In The Mirror

                               BOOK REVIEW: A Whole Summer Long By  Aditi Krishnakumar

Much before the emergence of the new era of Indian writing – there was a person who undoubtedly was the uncrowned Empress of Indian paperback industry. Shobhaa De. The passion she showed in her novels is unparallel and unseen long. And, they were not books merely to be read rashly during a journey, but the taste could have been cherished long after.  But later, precisely after 2004, the rash-read genre books meant for Wheelers overcrowded the shelves.

A Whole Summer Long 

Far from being in the genre of De’s and neither in the 100 bucks, Aditi, in her debut novel attempted a mint-fresh genre of her own. Not market-driven, she has honestly tried to cater the long-starved intellect minds of India.  Based on the backdrop of a Tamil Brahmin family, “A Whole Summer Long” revolves around newlywed Sowmya. The plot is simple. The character sketching is excellent.

But what steals the show is the intrinsic humor in the whole story. Be it in the dialogues or narratives, the writer intelligently mixed humor of class. The humor never went down as slapstic. It was inherent throughout.

Very true the course she is pursuing – the writer is in love with English Literature.  The sentence construction is excellent. The vocabulary she used is apt. the character introduction and carrying is perfect. And, not in a single place she faltered with the technicalities of writing a story. And, this deserves kudos.

A special mention required for the naming of the chapters. Most of the names are taken from the creations of John Keats. She has rightfully matched the contents and the names of the chapters.

The story has a pace of its own. It starts slowly but refreshingly. The characters took time to evolve. But, as the plot progresses, the pace borders on the verge of becoming slow. Though it does not literally test the patience, given the plush humor associated, it traverses on the line of “boredom”.

Most of the dialogues, conversations and narratives are allegoric and dramatic. The characters throughout speak in an unworldly dramatic manner. Though it brings humor but it distances the characters from being known. And, also, fails to capture the right emotions at times. The style, though unique, was unable to create a gripping momentum.

But, it is excellent as a debut attempt. The detailing of the narratives and character sketching is awesome. The mood maintained throughout the book is perfect. 

The book in all gives a pleasure. It touches the sensibilities and humor with a class apart. And this brings the hope of many new possibilities. May be from the same author. May be from others who refrained of taking this risk on debut.

Book Review

                  14th Feb: A Love Story

“Absence does to love what wind does to fire; it blows out the weaker ones and rekindles the deeper ones”. 14^th February: A Love Story justifies this well-known saying in portraying the life of a person who identifies his true love after going through a phase of distress and disappointment.

The title “14^th February: A Love Story” sets the tone for an intriguing love story. The protagonist of this story is the only son of a middle-class family based in Chennai. He is studious and intelligent and is living a dream life, topping his board examinations, studying at IIT and getting to the magical paradise of America for a bright future.

14Th Feb: A Love Story

The only thing that has eluded him in this journey is true love, for which he craves for. And when he thinks he has met the woman of his dreams and has got everything in life, his world collapses, as he is condemned as an introvert, predictable and a boring guy and his partner leaves him. This incident changes his life forever and becomes depressed. Consequently he heads back to his hometown leaving behind his dreamland making him realize the tough realities of life. Now having returned from USA he finds himself mercilessly condemned and ridiculed by his fellowmen. The mentality of the commoners pushes him into further depression and becomes a recluse.

Here comes the final twist in the tale, when the utterly distressed, betrayed guy finds an angel appearing in his life. Her arrival slowly transforms him and provides him with new vigor in leading a new life. He falls in love with her on Valentine’s Day, as he waits for his angel; he realizes the value of this true love, the love that will last forever.

The author has sensibly staged the plot on the backdrop of hard realities of life. The theme of love has been expertly dealt with various incidents including separations and union. His coming back to India makes the story a bit predictable. Also the lack of pace is quite clearly evident in the opening half of the story when the narrator is going through his childhood days. It gains pace only when the story reaches its climax. But the string of events somewhat brings a compactness about the story.

Whatever, the story bears a feel good factor which prevails right from the beginning till the end and soothes the mind of the reader like any other love story does.

                                                                                                                                     

                                                                                                           Argha Ghosh 

The review is published from the diary of an young avid reader. He has taken the pleasure of reviewing this lovely book. :)

In The Mirror

                      BOOK REVIEW : Mom and I Love a Terrotist by Leema Dhar

Starting from the year 2004 – the year when Indian paperback industry was finally out of the ICU holding the strong hands of Mr. Bhagat, it has long 8 years. And, the number of shelves at the bookstores containing Indian writing has been exponentially increasing. The curve showing the growth in sales is ticking up steeply. But, the ‘literary’ minds have been complaining since long. They complain about presence and absence of two very things in every new-era Indian writers. The presence is of ‘redundancy’ and absence is of ‘maturity’. And, the generalization went such an extent that a new Indian author book drove a sigh “one more IIM ?.. huh!!”

And, when the severity of the issue was gaining ground – a chunk of young authors came as saviors. If I am not too wrong, Leema is the youngest among all.

The story revolves around a girl and her single mom on the picturesque island of Andamans. The story peeps through the eerie juncture of teenage and maturity. The moment-of-truth when the peppy-flashy world crushes down to the harsh-grey reality.  The moment when a tender mind is bereft to depression by the gore realism.  And, the realism is symbolically presented in the black stranger. The extremity of darkness in real world can be compared to the throttling shock a delicate mind undergoes when it witnesses a stranger sharing her mom’s bed. And, then turning the pages of her dear mother’s uncanny past. The book is a journey through the nook and corner of a teenage psyche.

The author very sensibly staged the plot on the back-drop of a real massacre. The issue of extremist movement has been dealt with care and sensibility.  The struggle and the sacrifice for the proletariats are very loosely touched upon. Though, the main plot is miles away from this issue, the story through the eyes of her mother could have delved deep a bit more on this. It could have signified and justified her sacrifice and pride in a broader sense.

Mom and I love a Terrorist by Leema Dhar

The story has a sweet pace of its own. The characters evolve slowly through the plot in a definite manner. But the subplots seem to be blatant and dull compared to the main plot. The college friends of the protagonist are seen-them-before sort of. Which college movie missed a playboy hunk, a slutty expose-it-all girl or a possessive friend? – All of them have got it. And, the characters seem too loud and out of place for a matured plot like this.

The boat-maker for whom the protagonist fell for is introduced in a fantastic way. He was tall, dark, well-built with a mystic aura. But, on the course - he has been over-mystified. The character remained obscured for long. A letter to part-away is romantic in true sense. But, it was prevalent mostly in the black-and-white movies of the early 60s. And, this behavior from a matured guy – is like a stone to digest.  Though the author has endorsed platonic love throughout , the creation of bond between the protagonist and her lover remains half-baked.

The epilogue touching all lives in the story briefing their where-abouts is really fine. Finally, it is a brave attempt from the pen of a young writer. And, the maturity shown in unfolding the mystery keeping the thrill intact and touching upon romance of relationship and nature is done with sheer mastery and deserve kudos.

 Whatever, the show-stealer is the island of Andamans . The thrashing of cold-waves on the shore- the distant lights blinking in the sea – the cool breeze – is bound to fill your mind with utter tenderness and glee of teenage nostalgia.

Happy Bard-Day !!!

25she Boishakh. 25^th Boishakh. Boishakh, for the uninitiated, is a Bengali month. According to the Bengali calendar, it is yet another day that demands a toast. It is one of those days in Bengal that adorns the “Holidays” section in our planner. It is the birthday of the great Bard, Rabindranath Tagore.

My sepia-soaked childhood days still remember this particular day for some piquant reasons. One among them was the yearly dusting of the life-size portrait of Tagore on the eve of 25shey Boishakh.

Second would undoubtedly be the annual sun-bath of His entire works. The silverfish, at the first exposure to Sun, would scurry off to cooler shades. Ah the innocence of yester –years. Whatever!!

But then, the irony of these B&W days lay in the significance they pose in today’s context.

With time, Tagore has become more of a symbolic yardstick of cultural inheritance and fist-fight. The celebration is just a show of might to prove the cultural stronghold over the Bard.

Reminds me of the 26^th January or 15^th August parades where the objective is pretty much the same. The audience just becomes global in the latter case. Charades!!

The tapestry of images woven in my mind regarding those dusting of the portrait or the sun-bath given to the volumes still continue to be a part of an extended heritage throughout Bengali households. Even to this day. As if handed down by generations to their successors.

So does in our State too. The “Tagores”, all around the city, will be provided with a garland apiece today. To be worn till next birthday. Conditions applied. The bird-poops will be removed; kids will dance, rhyme and sing aloud His poems and songs. Storms will be raised in tea-cups regarding the political inclination of Rabindranath and suicide notes of Kadambari Devi; but for 25she Boishakh only. Like the NI Act-enforced holiday.

We have successfully managed to lock the “Bard” at traffic signals – his songs playing out every 5 minutes. Insignificant to the inherent meaning of the song scheduled. Nonchalant to the particular mood of that particular scheduled song. Reminds me of Gramsci’s “cultural hedgemony”.

And, history shows us that we have successfully managed to commodify our heroes so far – Che Guevara to Eddie Guerrero.

We should be proud and thankful that Tagore is not on Gucci’s premium-range underwear as yet.

Let the rigmarole continue. Let us all join the circus where Che will smile from a T-Shirt, Steve Jobs will stare out of the ceiling, Jesus will keep giving us false hopes and Bob Marley will keep teaching us the good effects of grass.

Let us not keep the Tagore alive in all of us.

Though we remember the Dead at least once a year. Anyways …

What’s the point in going to the Bard’s house on this day? Place flowers? Stare at the Gitanjali instead. Consider it to be his epitaph i.e.

Let His creations be his grave. Let Him sleep peacefully.

And if we manage to keep doing this inane trapeze play with Tagore, one day, there will be no flowers to place on His grave. It will only be complacent, ignorant and vainglorious us who will have Tagore as a relic and a mere relic only.

BTW, I chose this day to publish this post only to remind all and sundry a point. That we need not pay gratitude to a son of the soil only on his / her birth or death anniversary. One needs to carry that respect within in order to pay respect. Period.

In The Mirror

                                BOOK REVIEW : I 'm Heartless - a Real Confession

Confessions are always intriguing. And, when it comes in a paperback with a bold-lettered title of “I am Heartless” – it is sure to grab attention. Moreover, the graphic cover design and an attractive intro at the back-cover of the book are provoking enough to give it a try.

There is an eerie feeling about the very term “confession”. It comes with a heavy baggage of expectation of witnessing some dark allies of human behavior or emotions – a sly wish of peeping at one’s nasty secret. Added to that, George Clooney in his “Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (2002)” gave another dimension altogether with voyeurism. And, the debutant author chose to trod this rare path – much away from mushy campus romances.

I 'm Heartless By Vinit K. Bansal

The plot here revolves around Viren – the protagonist. In “Confessions of a Dangerous Mind”, Chuck Barris(the main character of the movie) was torn between the woman who loved him and the woman of his fantasy. In the very first few pages, precisely after the prologue, the author has introduced us to Pari, the girl of Viren’s ultimate fantasy. And, the fantasy got shape in his post-grad days in form of Rashi. And, now began the age-long mockery of “very-good-friends” by Rashi and hapless effort of Viren. And then, there is realization and an attempt of self imposed seclusion. Enter Manasi, the good old friend and the life began once again. Same old filmy melodrama?  Naah !! It’s only the half! The author made an attempt to explore the extremities of being a loser. The protagonist is a tragic hero who realizes his loss when it is already lost. The last chapter justifies the tagline “A Real Confession”. It ogles out the dark emotions and portrays the curvature of human psyche in a state of ultimate repentance and frustration. It painfully personifies the grey shades of human emotions – a conflict of sadness, contempt, regret, shame and guilt.

Vinit K Bansal has done a decent job in his debut novel. The character sketching of Viren is excellent and deserves accolade. The constant eccentricity of the egoistic character is captured in a fantastic way. In the first few chapters, when the character was building up, the author gave a glimpse of the campus life through a few subplots. The characters as Max, Sunny are very real and you will definitely bump upon them on a single campus visit. But the two main subplots revolving around Freddy and Max are too weak and half-baked. A bit more tightening of the sub-plots could have helped the characterization itself and supported the plot on the whole.And, unintended pregnancy is unnecessarily tabooed all-over. Even, the character of Rashi(read Pari) faded suddenly. How can the author who has the potential to create Viren with all dedication can be so abrupt in creating his Pari. 

The book definitely stands out of the crowd of Indian fictions that revolves mostly around candid college romance. And, Viren definitely stands out as a character – a loser in love.

The character reminded me of a Bengali master story-teller Mr. Sharat Chandra Chattopadhyay. He in one of his novels wrote at the end note as “Please, spare a single drop of tear for him”. The “him” here refers to as a character that created history in Indian cinema – Devdas. Be it through Dilip Kumar,Shah Rukh Khan or Abhay Deol, Devdas was successful in justifying the end note of his creator.

Perhaps, Vinit could have quoted the same line here at the end.

From the Crow's Nest

                               



                   


 

        The Age of Perversion ...

“Boss, ek packet condom dena!!”…thus speaks the main protagonist of a recent Bengali movie in one of the scenes … and the hall erupts in wolf-whistles, claps and catcalls... and The Perversion Age has arrived finally. Within the very radius of our drawing rooms, from the point where the Idiot Box aka TV is placed, forms the epicenter of moral and psychological corruption.

We thus find ourselves in 3 types of perversion in this present time-space. Cultural, Technological and Political.

A backtrack in time would be required to find the source of this corruption, of this inner rot. ‘60s? ‘70s? ‘80s? 2K?

A backtrack in history would be required to find the source of this corruption, of this inner rot. Marilyn Monroe? Pamela Anderson? Madonna? Hugh Hefner? Richard Branson? Mark Zuckerberg? World Wide Web?

Delhi Belly opened the floodgates. Of moral corruption. Here on-screen representation of “obscene gestures” is thus “Seen” by the viewers. “Shit” becomes the “It” thing. “22she Shrabon”, a successful Bengali film of 2011, completely does away with the Purdah system. Imagine the pangs of knowing all those 4-letter and 8-letter words yet not being able to use them publicly. People thus got liberated from the inner turmoil of only listening to Ma-Behen gaalis but not being able to respond to these gems. We can now relish in an AC auditorium, laughing our heart out with each wave of abuse washing our feet. We can now happily ignore the decadent smell of the putrefied souls. And the circus thus comes to town. Uncouth is not “Uncool” any more. A cinema not having these dialogues or shock-values is now considered as yesteryear stuff. The viewers, in sheep-like formation, look up to the sky now. They now ask their Father in an equivocal bleat, “What’s Next?”

In an age of constant surveillance and carpet-bombing of question-marks, we live rat-like, with human masks on! We mock the Nazi-regime, oblivious to the fact that Humans then have given way to a sinister combination of Human+Technology now. We live in a time when status-updates are the new status-quo and suddenly life has come under a large, invisible CCTV… somebody, somewhere is watching all our moves, making careful notes of our daily sustenance.

The Hubble Telescope reminds me of a similar instance. When They (Read Uncle Sam) installed It up there, the main objective was to constantly monitor the updates from the outer space; as if in the anticipation of galactic signals of long-lost fellow space dwellers’ home-coming. We live under a similar telescope on Earth. Constant updates about our daily movements are streamed, aired, mailed and tweeted to known ether and unknown ethereal levels.

A technological perversion haunts us.

A recent advertisement campaign of Coca Cola 

Political scenario has always been dirty. But then, there’s a distinct difference between dirty and dirtier. What we have in front of us today is a product of exhausted resources. Take an example. Depleted water-levels are giving rise to the death claws of arsenic. In a similar fashion, exhausted moral and physical reserves are giving ways to predatory ways of carrot-and-stick politics. With each passing day, the protest-marches are increasing by the numbers. The dissidents are hitting the streets while the media is busy reporting otherwise. Tones of newsprint are being used to cover up issues. Mole-hills and mountains are constantly being confused. Deliberate, most of the times. With each passing day, we are proudly looking into the barrel of the gun. We can become sure of the hole in the hull. A persisting downgrade continues throughout the four corners of the world. In the pursuit of an ever-rising profit curve, we have chosen cancerous growth. The perverse nature of politics is at its best when every one of us is perceived as a product. And here we are, balancing skillfully against an imminent drowning. Political perversion is now an aura around each one’s head. A part now of “We, the People”.

As a mise-en-scene, we can always remind ourselves of Coca-Cola’s campaign: whatever be the misery around you, you should always buy a coke and “open happiness”. Period.

In The Mirror ......

BOOK REVIEW: Love, Me and Bullshit!

The year was 2004!! The paperback revolution in India started in that year itself. With the advent of a new trend of narrating self – experience in colleges – the long starved readers started relating with the dizzy nostalgia of umpteen recklessness of their own post teen days. Or repenting for what they missed. And for the mass, it was relishing the glimpse of their larger than life dream college life. And, in no time, the trend became a style – a shield-like attribute that any IIT/IIM alumni should possess. And, it increased the readership exponentially – the youth of India once again returned to the age old habit of reading novels – hats off to Chetan Bhagat !! and also to Peter Robinson !!

And, in Love, Me and Bullshit! – the author too acknowledged Bhagat’s contribution to inspire him for getting started. But, he has chosen a different path. Perhaps he was not too keen on making his book an “inspiration” for another Hindi movie.

The narrative is set on a time frame of 3 years – that portrays the juncture of any human life – the complexities of desire, love, lust and all that jazz.

Through the eyes of the protagonist, the author gives a vivid description of the inner conflict of a human mind. The mind that feels depressed as a friend gets to ride on his dream – the mind that repents for not chasing a “lion” – the mind that longs for someone to share his biggest happiness of life with – it is actually a graphic narrative of an honest mind that does not hesitate to unleash the feelings hiding in the darkest and the furthest nook of the heart.

The narration of the deep frustration is very real.Raw. It hurts. Itches your skin. The story makes you identify the poet, the philosopher and the beast in you.  It reflects the strength of inner belief in the God throughout.

 Love, Me and Bullshit! by Vivek Kumar Agarwal

The writing is smooth, sometimes allegorical with imageries. I loved the way the author portrayed the essence of love. It has no reason. Not physical. Not platonic. It simply happens and slowly creeps into the highest rung of prioritization of our mind. And, we become ready to sacrifice anything – just anything.

But the story strangely restricts itself only within the inner feelings of the protagonist. Though the readers are highly acquainted – it does not even trod the way of fun and glamour. Although it is humorous at times, the story mostly reflects the gloomy side of human psyche. The conflict within. The author proclaims himself as a victim of melodramatic Hindi movies – but he safely avoided a gripping climax. Be it the same old story – we always love to bite our nails in the climax scene.

But the book scores differently.  It scores in the odd way that inspires one to listen to his heart against all possible odds bypassing all lucre of prosaic grace.

And, in the end it will make you stand in front of the mirror. You will notice the poet in you on your right, aloof – you will notice the philosopher on your left, aloof – and the beast in you is …… well, some things are best when left unsaid. The position of the beast in the mirror I mean!!

from the Crow's Nest ...

“Forward-Thrust: 2012”

Caring a fig about Morality:

"The question of morality stems from the society and culture we are brought up in."

From a metaphorical point-of-view, the same steel-o-glass building will be seen as an architectural marvel by a city-boy. To the small-town girl, it’s claustrophobic, maybe brazenly show-off(ish) !!

Maybe the other way round too …

Thus, while we keep making off-hand comments and gestures about “How could he .. !!” or “Even she too … ??”, we fail to realize the dialectics, the dichotomy and the tight-rope that develops in the meanwhile.

 The same single mother gets a warm welcome in one corner of the city; she gets a cold shoulder or a frown in another part of the city. Interestingly, almost as a corollary, it is to be noticed that the city also grows up in diff. directions and frequencies over time. The south part may not grow up exactly with the same mindset and logical congruencies like the northern belt of the city.

And when we dissect a situation on the altar of morality under the cross of Society, we must keep this same above point in mind, of the same Society growing up in diff. time-frames zones and mentality. What is crime or unusual to a section, can maybe an eye-opener to another group of people.

What we need as collective souls is the need to open up and let more to come in. When we put dark glasses on, it becomes difficult to see the sunnier side of things. We need to walk in the other person’s shoes and gauge the condition prevailing on the other side.

We can have this as our new-year resolution. Maybe as one of the resolutions.