The Assassin's Song by M.G. Vassanji

Started the book in 2009. Started again in September 2010 and read it in a week.

I opened the book, read the first chapter and put it away for a year. The last time I read a book to know more about an Indian community, it turned out to be more banal than most, so maybe I was rightfully wary. This Gujarati father-son saga seemed intensely familiar in an uninteresting way.

My father was in the Indian Armed Forces, so we roamed the country as a family, returning every summer to our ancestral village for Vedic discourses in Tamil, comparative Greek and Indian mythology crammers, and visits to a temple where we believed, a stone was growing into an idol of Ganesha. By the age of twelve I had been in twelve schools scattered in different parts of India. I high schooled in Delhi, studied Engineering from Madras, Management in Calcutta, and had worked in Bombay before they became Dilli and Chennai, Kolkata and Mumbai. My husband’s family suffered in the 1947 partition of India, and that opened a window to another ethos. What more did I need to know, of my land and her contradictions, I must have felt, as I put ‘The Assassin’s Song’ back on my groaning shelf of unread tomes.

How wrong I was!

This book concerns Nur Karsan, first-born son of the Saheb of Pirbaag in Gujarat. Karsan has absorbed much of his father and Pirbaag’s philosophy, which is neither Hindu nor Moslem but a seamless blend of Sufi, Shia and Vedic tenets. He understands and accepts the cult of the Pir Bawa, the central figure of Pirbaag and a thirteenth century mystic refugee from the war-torn lands of the north. But Karsan has no desire to be the guardian of this medieval saint’s spiritual legacy, leave alone become his corporeal stand-in, an avatar like his father. The reluctant heir apparent flees west to America.

Karsan’s story is told in the aftermath of the horrific communal violence that shook Gujarat in 2002. Pirbaag has been destroyed and the Saheb murdered, when at last the prodigal son returns. Despite his earlier repudiation and revolt and his current misgivings, he attempts a rebuilding. He begins a research paper on Pir Bawa and in doing so, delves into his own experience. As the story unfolds, every historical context is examined - from Khilji’s sack of Patan to the callous conduct of the Modi administration, from Hindutva to orthodox Islam, to Sufi mysticism, to amalgams that indeed exist across North India defying attempts at classification, from Mahatma Gandhi to Mohammed Ali Jinnah, from Partition to War. We are thus provided an enormous backdrop not only for Karsan’s journey, but that of the entire people of Gujarat.

Vassanji does not flinch from looking at both sides of any question; at the same time he charges his treatment of personal tragedy with a tender humanity. Through presenting events as experience, he shows to us clearly, how the past shapes the present, and how this affects the individual. It is remarkable too, that the author has made the story of a small-town boy growing up in newly Independent India, his own. In an era where autobiography masquerades as serious fiction, this is great fiction.

The introduction of characters adhering to diverse faiths is rather contrived but it does not jar (curiously there is no Jain character; Jainism is a major religion of Gujarat whose fundamental doctrine of Anekantavada moreover, contains the notion that no single viewpoint is the complete truth). Quibble-wise, I wished elsewhere that the author had been more imaginative in building up to the present vacuum in Karsan’s Canadian way of life, instead of resorting to an obvious plot device that makes for an uneven narrative.

Written in calm prose, abounding in many descriptions of incense-filled musical mornings or balmy moonlit nights, the story nevertheless has a breathless “what next?” quality to it. And the answers are always satisfactory. Vassanji delivers a terrific end, although it’s done too quickly, almost like a dramatic denouement which sits ill with the otherwise wistful, contemplative tone of the novel. But the abiding impression is of a great work, a compassionate and thoughtful response to devastating events.

Akhenaten by Naguib Mahfouz

Read in March 2010.

Akhenaten, Pharaoh of Egypt, husband of the fabled Nefertiti, questioned the polytheistic beliefs of his people, proposing instead, the worship of a single God.

Nobel laureate Mahfouz’s eponymous novel is set in Akhenaten's Egypt, a few years after his passing. Queen Nefertiti is still living out her remaining years in (presumably bitter) isolation, when a young man with a passion for truth attempts to puzzle out the enigma of the now discredited Akhenaten. Armed with introductions to the Egyptian elite, he conducts a series of interviews, which form the book.

Mahfouz, who hails from Egypt, is regarded as one of the first writers of contemporary Arabic literature. In this novel he has used a piece of ancient Egyptian history to illustrate the vilification of new thinkers by the orthodox establishment in any culture. Indeed Akhenaten’s spiritual journey, shown by his move to monotheism and an incipient rejection of idolatry seems to be towards the modern Arabic-Islamic ideal. The irony of his beliefs being termed not only heretical but also somehow awful will not be lost on a reader. On the surface, we could sympathize with the man who suffered for his faith. But by rendering the book through the very men who brought him down, the author introduces another element. Mahfouz, it seems, would set us on the path of religious tolerance by placing the all too recognizable language of dogma and power in the mouths and hands of a different and antagonistic orthodoxy.

Unfortunately, the brilliance is all in the construct. The book reads like a dry government report and offers no insights. In fact even the development of Nefertiti as yet another figure worthy of investigation is uninspired. I wondered if the fact that I belong to a pantheistic religion made me unsympathetic! And I was not comfortable with the literary license that has been taken with the history.

The sub-text of tolerance on the other hand is never lost on the reader, so many times are we bludgeoned by it. But as a device to make you want to know more about Ancient Egypt, it succeeds.

Never Let me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

This was my first Ishiguro, and I read it in four hours flat (one sitting- one short haul flight). It is a fast paced read. Without presuming to be a thriller, the book has an edge of the seat quality to it, and the sadness that permeates the book is too genuine to ignore.

The story is told by Kathy H a ‘donor’ who has been cloned along with hundreds of others for a purpose- to first care for similarly cloned donors, and then to donate their organs one by one, until they die or ‘complete’ (their life purpose). The narrative skips from our protagonist’s reminiscences of Hailsham- an exclusive boarding school that she attended- and her latter day experience of the world. These reminiscences are in the form of stories that go back and forth, spinning a web of nostalgia, and quite easily taking us into its awful centre. The stories centre around Kathy and two close friends- Ruth the willful, frightened girl who would much rather pretend the horror of their existence away and Tommy who struggles through his short life to keep his rage and outrage at bay. Kathy is the civilized pragmatist, and so far the survivor.

The premise is fantastic. The idea of liberally and wonderfully educated people subscribing to this dreadful design is hard to swallow. It would work if the school were a conditioning ground, or if the victims were brutalized into accepting their situation. This has happened through history. And it is not fair to the victims to question their subservience to apparently intolerable and sometimes incredible systems. But there is no indoctrination in Hailsham. The teachers are wonderful and love their pupils, the children are exposed to arts and humanities and science and have hopefully read about fascism and slavery. Yet, as a group they never question the system- even in order to achieve regular little desires like going to college or marrying a sweetheart. David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas offers a more convincing explanation for this sort of unforced and unquestioned subservience. The clone-types in Mitchell’s future scenario are more humanoid than human, and drugged into accepting their state.

This seeming inconsistency continued to irritate me. As I tried to understand it, I picked up Ishiguro’s Booker winner- “The Remains of the Day”. The book concerns itself with an all too human butler of a ‘good man’ misguided enough to back Hitler. Heartbreaking as this story of a perfect English butler is, what was interesting to me was the parallel with NLG. The menacing overhang of a fascist system is palpable in both novels. For what else would you call a society that has a violent peace? Make soap out of bones, make people out of organs- it is systematic atrocity and narcosis that characterizes fascism.

A glimmer of understanding appeared through the clouds of confusion! Hesitatingly I propose that Ishiguro is deeply affected by the Second World War. I posit that he has tried to marry man’s day to day human experience with his brutal history. ‘Never Let Me Go’ talks of the working of an awful system through entirely plausible and comprehensible persons. The difference is that ‘Never Let Me Go’ is an elegy to the victims of oppression. ‘Remains of the Day’ tries and gets inside the head of normal, decent people who were part of the oppressing class. Is he fixated on Fascism in particular? I believe so, especially if you connect it up with Ishiguro’s own history of moving from Japan and growing up in post-war Britain.

Beloved by Toni Morrison

A post-bellum black settlement in the outskirts of Cincinnati: Sethe, a lone proud woman lives in house 124, with her withdrawn daughter Denver and the ghost of her murdered third child. Until Paul D turns up- another survivor of the Kentucky homestead across the river, the slave plantation from hell that Sethe escaped but is never free from. Paul D takes up with Sethe and drives away the ghost, upsetting Denver. But a semblance of normalcy and Paul D’s good humor are a powerful attraction; a thaw is coming. At this point a girl appears in Sethe’s yard calling herself “Beloved.” Sethe’s Beloved, adored by Denver, tormentor of Paul D.

This is the stunning setting for this complex novel that traverses time for each of its characters enabling them to ‘rememory’ what they have ‘disremembered’ in order to survive. And in as much as it reviles that most abominable of institutions and through its characters indicts an entire race, there is very little that is sensational. Terrible experiences, the heart breaking fates of those that could not make it, are rendered mainly through a quick telling or a reference, or a sad wondering. What Morrison achieves is focus on the aftermath. Who is Beloved? It is the name engraved on the baby’s gravestone. Is she the ghost returned with redoubled vigor? Or is she a child-woman, a victim of the Middle Passage and worse, who has mistaken Sethe for her dead mother? Does Beloved stand for all victims of slavery in America? Is she an allegory for the institution itself?

I posit that the institution and her architects the slavers, brutalized a population to the point where they had to kill the child inside them to stay alive. They are now haunted by the presence of this loss- the loss of innocence, hope and happiness. This loss of their childhood and the capacity to be-loved is Beloved. She is as old as the first rape in the first passage of slaves across the Atlantic. Beloved is the ghost of excised humanity; she is angry and greedy to come back. But you cannot embrace her- she is not a child, she is her ghost, an ‘absence’. She will alienate her people and she will not allow them to pursue happiness for she is vengeful.

If Sethe represents the damaged past of a people- her back is a tree- Paul D can be seen as the optimistic side of his people. He lives in the here and now and has survived through practicing detachment. But he too is a prisoner of the past. He has survived in fact by refusing to revisit his past and is quite helpless before the seductive force of Beloved. His tightly locked up fund of bitterness and sorrow is soon pried open and he has no choice but to fly.

Denver as the undamaged future should be less vulnerable, but having grown up alone in a haunted house she knows no-one else. For her, Beloved is initially exciting and attractive but ultimately isolating and weakening. However, being undamaged, she has the resources and the power to resist the influence of this most heart rending of metaphors. With the help of the community she avoids self-destruction.

Beloved is a book of redemption that looks to the younger generation, the larger community and significantly women to heal an unspeakable wound. I found the book traumatic and therapeutic. And the staggering novel craft! The coinage of new words, the knotted narrative woven through with countless,seamless strands of story and allegory that move this way and that, glint this way and that, to produce an enchantment that is truly the work of genius. We could only marvel at it, analysis was beyond us.

We introspected and thought of what it would have taken to implement the Varna system in Aryan India.

As the unrecorded history of a subjugated people we agreed it was invaluable.

Devumma

Devu,
Devaki
Devumma
You were angry 'most always
And liked holding sway
Funny too,
Malice ne’er far away
But when you acted
You were entirely collected
Sophisticated
When it got complicated
When you supported
There was none to top you
But your moods fluctuated
Your moods fluctuated.

Humiliation
On occasion,
Characterised your
Childhood condition.
But anxiety,
Or Insecurity,
Caused no depression
Of a constant variety;
Mixing instead
Killer instincts,
In a wicked deportment;
Adaptability,
And generosity,
To an intelligent
Disposition.

You lied and you spied
But never traumatised
Those you victimised.
This is no surprise-
A steely saint
Was your mother
Your backbone was hers
My dear grandmother.

Witty’n gregarious
Mischievous, vicious
But not pitiless.
As a concoction
Totally delicious

You learned from mistakes
Forsake superstition
Admired your enemy
Channelled your envy.
Prickly and proud
Yet never removed,
You were interesting.
Most interesting.
You had a reprieve
(Of a partial description)
When you did marry
This other institution
Of which elsewhere
Let’s come back
This is for you
This narration

You traded up.
Angst for worries,
Casual treatment
For self-suppression.
Yet your competence
Ensured your promotion
Joys of motherhood a
Full deliverance.

You took a ride
On a roller Coaster
Quietly triumphant
On your advancements
Silently fearful
Of your setbacks
Faith and belief
An obsessive compulsion
A by product of
Tumultuous existence.
Were these the demons that drove you?
What was the spirit that buoyed you?

Tripped by disease
Time and again
Pox, Hansen, Sugar
You did contain
Friedrich however,
Couldn’t be restrained
A child’s life blighted
I think broke you.
Yet you did not cave in
You never clung to
Fiercely independent
Hyper you became
You were manic
Manic

Of course I don’t know
You told me some
I guess the rest
But this I aver
You were aspirational
Sometimes inspirational
Cruel but fun
Embarrassing mum
A Cool grandmom
My grandmom

Dumbslog Luminaire

I was alright with the movie except that I felt it would have been better if it had been made in Hindi and by Bollywood. Otherwise no complaints really. It is escapist fare that manages to convert horror to entertainment. Par for the course.

I think the single most horrific scene is the blinding one. At least it would have been traumatic for most people who grew up in India. I am not sure if children are actually maimed by beggar gangs but I was assured that this was the case through my growing up years. In a country that has exposes on everything from poll rigging to human trafficking to corruption in high places, how does something like the deliberate blinding of a child never make news. Are beggar gangs part of a powerful mafia that has effectively muzzled a nation- leaving aside a few novelists and film-makers?

I find it hard to believe that breaking limbs can translate to good economics for anybody. The explanation for the droves of miserable beggars in India maybe lies in the fact that this is a huge population with zero social security. With large scale migration to cities, the old family-clan-caste support framework has also been eroding. Someone sufficiently below the poverty line and very physically unfit will be left to fend for themselves. Childhood cataracts, accidents, polio- think of the number of such cases in a population of 300 million. These people will in all likelihood subsist on charity and band together and maybe there are gangs that get into the business of organising them and sending them out to beg.

Please God let this be the explanation for the legless beggar who sits stoned at Bandra station, mouthing softly the worst of curses at the auto line wallahs as he holds out his grimy cupped hand. Let him be someone who fell off a train and lost his leg and now spends his days in a heroin high rather than...god I don't know what I ask for, forgive me.

Lets get back to Slumdog. I wish it had been made in Hindi with English accents rather than the other way round for that would have reflected reality. The teenage Salim and Jamal speak like South Bombay convent boys and that really took away from what could have been a gritty and witty punch in the solar plexus. Then again the grown up Jamal is so cute and cool. And his English! It is not just in England that we can place a person by the way he speaks that language. Most foreign educated boys from excellent Indian families will make an effort to mask their 'accents' in India, so they do not stand out. Jamal comes across like that kind of elite but not elitist boy. Chaiwallah-no!

Which brings us to the character of Anil Kapoor. Why would a TV presenter so crassly put down a young fresh faced kid who most of his audience is rooting for? I have seen Amitabh Bachchan unbending to barbers from Bombay and teachers from Delhi. And the audience snickering whenever AK sneers Chaiwallah is quite unbelievable.

I wish the movie makers had developed the plot (a very good one, to give Mr. Swarup his due) better. For starters let Jamal's character have been someone more credible and less saleable. A more hard-bitten face with harsher lines would have worked better in increasing our wonder at his knowing the answers and explained the presenter's skepticism. And then we could have seen that Jamal's cockiness (are you nervous?) was getting under the presenter's skin. The movie could have shown better how the anchor's attitude changes from benevolent to patronising to doubtful to skeptical to angry to rancorous.

Anyway all this is likely to have been lost on an international audience. How would it matter if the constable spoke Bambaiyya or no, or if Salim looked more in character than Jamal? Maybe the outlandish effects (shit covered kid), corny cracks (Mumtaz Mahal dying en route to the hospital to have a baby), a shocker (spooning the eyes out) and good music is enough.