even, ahem, ended up having sex with her right on her house’s roof top and you have a yummy cuisine ready to be consumed.

It is in bizarre sequences like this that the story just fell apart for me. I am as much a fan of contemporary Indian writing as the next guy. But this was just too hypothetical to even fathom. What turns out eventually happens to be a mishmash of male bonding juxtaposed against the backdrop of religious backbiting that ends up threatening little Ali’s life. Of course, the religious leader Bittoo Mama comes out to play a very important role in the climax.

I appreciate Bhagat’s attempt at trying to showcase the confusion with which today’s youth in India are shivering in their placid moments of instant gratification. But somehow a lot of it started becoming predictable for me once the clichés of ‘Bollywood’ style masala in terms of action and violence began taking place. Had the focus been more on the sensitivities of human drama rather than the loud and garish portrayal of Indian society, I might have enjoyed it better. But then, there are always other opportunities aren’t there? Both for the reader, and definitely for the writer.

..ShaKri..

A man-eater and his exploits!

2007-04-27T07:11:00.002+02:00

It was a boring and rainy evening on a Friday in Caracas. Maybe it was the fact that my Internet connection had gone kaput or that I was seriously not in the mood to watch any more Television. Either way, I found the book, ‘Man Eater of Malgudi’ at the back of my tie closet (Yes! I used to have one. Sigh.) which had somehow made its way into my abode all the way from India. But somehow, thanks to the various diversions today’s world throws so generously at us, I hadn’t managed to find that precious little window of time where I could finally open one of RK Narayan’s many classics.

As is the case with many books, the title has no literal meaning. As in, there isn’t really a tiger or lion or any other man eater in this story. This, you realize, after having thumbed off a good dozen pages while taking the journey of leading a simple printer in Malgudi (Narayan’s famous + fictitious town) – Nataraj. He lives in his grandmother’s ancestral home and has a good rapport with locals who come by to get their orders completed or other motor mouths who basically come to drive him nuts with their meaningless noon banter. The prominent ones in this close knit group are Sen, an aspiring politician who doesn’t necessarily condone Nehru politics and Sastri, an elderly gentleman and Nataraj’s assistant at the printing unit. With things looking like this in walks a hurricane called Vasu – a taxidermist, or so he claims. His boorish ways and overwhelmingly overbearing demeanor doesn’t suit Nataraj one bit. Vasu demands that a 100 visiting cards be printed with his name on them and also bullies his way into the attic in Nataraj’s residence. Maybe it is the fact that a man with such a non-stereotypical attitude comes to Malgudi or maybe it is that maybe at some level, Nataraj secretly envies the public display of confidence Vasu projects, he goes along with the new comer.

A wrinkle is thrown into this concoction when Nataraj slowly starts to realize that Vasu is in no mood to pay him for the cards he got printed. In fact, every time Nataraj, cowed by the ridiculously goon like attitude of Vasu, so much as attempts a conversation in that direction, a distraction takes place and Nataraj ends up swallowing his intent. This, Nataraj deduces, is why Vasu should be called the ‘man eater’. Dangerous and unpredictable. Someone impossible to be with for long periods of time.

Things continue to be this way until the day Nataraj’s friend – a poet – decides to publish his work. To commemorate this event Nataraj organizes a grand procession with the author atop a dear temple Elephant. It is then that Nataraj comes to know that Vasu, hiding behind a silent and dark window, plans to kill the elephant for his taxidermy reasons. Nataraj now gets ready for a showdown with Vasu only to find him dead when he gets to the attic. What happens then? Is Nataraj framed for Vasu’s death? What does the police say about this after the autopsy? Can Rangi, whom Vasu had befriended quite well in his tenure, help in some way to solve the death of this man eater? These are questions that find the light of truth towards the end.

The consistent comparison of Vasu to a mythological Rakshasa (demon), sheds some light on the point Narayan is trying to make in this book. Vasu, despite the obnoxiousness he vehemently portrays, is still someone to loath and admire. His absolute conviction to laugh at things like religion and faith is something that makes you wonder. His histrionics of patriotism that he had displayed during the Independence movement makes you ponder. Nataraj, on the other hand, represents the hopelessly decent and “good” people in society. Through their genuine affection to things they hold dear, they try to make others happy. Their selflessness lies in their adherence to the basics of simple living. Something which is quite in contrast with Vasu’s self absorbed and selfish attitude.

‘The man eater of Malgudi’ is a great case study to observe human behavior in the backdrop of a simple town. This could easily be any town anywhere in the world which is why its conclusions are quite universal. A theme I found very close to myself. A must read from the master story teller.

..ShaKri..

Bombay - a haven for everyone

2007-01-10T13:32:00.001+01:00

Boy oh boy! Have you ever felt like a book could have used some serious editing by the sheer volume it might have? Or was it the case that the sum of its grandeur was so commensurate to the size of its weight that there was just no way to delete even a word! Well, let me elaborate. After having spent 3 glorious weeks at the rate of about 5-6 hours per day, I have finally managed to complete this mammoth of a book called ‘Shantaram’ which appears to be an example of the pondering above.

But let me start from the beginning. Much like the protagonist, Lin Baba does. A good friend of mine recommended this book during one of our conversations about a month ago. She said it was a book about India, nay, about Mumbai written by a foreigner. Now, being the cynical monster I can be I immediately dismissed it as one more clichéd tribute to every possible thing there is to say about our revered financial capital. But then she continued ‘…its about this guy, you know, who escapes from a prison in Australia, I think, and comes to Bombay haan. And there he joins the mafia!’

There was something quite delightfully sinister about this two sentence fabric that made me pause to reflect. Not only was this set up intriguing but it suddenly began transforming into questions – Who is he? How did he manage to get away from Australia? Why did he do it? And why Mumbai? How did he get there? How was he not caught? I immediately asked her to lend me the book after her husband was done with it.

And she did. A week later. I was just about to start my 3 week hiatus called the Xmas break and there seemed nothing more pleasing than to submerge myself into this mysterious character who had the audacity to escape a high security prison to end up in a place, which I am sure of, was probably much worse.

And so we start looking at this magnificent journey through the eyes of an Australian, Contrary to her mixed up version of the tale, although the central character – Lindsay Ford (later dubbed ‘Lin Baba’ and then ‘Shantaram’) – is indeed from down under, he is not fleeing a prison from there. He is in fact heading out of New Zealand on his way to Germany. On the way, he has a stop over in Mumbai where, as it turns out, he ends up staying for good.

The book’s main source is the author himself – Gregory David Roberts – who quite candidly confessed that the tales in the book were true episodes that he had had to go through. Save for murder, he said, he had committed almost all other kinds of cons like theft, armed robbery et al. Hence, there is immense detail in the way the narration picks up. I specially loved the first few lines that pretty much summarize his journey right away.

"It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured. I realised, somehow, through the screaming of my mind, that even in that shackled, bloody helplessness, I was still free: free to hate the men who were torturing me, or to forgive them. It doesn’t sound like much, I know. But in the flinch and bite of the chain, when it’s all you’ve got, that freedom is an universe of possibility. And the choice you make between hating and forgiving, can become the story of your life. "

It was in this deep seeded sense of humanity that I decided to go head first into this 900+ page Herculean venture that took me a good 3 weeks to wrap up.

The story, as mentioned above, starts with Lindsay arriving in Mumbai. Clueless about the kind of life he can expect here and conscious about the fact that he is a ‘wanted’ criminal at large, he wanders into the bustling cacophony of the metro. He meets Prabhakar. A local fellow who he befriends almost immediately and who later on becomes one of Lin’s closest friends. He then ends up in a slum where he takes on an almost demi-God status for being a white man. He is looked at by many as a doctor and a healer. He helps in slum fires and slowly starts getting involved in the lives of those who have given him shelter despite being low on it themselves. In this essence of basic human emotion, Lin finds his new home – his Mumbai. It is from here, that his journey into a dozen other places – including the likes of the Mumbai mafia, into the life of the much esteemed Godfather Khader Khan, the confused yet poignant eyes of Karla – the green eyed Swiss American immigrant and even the now famous Leopold Café where most of their meetings take place. ‘Shantaram’ documents the lives of non-Indian migrants who have made Mumbai their home. Their adherence to everything from Mumbai’s famous hangouts to its infamous drug world is documented in all its glory. Everyone from the ‘standing babas’ to the colorfully neurotic world of Bollywood makes its appearance in Lin’s story. He learns, teaches, suffers, gets beaten up, is cheated, falls in love, finds friends, and even makes a trip with his mentor Khader Khan to Afghanistan to help mujahadeen fighters in their combat. It is then, after Khader’s untimely demise, that Lin realizes the cesspool of sins that he had involuntarily wallowed into. It is then, with the shrapnel still fresh on his face that he decides to turn his life around. It is here, that he truly starts becoming what he had been christened a long time ago – Shantaram.

At the end of the 900+ pages, it becomes apparent why this story is so personal to Gregory. It oozes of his love to India and everything it has meant for him in life. Every thing he says about it is a result of pure affection and love to the one place that finally turned him into a human being. The one place, he calls, ‘the only proof that love exists’ in the world. Simply put, ‘Shantaram’ goes beyond being a big fat novel after its half way journey. It becomes a spiritual adventure that a convict takes nestling in the arms of a city that for long as been the epitome of solidarity and undeniably immaculate spirit. ‘Shantaram’ is a definite read to those who are alien to either Mumbai or India.

..ShaKri..

Lesser Gods et al

2006-07-25T22:17:00.000+02:00

Coming...

About Mahatma's disciples

2006-07-07T07:06:00.001+02:00

Review soon....

Indian roots to an alien tree

2006-05-25T13:35:00.000+02:00

Namesake review coming soon...

Humorous Seins!

2006-03-25T22:21:00.000+01:00

Soon...

A boy called Pi

2005-01-16T13:44:00.000+01:00

Soon...