Book Review on Origin by Dan Brown

The adventures of Harvard Professor Robert Langdon continue in this one. Having read the previous four of the Langdon series, the plot was more or less predictable. Once again Langdon finds himself getting in the wrong books with the authorities, albeit momentarily. Once again he has a beautiful woman as his accomplice. Once again, there’s an accomplished killer after him. And knowing how fond Dan Brown is of his almost autobiographical creation, we know that no deathly harm can befall Professor Langdon.

With every book he writes, Brown brings together scientific advances and the historical significance of religion. This time, one of the central characters, Edmond Kirsch, leads an all out war against organized religion and its many dangers. Having read The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins quite recently, I found it easier to agree with the viewpoints on Edmond Kirsch. Indeed, one can find Brown quoting Dawkins several times in the book.

The book starts off with Langdon visiting a conference in Barcelona, where his former student Edmond Kirsch, has promised to reveal a discovery so profound that it would put all religious faiths in the world in jeopardy. And as was expected, Langdon finds himself at the centre of a cat and mouse chase, in an attempt to reveal some knowledge that the whole world is waiting to know. Tech genius Edmond Kirsch and his discovery become an overnight trend on the internet, hashtags and all. The tech trends have been well captured with mentions of leading apps such as Uber as well as the dark depths of the Deep Web. I think conspiracy theorists will have a gala time reading the book, or watching the movie that will inevitably come. Among the characters in the book, the one I liked best was the AI developed by Edmond, Winston.

In spite of the plot, I believe the story and the varied perspectives of the characters will help readers who have not read discourses on atheism to put together some of the principles behind the philosophy, and then think for themselves what they would like to believe. Religion vs. Atheism is a debate that goes way back. And while this book doesn’t add anything new to either of the sides, it does show us that Langdon, and by extension Brown, are both inclined to favour religion over atheism.

‘Where do we come from?’ and ‘Where are we going?’ are the primary questions that Edmond Kirsch was going after. The former of the two questions is summarised in the word ‘Origin’, while the latter in ‘Destiny.’ So if this were a two-part tale, the second would probably be called ‘Destiny’. But with the big reveal at the end (which wasn’t that big of a deal, by the way), I believe the story ends here. And knowing Brown, this novel won’t have any bearing on his subsequent works.

That is another thing that bothers me and fellow readers about the Langdon books. They don’t seem to have much of a continuum. Not in the sense that it has to be like other series where one book leads up to the next. But the discoveries and findings should at least be referred to in the next book, in however small a manner. There must be certain consequences to Langdon’s earth-shattering experiences (such as half the population becoming sterile after Inferno) considering they’re all happening in the same universe. But Brown’s disregard to these happenings deems them as not-so-important after all.

Long story short, not a bad book. Would recommend to thrill-seeking readers. 

Book Review on Remnants of a Separation: A History of the Partition through Material Memory by Aanchal Malhotra

A debut novel can say a lot about a writer. It tells us what the writer believes in, whether they are willing to go the extra mile to bring life to their storytelling, and how well read they are themselves. As a reader, I believe in continuously seeking out new authors, searching for such gems that can satiate my appetite for reading. One such search led me to the Instagram handle @aanch_m

Her posts on Instagram are beautiful photos complimented by beautiful captions. For a while now, I have maintained that captioning is an art that most people overlook. Of course, one cannot expect people to add unique captions to the same redundant selfies that they take all the time. But when it comes to photography with a message, the caption does matter immensely. Her writings on Instagram so captivated me that I instantly became an ardent follower. Every day she would upload an anecdote, a memory; sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes hopeful. I found myself suggesting friends to check out her account and see how important is the work that she has been doing. I added her to my ‘Writers to Keep a Watch out for’ List (the list also includes Kaushik Barua of Windhorse fame).

Early this year, Aanchal hinted that she was in talks with Harper Collins. The news got me ecstatic because it meant her book was on the way. Her years of research into the relics of material memory was soon going to be published in material form. I knew I had to get a copy for myself, there was no question about it. True to the theme of her stories, the book came out in August, the month of Independence and Separation.

Following someone online is one thing, and having a real, physical copy of their work in one’s hand is quite another. After more than a year of adoring her writing, I finally had a compilation of her work sitting between the palms of my hands. Word by word, page after page, I went on a journey with Aanchal that transcended the borders of the human mind. Her graceful writing expertly navigated the murky waters of the Partition to shed light on the “things that matter”.

I realize that so far I have only been praising her and haven’t yet divulged what it is that she has done to garner such praise. Her work is about archiving the memories that people brought and took across the border at the time of the great migration. Through the meagre material possessions that people carried, she retells the stories of entire families; their life as it was before the partition, their journey across and life afterwards. All that remained with these people after the move, the remnants, are what this book is about.

My favourite chapter from the book is the one about her grandfather and his family utensils. One can tell how fervently she believes in collecting and storing memories. In the course of creating this book, she has become a pensieve (#hpreference). Reading her has been a pleasure. She has converted me from a mere follower into an enchanted fan. An inspiration to the writers of her generation and the generations to come, Aanchal Malhotra has revived the pain of separation and left us with a longing for the past.

Book review on ‘Kafka on the Shore’ by Haruki Murakami

Murakami is a surrealist. His books transcend the boundaries of plot, character and the logic of reality. One of his most endearing qualities is the smoothness with which he builds the story. This was the third Murakami that I read. And after each one I feel like I need to take a break from his world, let normality be restored. Or else I shall be whisked off by the cats into some unmapped town and be forever lost.

The story is about a young boy who runs away from home and an older man who has a mission to fulfill. Both the characters lead independent lives that intersperse in a small town library. Although the central characters never actually get to know each other, their story progresses by the unbeknownst help that each provides the other.

A young teen, Kafka escapes his house to get away from his father and maybe find his mother and sister, who had abandoned him as a child. Young Kafka experiences a longing for maternal love as well as the love of a sister. Because of the premonitions of his father, Kafka develops a condition that is close to Oedipus syndrome. He believes his feelings to be a part of his fate.

At the small town library, he makes friends and finds a place for himself. It is almost as if the place had been waiting for his arrival for a very long time. Kafka, although confused, is unlike the kids of his age. He is driven by a discipline that keeps his body and mind ready for the bizzarest of things. He comes off as a cool, detached, dispassionate individual. In spite of being in situations that would make most adults lose their cool, Kafka sails out of the storm and docks safely onto shore.

The storm is when the stories of the young boy and the old man cross paths. In terms of character complexity, the old man is simpler and yet more enigmatic. His thoughts aren’t complicated by the intricacies of standard life. He does things as they come. On his journey across small towns to the library in question, he finds help from several strangers who do so because of his simple nature and confounding mission. He appears to be on a different plane of thought entirely.

The story has many other interesting characters, each of whom contributes in the progression of the tale in their own unique and indispensable ways. At the heart of it, Kafka on the Shore is about the very personal stories that each of these characters take, their lives leading up to this tumultuous whirlwind of an affair since a very long time. At the end of it all, they each got their separate ways, entering and exiting like actors in a play. The brilliance of the book manifests in Murakami’s style of storytelling. Yet I find some of his themes to be recurrent. For instance: parallel worlds, out-worldly creatures, incest and inter-dimensional beings. His stories take some time to be absorbed entirely, for which reason one cannot dive from one  Murakami to the next without pausing to awe at his marvels.

Book Review on Tender is the Night by F Scott Fitzgerald

This 1934 novel had its beginnings much earlier in the life of the controversial author and his wife, Zelda Sayre. While This Side of Paradise, his first novel, captured the young love and longing of protagonist Amory Blaine, the story reaches its tumultuous end in the pages of Tender is the Night. It has been said over and over that Scott Fitzgerald’s writings were based on his own life, that he was the Amory and the Dick of his novels. He wrote about his crisis filled personal life, making it more crazed and unhappy. In capturing the sadness of his own life, he left readers with a bittersweet longing for the age that he had lived in and embodied in spirit.

Tender is the Night was the last published novel of the author. And it was written after a considerably long bout of un-productivity in his career. It tells the story of a couple, the Diver’s, falling out of love after years of being regarded as “two bodies, one soul”. It is a sad, sometimes infuriating tale. One can see that Dick needs Nicole quite as much as Nicole needs him. In the years since their extraordinary courtship, they have developed a joint personality that people outside of their marriage almost revere.

But, as is the case with most marriages, the outsiders find a way in. Just as simply as guests were invited into their reverie on the French Riviera. It was, alas, a paradise that got trampled upon. There are a string of uninteresting characters who like to bask in the glamour of the Divers, one among them being a misguided, passionate young actress. She was awed by the Divers, perhaps more by Dick than by Nicole. Nicole’s character development shows a stark dissimilarity between her condition before and after their marriage. Her mental disposition and the reason behind it shock the reader.

The story ends depressingly, with the duo being separated by their own volition. It was an inevitable end. I can’t say I enjoyed the story, or the writing. In spite of his fame and the posthumous hype about him, I find F. Scott Fitzgerald lacking in originality and sometimes frivolous. Of the three works of his that I have read, I must say that I admire The Great Gatsby the best. Tender is the Night will, unfortunately, not hold a tender place in my heart.

Book Review on ‘A Strange and Sublime Address’ by Amit Chaudhuri

With every book that I read and review, I add a degree of significance to how I came across it. They are mostly bought or ordered, gifted by the family, sometimes borrowed from the library and rarely lent by a friend. I found this book in the most unlikely of places; my hostel room. Granted there are always piles of books on my side of the room, but to find one at my room-mates desk is once in a blue moon rare. After weeks of noticing it through the periphery of my vision, I borrowed it to read.

It is a hardcover edition celebrating the 25^th anniversary of the book. It fits snugly in my hands and the size, the paper quality, the font all come together to provide the perfect reading experience. For all the pros of a Kindle, it simply cannot give you this glorious sensation of holding, sniffing, snuggling a good book.

Getting to the matter of the book, it is a story of a young Indian boy who lives in Mumbai with his parents, but travels to Calcutta to spend his holidays with his maternal family. The events described in the book are in no particular chronological order. They simply narrate the experiences of the young protagonist, while capturing all the old world charm of Calcutta. The writing is absolutely brilliant, not a word wasted and not an emotion left untouched.

For someone who has been getting to know Kolkata first hand over the past year, this book was a joy to read. The habits and way of life of the quintessential Bengali household are depicted here gracefully. To anyone who lives in Kolkata and fails to feel a “connection” with the city, this book could be your “operator”.

Several times I felt the urge to underline parts of the prose because they were so beautifully framed, simple scenes so artfully captured. But as I did not own the copy, I did not put pencil to paper. Some day I shall buy a copy of it for my personal library and file it under the section called “personal connection”. The author is one of unmatched literary talent. I shall keep him closely after Vikram Seth and Amitav Ghosh on my list of of Favorite Authors of Indian Origin. Thank you Amit Chaudhuri for a beautiful read.

Book Review on The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot

Very often I disregard the recommendations of my peers when it comes to selecting books. But when a fellow student of biotechnology told me about this book, I knew that there was a need for me to read this. Thank you, Pooja Bharali for recommending this and countless other books, during our sojourn at the decadent Gauhati University.

Rebecca Skloot, the author, is a science writer. Meaning, it is her job to write about science to make non-scientists understand the meaning or message behind a scientific invention or discovery. She first came to know of Henrietta during a high school biology class where her teacher told her about the cell line known as HeLa, and the woman from whom the cells were obtained, Henrietta Lacks. Rebecca’s determination has brought to light the story of Henrietta and the Lacks family. The book focuses not on the benefits that humanity has reaped off of HeLa, but the recognition that the Lacks never received.

Henrietta was born into a family of tobacco farmers in Virginia in the year 1920. She grew up to marry one of her cousins, David Lacks. They had four children. In life, Henrietta was known as a hospitable, caring, lively person who loved to go dancing. People she grew up with called her a great beauty as well. Her home was always open to family members in need of food and shelter. This is what Rebecca Skloot’s research into Henrietta’s early life revealed.

In her early thirties, Henrietta started feeling ‘a knot in her womb’. By then she had had three children. She went up to John’s Hopkins Hospital to be checked up. Instead of receiving any explanation of her illness (cervival cancer), her tumor cells were taken for biopsy and later cultured by scientists in the lab. At the time, it was routine procedure for doctors to obtain tissue samples without the patient’s knowledge and then study them for any number of tests. Whether those tests were pertinent to the patient’s diagnosis and treatment was not a matter of concern.

Unlike all the other cells that cell culturists had been trying to grow at the time, Henrietta’s cells flourished. They multiplied and divided (which mean the same thing in biological terms), and filled up layer after layer of cell culture vials. The cell line was named HeLa, and was often mistaken to have come from a Helen Lane or Helen Larson. That they had been the tumor cells of a black tobacco farmer from Virginia, was forgotten.

Up until Henrietta’s cells were stably cultured, most cancer cells died out in the lab. HeLa cells made it possible to study and understand the difference in physiology between a normal and a cancerous cell. They help in the development and testing of anti cancer as well as anti viral drugs. They provide a system in which cell biologists can study the interaction of different molecules and enzymes. It was the closest thing to experimenting on a live human cell or tissue for decades. HeLa cells are still grown and used in most cell culture labs of the world.

It was only right that Rebecca Skloot throw light on the Lacks and bring their story to the fore front of the scientific community, forcing scientists to think about the humans and not just their parts. The Lacks family suffered a great deal of emotional trauma upon learning of the ever-growing, undying nature of Henrietta’s cells. The mother that they had buried several decades ago seemed to be alive in part in the labs of unknown people all across the world and even in space. The family, especially Henrietta’s daughter Deborah Lacks, struggled a lot to understand the identity of their mother and what it meant when they said that her cells were still living.

The commoner might not have heard her name or her acronym as much as the student of biology, but we have all availed of the comforts that Henrietta has left behind as her legacy. For example, the large scale production of the Salk polio vaccine that saved millions of people from the crippling disease was only possible because of the easily culturable HeLa cells. It is therefore important to immortalize Henrietta not just in the vials of the laboratory, but in the combined memory of the people that she so unwittingly, yet benevolently benefitted. 

My Thoughts on Byculla Boy by Ashok Banker

I wouldn’t call this a book review because that would be untrue. I never completed reading the book. This book was found hidden between hardbound copies of books written by such giants of literature that it appeared both shy and intimidated to be stashed among them. A tattered, old copy from 1994, its pages are dog-eared and browning. I decided to read it because, of late, I have been experimenting with authors of Indian origin in order to better understand the scene.

The story is about a 9-year-old boy, Neilkant Jhaveri. Neil, as his friends and family call him, excels in studies as well as sports. But he suffers from emotional neglect. He is abandoned at his boarding school by his parents, who have separated. Consequently he goes through a phase of depression. Alone and uncared for, he finds himself inexplicably experiencing symptoms of liver disease, which he, as a child, is unable to diagnose or understand. He is eventually taken by his mother to her parents’ home in Byculla, where his physical and emotional health recovers. In Byculla, he lives among Catholic relatives who refuse to accept him entirely as their own because of his part-Hindu parentage. He makes friends with older teens and enjoys escapades into Elvis’ songs and movies. But the reality of his mother always being away, chasing roles in movies, gnaws at his young heart. He craves to be loved and adored by both his parents like regular children. Throughout most part of the story, Neil suffers from abandonment and a sense of being alone even when surrounded by hordes of people.

The tale is a sad one, but there is an underlying humour about the life of the Byculla people and their peculiarities. Stories about Mumbai and its people have been finding their way to me ever since my trip there last May.

Regarding the writing, all that I want to say is that the author uses far too many adjectives than necessary. It is one of the chief reasons why I could not finish the book. It was short but I read three quarters of it spread over many sittings, which is quite unusual for me. The story would have been better received had he done away with the dispensable descriptions. The author has lengthened a simple yet promising story into a tale that becomes tenuous with every page. I could go on, but unlike him, I kinda do know when to stop.

In conclusion, Neil was a fairly interesting character who unfortunately populated a weak plot. If the author ever decides to revamp the tale by giving Neil better scope at a performance in the story, I wouldn’t mind giving him a second chance.   

Ornithophobia

It was an experiment gone wrong. Hours of labor, days of sacrifice had all come to waste. The department building was all but abandoned that week. The grad students were on holiday and my fellow researchers on leave. The professors had also taken their time off at the end of the semester. It was just me and Bob, each in our own space.

I was frustrated at not getting the results I had so direly hoped for. All my research and planning had told me that I would get the right chromatography peaks. But they weren’t there the first time, or the seventh. I gave up after that seventh failure because they say seven is the magic number. And if I couldn’t get it the seventh time, I wasn’t gonna get it the eighth or the eightieth time.  

In a mangled mess of emotions I slammed out of the lab and went downstairs. The lift chimed onto the ground floor and the heavy glass doors were overcast with an orangey hue. Sunset through grey clouds. The security personnel weren’t at their desks. The immediate outside looked deserted. It wasn’t like an abandoned campus. The lawns had recently been mowed, no dust-laden benches around. The place was simply devoid of people that afternoon. But there was a presence that loomed heavy on the air. In the thick of the campus garden, there was a flock of birds. They were swan-like but appeared flightless; perhaps they were just hatchlings, albeit over-sized. They seemed disturbed, lost, out of place. I wasn’t exactly sure why they were there in the first place. I hadn’t known of rare migratory birds flying to this bleak part of the world and laying eggs in the middle of academic complexes. As I stood watching them, they started waddling. There were about half a dozen of them and each was heading in a different direction. They were visibly confused. The cause of their disturbance then manifested before my eyes. A dark, winged figure was swooping down in circles. The hatchlings quacked nervously. An ominous fear gripped my insides. A big-ass crow, almost the size of a Labrador, was gliding closer.

 I felt one among the hatchlings and sprinted as fast as I could. Its wings flapped somewhere above me and a putrid smell wafted down. I saw some of the hatchlings waddling away, their feathers all ruffled. A little ahead of me was a star-fruit tree; from one of its lower branches hung a water-gun. I darted towards the tree, hid under its foliage and reached for the water-gun. It was heavy, and filled with something fluorescent green instead of water. A bio-hazard symbol stamped on it told me that this was no ordinary water-gun. It should not have been hanging around this way. Just like those hatchlings were out of place. Just like the gigantic bird had no business being anywhere near me. Yet it was there and it was attacking the hatchlings one after another. The little, flightless creatures were bleeding from their backs, where the crow had pecked them with its hungry beak.

The hatchlings ducked under shrubs and bushes. The crow landed on its claws near one of the bushes. The hatchlings were screeching, in fear and foreboding. I took the water-gun with the biohazard symbol into my hands and went in like I had seen numerous soldiers in my brother’s PC games.

The crow was cawing back at the hatchlings with a venomous look in its deathly red eyes. As I moved into its field of vision, it jumped around to face me. In a flash it was heading right at me, moving with the agility of an experienced predator. My hands shook. I tried to aim for its beak. Whatever the fluid was inside the gun, I thought it would harm the big bird most in the face. Eyes were also a good option. I tried my best to aim at it and pressed the trigger. A gooey mess emanated from the tip and shot toward the bird. It fell a few inches from the bird’s claws, fuming. I figured it was some form of concentrated, acidic toxin that was definitely capable of harming the feathery fiend and shot at it with renewed vigor.

At close quarters, the putrefying smell was at its worst. The bird opened its beak wide to caw at me, and with it came the smell of death, of decomposing flesh. I backed up several steps, still trying to aim the toxin at the bird. But I was as good as a storm trooper in hitting my target. And the bird was springy on its feet.

The bird backed me into a bush and then sprang at me. With a strong, scapular movement it knocked the gun out of my hands. Never have I known fear as in that moment. The overpowering smell made me gag. The bird flapped its wings at me, thrashing me from all sides. It reached up to my waist and snapped at my arms. I was flailing my limbs every which way, keeping my eyes shut since it had struck the gun out of my hands. I could not bring myself to face the unbelievable evil that was attacking me.

I heard a plonk and felt the feathers cease moving. The bird had fallen still at my feet all of a sudden. I looked up to find Bob carrying the long, metallic arm of a mop. He had hit the bird hard and immobilized it. Bob didn’t seem ruffled by the size of the bird or the mess that I was in. Before I could thank him for knocking the bird out, he turned around and started walking back towards the department, like it was all in a day’s work for him. Run a PCR, cast a gel, knock a bird out, decontaminate some plates. No biggie.

With Bob gone, I was alone with the crow. The hatchlings seemed to have run off too. I stood watching the bird for a while. It was lying on its side, with half a wing unfolded beneath it. Then I saw its claw twitch. And I knew it was gonna get back up. Instinctively, I made the worst decision of the day and jumped onto the bird’s back. Before it could get back into its full senses, I grabbed hold of its sticky beak and twisted it around. I held the beaks shut with my hands and hoped that the bird’s neck would snap away. It turned out to be harder than I’d expected. The head turned almost a full three-sixty degrees. I began to get worried that perhaps this humongous beast could rotate its head like an owl. My hands felt weak from pulling the beak and I was scared that any moment the bird would rise and snap at my fingers.

But the neck twisted some more before coming loose. I let go of the bird and its head limped loose. It was surely dead. Yet my fear had not dissipated. Just to be sure that the monster was put down at last, I dug out a matchbox from my pockets and lit that bitch up. The feathers caught fire easily enough. It burned without protest, and with it the fetid air combusted as well. A greenish flame surrounded the burning bird. 

I should have run away from it the moment Bob had struck it down. Instead I killed it with my bare hands, burning the features of the disgusting creature deep into my memory. Try as I may I cannot forget its gory eyes and the feel of its grimy beak. And that is how I got myself this unrelenting fear of birds. 

Book Review on The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon

My friends on social media have used the adjectives 'beautiful' and 'serious' to describe this book. It was the last book I picked up in 2016 and the first I put down in 2017. It is unlike any book I have ever read, being written from the POV of an autistic teen. He is Christopher Boone, resident of Swindon, a small sub-urban town in England. His thoughts and way of life are illustrated in great detail in this work of fiction. There are several quirky things to note in the book. For example, the chapters aren't numbered 1, 2, 3... as in regular novels but as 2, 3, 5, 7, 11........because Christopher likes prime numbers. 

Christopher is smart. He understands maths, physics and basic science better than most people. He likes living life according to set rules and plans. He likes knowing what is going to happen and when; predictability and pattern keep him happy. He lives with his father and goes to school by bus, counting the number of red or yellow cars he encounters on the way. If he sees red cars consecutively, he believes the day will be a good one, whereas seeing yellow cars indicates a bad day for him. This is because he doesn't like yellow or brown, or being touched. 

For someone who lives such a restrictive life, Christopher performs brave feats during the short span of the book. The writer provides a very succinct picture of the brilliant mind that Christopher has. The curious incident of the dog in the night time sets off events that turn Christopher's organized life upside down. And yet he emerges triumphant, having achieved little feats that for someone like him are huge accomplishments. 

In every book I read, I look for something to relate to. In this particular book, I could understand how much Christopher was bothered by "change of plans". I find it very difficult to go on impromptu trips, or having my plans intervened by other people's lives. For Christopher, such changes are many multitudes more difficult to adapt to. And that made me feel sad for him. All he wants is for life to run on a fixed route at a set time, like trains. That we do not have such control over our own lives is something hard to understand, even for those of us who have an easier time living life. 

It is most definitely one of the better books I have read over the years. I'd recommend it to people of all ages because the central character is one that any decent human being would like to understand better.