A Divided Nation and its Devastating Consequences

It is no secret that the Divide and Rule policy was favoured by every invader and imperialist to have held sway over the Indian subcontinent. But they did not have to create rivalries or even exert themselves to exacerbate the teeming tensions between factious groups at each other’s throats on account of a host of petty reasons, because the differences were always there. Since its birth, India has been bitterly divided and progressively weakened without ever feeling like a single country. Not surprisingly, nothing changed after independence. It was hoped that with the dawn of a new age, Indians would set aside their traditional differences and live together peaceably. But that was not to be, then or now.

 The landowning classes and ambitious capitalists simply picked up the reins handed over by the British and went right back to exploiting the masses to safeguard the bastions of privilege. We were back to square one and seem to have made absolutely no progress to this day. If recent events are any indication, things have taken a considerable turn for the worse. Ordinarily, a tragedy of epic proportions or the threat of powerful outsiders may be counted on to unite Indians for mutual protection. But this is the age of social media where everyone has been provided with a loudspeaker to vent venom and spew hatred in a torrential outpouring that has resulted in battle lines being drawn, endless skirmishes turning nasty and absolutely no quarter given. Even cataclysmic events and unmitigated disasters are more likely to see us rend and tear at opponents real and imaginary as opposed to bringing us closer together.

This harsh reality was apparent in the ugly aftermath of the tragic demise of an angelic eight – year old, Asifa Bano. Even the most cynical and world weary of us, wept when the details of her passing came to light. Surely we would all join hands and make sure that her death wasn’t in vain by bringing her killers to task and implementing procedures to ensure that nobody else would share her fate in this land? But it wasn’t to be. If the rage and hate fuelled frenzy that has gripped this accursed nation is anything to go by, we are all dirty politicians at heart who will use a child’s murder to further our own mostly pointless ends. Every side, and there are many, seems to be populated with extremists who have become canny operators, skilled in the use of rhetoric to bolster their arguments.

Whatever happened to civility and the need to find a common ground? In these troubled times it would behove us to remember that even if we are passionately devoted to the side we have cast our lot with and are inclined to view everyone who doesn’t agree with every miserable point we swear by, as the enemy, there is always potential for fruitful collaboration provided we are willing to reach out across the void as opposed to being hell-bent on shoving dissenters into it. Simply making the effort could be the difference between slowly rebuilding a fractured country or a doomed one.

This article originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

Real Meets Surreal

The book opens in a decrepit Railway station in a “City – State” that has seceded from the “Back – County” which we may surmise is somewhere in the Congolese region abounding with mines. Requiem, a no – gooder who clearly has his sticky fingers in every shady dealing of the criminal persuasion to be made in the city – state is there to meet his writer frenemy, Lucien who conversely is so noble and idealistic, it is ridiculous.

The duo frequent Tram – 83 a popular bar that caters to the runaway appetites of all kinds of humanity such as tourists (for profit or non – profit), miners, officials, students, globalizers, hungry hookers, spies, soldiers, gangsters, journalists, poets, petty thieves and killers. Together, the duo are sucked into the seamy underbelly of a chaotic world run by a corrupt warlord where “the mightier crush the mighty, the mighty defecate in the mouths of the weak, the weak sequestrate the weaker, the weaker do each other in and then split for elsewhere.” 

Tram 83 is dominated by wild, jarring rhythms, smooth sounds and pulsing beats that plunge those in for the ride into a bleak and truly terrifying place whose violence afflicted past has paved the way for a dark reality that is riddled with vice gone on a rampage. It is a dog eat dog world where everybody eats dog kebabs. Of course, this can be discomfiting to say the least. There are too many baby – chicks (underage prostitutes) and notorious child soldiers to be comfortably borne and the degree of exploitation doing the rounds is enough to make even those hardened to the foibles of human nature feel queasy.

Conversations are not straightforward and rudely interrupted by the musings of those in the bar who have little patience for conventional niceties, forcing one to keep up using all the senses if need be. Nearly every page is peppered with the sexual innuendo of those who eat by the sweat of their breasts to paraphrase the author, which definitely cannot be repeated in polite company. Regular homilies on the reigning preoccupation with steatopygia are thrust into every other page. Everything seems to be permeated not only with the rank odor of the regulars but the fouler stench of dull cynicism and lost hope. This is not to say the proceedings are fully dark and dreary interspersed as the narrative is with bright bursts of humor.

   At the center of this maelstrom are the former friends. Requiem takes it all in his stride, throwing himself into the demands of living in such inhospitable terrain with savage determination and ill grace. Lucien on the other hand is practically a caricature who clings to his principles for dear life even when faced with the prospect of rotting in a prison cell. Mujila invites readers to closely examine the viewpoints of both men and take sides, inviting the occasional laugh or shocked gasp while keeping alive the curiosity to see which one will triumph over the course of events that clearly indicate that there are likely to be no winners.

Mujila’s debut has been long listed for the Man Booker Prize and is one of those books which have already won in addition to being in the process of winning, a slew of prestigious awards. Whether this translates into a winning read for the average reader depends on his or her openness towards an unconventional style that takes more than a little getting used to. Some of the stylistic devices and conceits on display such as mind – numbing descriptive lists or constant refrains run the gamut from exasperating to engaging. And yet the author has captured the morass of decay redolent of this land and the teeming undercurrent of vibrancy that is the essence of this unnamed place.

Nothing is sacred here and there is mounting evidence that the horrific past will bury the present and obliterate the future. But even so, Tram 83 may just be worth the visit if you are not unwilling to plunge into the depths of hell for a brief glimpse before getting the heck out of there. 

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express.

Drowning in Dumbness

You know that times are bad when headlines are obsessed with the Duchess of Cambridge’s bum. Apparently she had a wardrobe malfunction during her tour of India that may or not have revealed her bare bottom in all its glory and it was all people wished to talk about. Those who could not care less for Princess patootie may have skipped these articles only to be told that Kangana Ranaut and Hrithik Roshan are currently engaged in a mud – slinging match with gobs of the stuff landing on the pope when the odds of a pretty boy landing a date with him was raised. If you were to persist in trying to find something else to read, you may be suckered into a long drawn discussion on the odds of Virat Kohli and Anushka Sharma getting back together because the latter has unlocked the secret to preventing dandruff as well as hair fall in addition to losing another two kilos on her derriere.

            Could it be true that deep down at the core, we are all just shallow, superficial twits? Is there no way to help our inner wannabe intellectual who has long been drowning in the dumbness we imbibe on a regular basis? What about the Zen Philosopher seeking enlightenment or the curious scientist who seeks to solve the world’s pressing problems? Needless to say both are doomed to die as well if we keep feeding them pointless information shovelled out by celeb watchers involving boob jobs gone wrong, leaked videos that chronicle a starlet’s sex life or torrid affairs that bit the dust.

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It is now more important than ever to embrace the inner geek and nerd we are capable of being rather than limit ourselves to being hopelessly enamoured of those who play geeks and nerds with such effusive charm on the Big Bang Theory. After all it is the clever ones among us who figure out ways to solve the problems that plague our planet and invent remarkable gadgets that make our lives so much easier.

Surely we would rather be the genius who figured out a simple, inexpensive, non – violent way to end poverty, racism, illiteracy and disease rather than the vacuous thing who devoted his/her life towards achieving a gym – ripped body that is the envy of pudgy neighbours, bathing in fairness creams so that someone says ‘Wow! You are too fair to be an Indian!’, buffing the body to a fine sheen without gross cellulite or stretchmarks, all so that a prefect Facebook profile pic which comes with a guarantee of 1000 likes might be clicked?

            If yes, it is time to make the effort to become a smart person who knows enough to discuss world politics, science, mathematics, philosophy and current events (excluding the shape of Kate Middleton’s abs post the baby) without aid from a smartphone. To do that it is time to read more sensible shit, eschew buying stuff that promises to get rid of the dusky skin you were born with, try and learn something that will make you a better person and less of a greedy, grasping moron and finally encourage cleverness in yourself as well as in others so that it may grow wings and fly us all away from the morass of stupidity in which we have gone and trapped ourselves.  

An edited version of this piece was carried by The New Indian Express.

The Need for A Balanced Diet Literally Speaking

A lot of folks ask me to recommend books for their children and look somewhat askance when I suggest letting the kids choose for themselves. “But I don’t want my underage child reading trash like 50 Shades of Smut!” they protest vociferously, “Are you saying that they should be allowed to get their hands on that sort of thing?”

            Not exactly. What I mean is that youngsters should be allowed to wander about in the aisles, inhale the delicious aroma of books, soak in the ambience of unlimited stories so that they may hone in on the tomes that speak to them. In the early stages, they may just go with a book because the cover is a virulent shade of their favourite colour with glitter to boot. But gradually they will learn to hearken to the call of the voracious reader within, attuned to the lure of the alluring opus that best meets their needs.

Parents in their enthusiasm to cultivate the burgeoning reading habit of their children tend to nudge them towards books that have educational or moral value which makes the experience feel like the literary equivalent of being force fed broccoli and spinach, thereby inculcating in kids a disdain for books and sending them back into the toxic embrace of television and ipads.

Any bibliophile will tell you that for sheer entertainment value, books are hard to beat. And as with any form of divertissement, tastes are wide – ranging and there is no accounting for it. Calvin and Hobbes is as likely to stimulate the intellect as Socrates or Plato and kids may be morally enriched by a perusal not only of Aesop’s Fables but Archie comics as well.

In the course of their literary wanderings, youngsters may want to wet their whistles in erotica and dip their beaks in novels written in blood with so much graphic gore, they make your standard Quentin Tarantino and Takashi Miike fare seem on par with Disney at its most cuddly. And I say let them. Why do we always assume the worst of our children? Today’s whippersnappers are smart and perfectly capable of making wise choices for themselves.

My father batted an eyelid but just barely when I opted for yet another instalment of Francine Pascal’s Sweet Valley series during our bookstore visits and much later, he might have winced when I informed him that Sade had taken up residence on my reading table. It is to his credit that he trusted me enough to believe that weird though my tastes were shaping up to be, the odds of my becoming a deranged serial killer were remote. Needless to say, his wisdom and forbearance paid off because to the best of my knowledge, I have not gone berserk, embarked on a mass – murdering spree or even done anything remotely illegal. Yet. 

An edited version of this was carried by The New Indian Express in my fortnightly column, For Crying Out Loud. 

FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

So here it is! My brand new fortnightly column for The New Indian Express. :)

CONGRATULATIONS PINTO FOR EM AND A BIG BOO TO US!

Renowned author, Jerry Pinto has bagged himself a biggie – Yale University’s $150,000 Windham – Campbell Prize for his ground-breaking debut novel, Em and the Big Hoom. An impressive feat which has the desi literary community applauding him on every social networking platform there is and rightfully so. It is always heartening to see home-grown talent celebrated on a global scale.

            Having nobly fought off waves of bitter envy that saw me angrily remonstrating with the powers that govern the universe, “Why God, why? This is so unfair… How come bloody Yale noticed Jerry Pinto and not me?” and so on, I moved on gracefully to read what the Windham – Campbell Prize winner had to say for himself.

            Pinto was magnanimous and humble in victory making it a point to stress that the prize was not the result of individual genius but “…many forces and factors that conspired in the most wonderful way to bring me here.” It has to be admitted that the man is really sweet in addition to being prodigiously talented and deserved the win.

            He goes on to say that the prize left him gobsmacked because, “When one writes literary fiction one knows it is not going to sell a tremendous amount…” Now that is a munch - worthy point and entirely heart-breaking, simply because it is the hard truth that paints a dismal picture of our country and its readers. Why is it that we have trouble celebrating or even identifying the best and brightest minds here?

            It is not as if this is the first time Pinto has received recognition for his work. Previously, he won the Hindu Literary Prize as well as the Crossword Book Award, but even so, it is highly unlikely that these translated into massive book sales and got him anything more than hearty backslapping in a limited circle whereas Salman Rushdie, Arundhati Roy, Aravind Adiga, Kiran Desai and the rest of the Booker Prize winning brigade command so much more respect here. Now my grouse is not with the aforementioned literary heavy weights who deserve all the plaudits they have won but the fact that we refuse to take anyone in any field barring cricket seriously unless they have been endorsed and feted by the West. It is scary that we are so accustomed to mediocrity that we no longer have what it takes to nurture brilliance.

            On the one hand we have critics dipping their quills in acid every time a certain universally reviled and envied bestselling author comes out with a novel because a sesquipedalian he is not and on the other, most authors with a penchant for polysyllabic propensity are told to dumb it down because the average ADHD afflicted Indian reader can’t be bothered with grandiloquent prose. Naturally this explains why Indian writing has been unable to find the sweet spot between readable swill and unreadable brilliance.

            It is to be hoped that Jerry Pinto’s big win will inspire reader and author alike to take it up a notch and be pursuers of literary excellence. On that note, here’s hoping the Pulitzer Prize Committee is smitten with my brilliant column otherwise the only people who are going to be enriched by its scintillating points are my editor and Dad! 

An edited version of this piece was published in TNIE and you can read it here.

                                 

POETIC PROMISE OF A LOST TALE

Book Review: Paul M.M Cooper’s River of Ink

Paul M.M Cooper’s River of Ink, is the tale of reluctant revolutionary – a poet who believes that poetry makes nothing happen. Asanka is the court poet of King Parakrama and was enjoying the high life when the ruthless Kalinga Magha, usurps the throne of Lanka, and sends his existence plummeting into a world of endless turmoil. Forced to accept the tyrant’s order to translate a Sanskrit text on Shishupal, into Tamil (a dubious decision, given the bloody history between the Tamils and Sinhalese which is scarcely touched upon) he discovers that words do have power and may just triumph where the sword has failed. 

It is a potent premise. Yet, it falls well shy of delivering the goods. Perhaps, it is because while Cooper is clearly earnest and sincere in his attempt to chronicle a slice of Sri Lankan history, his alien sensibility constantly jars in the otherwise colourful narrative he has almost brought to life.

For instance, it is hard to buy the typically thankless character of the wife, Madhusha who just refuses to be understanding while her husband is carrying on with a comely maid. She walks out on Asanka, helping herself to his money and leaving a curt note. I did not believe it for a second.

 Women of that era, used to the perks of a cushy life, did not usually go traipsing off into the surrounding war – torn country in a huff, like the feisty belles so admired in contemporary times with their husband’s money unless they had an especial desire to be gang – raped and murdered. Besides, Madhusha was a country mouse with no taste for life in the capital city of Polonnaruwa. It seems highly unlikely that she would know how to write.

Kalinga Magha is equally problematic since the author seems keen to portray him as a savage with a poet’s soul. A Genghis Khan meets Oscar Wilde if you will. When he is not lopping off heads, gouging out eyes, and supressing rebels with an iron fist, the tyrant is keen on promoting his brand of art and indulging his appetite for pretty young things. Which is why it hardly makes sense that he would want to marry the lowly maid sans the maidenhood, the very same one, Asanka is so passionately in love with, instead of ordering her into his bed. This sort of thing makes it all seem hopelessly contrived.

Cooper has clearly done some research but in the chapter on Yudhisthira, there is an error. It is written that the grand horse sacrifice was conducted after twelve years spent in exile, the unhappy result of a lost game of dice to the trickster, Shakuni. In Vyasa’s epic though, the Pandavas went into hiding after Duryodhana’s attempt to burn them alive at Varanavata. The horse sacrifice is performed only after the Pandavas are spotted at Draupadi’s swayamvara and given five small villages to start afresh. The infamous game of dice and exile came after.

In this fashion, The River of Ink, meanders on along its improbable course while clumsily setting up a twist that the discerning reader can follow through to its conclusion, almost at the moment of its introduction. A valiant if disappointing effort from Cooper. 

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express which you can read here.

Book Review: Orhan Pamuk's "A Strangeness in my Mind"

It must be confessed that following a laboured perusal of Pamuk’s The Black Book and The Museum of Innocence, this reviewer was forced to conclude that the Noble Laureate’s prose was self – indulgent, lugubrious and tedious in the extreme, which leaves one bored to tears and balked at the prospect of wading through nearly 600 pages of his latest novel. Happily, though, Orhan Pamuk is one of the few authors who evolve and churn out their best stuff, after getting over themselves and the fact that they were heavily feted relatively early in their careers. His writing is more beautiful than ever and no longer sterile but infused with warmth, wit and gentle pathos.

A Strangeness in my Mind is a marvel of storytelling that traverses through forty years of history as it chronicles the life of a lowly street vendor, Mevlut Karatas of the boyish good looks and sweet disposition. Born in a tiny village in rural Anatolia, he migrates with his father to Istanbul at the age of 12 and finds himself grappling with a succession of failures as he struggles with schooling, political activism, a stint in the army, and petty business ventures that include peddling yoghurt, boza, ice cream, cooked rice and chicken, managing a small café and a turn as the Junior inspector for an electric company. The highlight of Mevlut’s early days included stalking an attractive stranger and endless stolen moments devoted solely to masturbation.

At his cousin Korkut’wedding, Mevlut falls madly in love with the bride’s exquisite 13 – year old sister. For the next three years, he pours his passion into painstakingly compiled letters addressed to her “languid eyes” which are like “ensorcelled arrows” and “bandits cutting across his path” plus similarly hilarious fare. His cousin Suleymen, volunteers to bring the lovers together and tricks Mevlut into eloping with Rayiha, the less attractive older sister of the object of his desire, to whom the letters had been delivered. A bemused Mevlut deals with this turn of affairs with the doggedness and acceptance that is so characteristic of him.

Every one of his relatives and friends go on to amass riches spurred on by the burgeoning prosperity of Istanbul forced into being by the political corruption as well as private greed of its citizens. Obstinately honest, success continues to elude him and yet he is the only one who seems to have unlocked the doorway to true happiness for it is his life which is graced with convivial bliss, cherished familial ties, fulfilment and inner tranquillity even as he remains mired in poverty.

Throughout the major upheavals in the capital and the myriad changes in his personal life, Mevlut sells boza, “a traditional Asian beverage made of fermented wheat, with a thick consistency, a pleasant aroma, a dark, yellowish colour, and low alcohol content” by night. It has been supplanted by raki in traditional Turkish homes, but people still buy a glass induced by nostalgia and the emotion in Mevlut’s voice as he meanders through the streets of the city which he realizes has become an extension of the light and darkness in his own mind.

This is by far Orhan Pamuk’s most joyous novel though conflict and tragedy there is aplenty from political coups, violence between the Turks and Kurds, murder of a dear friend and a primitive abortion attempt that claims a life. Through it all Mevlut taps into his indomitable optimism and “his knack for finding the easiest and least distressing way through any situation.” His saga unfolds in the third person though a host of characters intervene to make sure their voices are heard as well, imbuing the reader with the profound love, wonder and pride they feel for their Turkish identity and the city of Istanbul that threw open its arms and drew them into its bosom.

An edited version of this review appeared in the New Indian Express which you can read here.

Book Review: Karen Campbell's RISE

Scottish police – officer turned novelist, Karen Campbell’s Rise opens with the protagonist, Justine on the run from her psychopathic pimp/lover, Charlie Boy, with a big chunk of his money stuffed down her pants. It is a cracking opener, packed with tension and evocative detail. Shortly after, Justine blunders into Kilmacarra and straight into the heart of domestic turmoil and political unrest.

Campbell is a talented writer with a gift for creating characters that are honest, flawed and likeable. Justine witnesses a hit and run and she is sucked into the troubled marriage of the Andersons, whose elder son is the victim, when she is roped in to babysit their younger son, Ross having passed herself off as a certified nanny. Thanks to the peculiar circumstances in which she finds herself, Justine is in a place where she can either be the guardian angel who delivers them from evil or a satanic figure who is the harbinger of doom.

The drama plays out very well set as it is in the 2014 campaign for Scottish Independence and is chock full of narrative tension and emotional high notes. Till the bitter end, Hannah Anderson is convinced, Justine is nothing but trouble, come to tear her family apart. She and her husband, Michael have a typically troubled marriage. He is a former clergyman who currently serves as the local councillor. She is the writer who cuckolded him. They have two young sons and the duo are trying desperately to put together the pieces of their marriage not suspecting that the upheaval in their lives has only just begun.

Michael is being pestered by a ghost and Campbell lifts this conceit out of the morass of all things ludicrous with consummate skill and pathos. For instance when he finds out about his wife’s infidelity, he winds up swallowing his outrage: “Her grief melting him. Making him take his own and fold it smaller and smaller until he could tell himself that it was unimportant. Selfish even.”

 A particularly poignant theme in Rise, involves the tendency of overprotective parents and caregivers both to encumber their charges with the baggage from their lives, thereby inadvertently putting them in harm’s way. Little Ross is a child who has the love of his parents and Justine both, yet he is the one who is pummelled when the parents are fighting tooth and nail and it is his life which is endangered when retribution catches up with Justine. His plight is moving, heart – stopping and entirely hopeful.

Charlie Boy is a terrifying antagonist and seems to have been modelled along the lines of a rabid dog – all infected fury and savage brutality: “If he finds her…if he starts kicking, he won’t be able to stop.” His presence in the course of the narrative is fleeting and yet, packs a wallop in terms of sheer, unadulterated menace.

However, despite the fact that Rise has so much that works in its favour it fails to really soar, especially after the glorious opening and engaging middle portions. Inexplicably running out of steam, it sputters weakly over the finish line. The plotlines are resolved with varying degrees of success but it is all rather disappointingly pat. This, despite the fact that Campbell rises above literary cliché and refuses to settle for easy solutions.

Rise can be counted on to get a rise, all the way to the fag end, when it falters and leaves the reader, inexplicably deflated and unsatisfied. 
This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express and can be seen here.

FIRST REVIEWS OUT FOR SHAKTI: THE DIVINE FEMININE AND THE CRITICS ARE RAVING!

According to Vikas Dutta's review of SHAKTI: The Divine Feminine for IANS, "Old beliefs can however be surprisingly resilient and find a gifted storyteller to re-emerge before us - in this case, Chandramouli, who has earlier profiled the best-known of the Pandavas and the Hindu god of love, uses her imagination and a rare sensibility to spin a gently-provocative but more importantly, a considerably thought-provoking account of Shakti, and her manifestations as Usas, Durga and Kali." 
The piece has been carried by The New Indian Express, Business Standard, The Statesman etc. You can read it here.


 Supriya Sharma of ‪#‎TheNewIndianExpress‬ says of my Shakti: The Divine Feminine, "The author’s interpretation of Shakti as a spunky Goddess, her depiction of the damage done by patriarchy and puritanical morality to both men and women makes for a delightfully stimulative read." Do check out the rest of the review here.