Book Review on The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro

There's something charming about the old English country and its customs. This book is about an English butler who reminisces about the old times while attempting to keep pace with the new. Back in the day, butlers were at the top of the staff heirarchy that catered to the needs of the aristocratic class. Lords, Ladies, Dukes, Duchess, Barons, etc would all be given top of the notch service by an army of staff who attended to their every need. The houses of ole were big mansions, almost palacial in size and thus needed several housemaids, under-butler, footmen, gardener, chauffeur, valet, cook etc to keep pace with the then life. One such princely house was Darlington Hall, where our butler Mr. Stevens used to serve Lord Darlington himself.

Then came the war years that changed the way of life of the aristocrats as well as those whom they employed. An American gentleman takes over Darlington Hall after the death of its previous owner, and the butler, loyal to his profession, decides to stay on with the house. He narrates the changes that the household undergoes, constantly comparing Then and Now. He is a man of ideals and succinctly discusses what he thinks are the attributes of a great butler.

At the heart of the book, it is about how Mr. Stevens comes to terms with the past and has to accept that he must make the most of whatever remains of the days of his life. I found it a very inspiring read, and can see what made Kazuo Ishiguro a Nobel Prize in Literature awardee. Very polished style of writing that one can only aspire to inculcate. I have definitely become a fan of the author and will be reading more of his works soon.

For fans of Downton Abbey, this book is a treat to read. One can just imagine Mr. Carson agreeing with the views of Mr. Stevens while sipping on some tea downstairs. The book has also been adapted into a movie starring Anthony Hopkins in the lead role. I can't say it's the best of adaptations but at least there is one.

Book Review on Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Dystopian literature shows us how life would be if things went really badly. For any bibliophile, the worst kind of situation is one in which books are destroyed. This book is based in one such dystopic universe where Firemen don’t extinguish fire but cause them. The protagonist is one Guy Montag, who conspicuously shares his first name with the famous pyromaniac from British history, Guy Fawkes. Like Fawkes, Montag too is a revolutionary.

In Montag’s world books are taboo. People are kept busy by always being made to watch the Telly. Entertainment has been made personalized. When you watch the Telly, the characters in the soaps and plays say your name to give the show an illusion of reality. This makes the experience more immersive. The minds of people can be easily controlled by controlling their entertainment feed. But books. Oh those can give people ideas, make them think outside the Idiot Box. So books are banned by the authorities. It is a tragic world to live in, where people do not, cannot think. And those who dare to question or be imaginative are eliminated.

The Firemen’s history has been revised. Where they were once known to put out fire and save lives, it is now their job to burn down houses where people have been known to harbor books. All of this is done at night-time when the fires burn the brightest, so that the fear of fire is more deeply ingrained in the citizens.

After years of service as a Fireman, Guy Montag one day meets a girl called Clarisse McClellan on his walk home from work. She is an unusual sort of girl. People in her family actually sit around and talk rather than watch the Telly. And she says things that Guy has never heard anyone say. He comes home to his wife Mildred, who has a severe addiction to the Telly. The people on the screens are more real to her that those next door. Day in and day out her eyes are on the three walls that make up the screen and her ears plugged with earphone like shells that help her to drown out the outside world. She is disconnected from reality, depressed and in denial. Compared to the lively Clarisse, Mildred is as good as dead as she is always ‘plugged in’. Montag and Mildred do not converse.

Montag undergoes a change that makes him question the way the world has come to run. He finds himself unable to do his job, which makes his boss Captain Beatty suspicious of him. He becomes a liability to his unit. In his desperation to make sense of the world, Montag makes contact with a man he had once met in a park, who he had suspected might be a possessor of books. This man, Faber, was once a Professor of English. But since it became illegal to teach Literature, History etc, he, and others of his kind, has to live on the down-low. Faber explains to Montag some of the qualities that books possess and why it is necessary to keep the written words alive.

Any reader would want to preach the message in this book, especially in times like these, when it is necessary to inculcate the ability to see the alternate reality, to question the system. Other forms of entertainment, most importantly, visual entertainment is easy to take in. One need only direct their gaze towards a screen. But books require your participation. The words develop meaning when you read, process, understand and envision that which is being said. Since most people find it so arduous to do the latter, books are a dying lot. As the author himself said,

“There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches.”

Ignorance happens to be a flaming torch

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. 

Book Review on Such A Long Journey by Rohinton Mistry

It’s always a pleasure to read someone for the first time; the freshness of their writing, the promise of a new reader-writer relationship and endless new anecdotes to be shared are some of the perks. That pleasure is doubly enhanced when the writer turns out to be really good. Rohinton Mistry’s works were suggested to me by people on bookstagram some fifteen odd months ago. I found Such A Long Journey in a local bookstore at the onset of November and bought it right away.

Very few authors can see the beauty in everyday life, and there are fewer who can capture the same flawlessly. I find it to be a very rare phenomenon when an author can keep me engrossed in events that have no element of fantasy. Ruskin Bond’s stories have that element of making the ordinary seem extraordinary. And I am happy to report that Rohinton Mistry has succeeded in capturing the essence of the ordinary in his storytelling.

The story is about a Parsi man, Gustad Noble. He lives with his wife Dilnawaz, and their three children in a very Parsi neighbourhood. His roles of husband, father, friend and colleague are depicted in detail, giving the reader a complete picture of his personality. He is no ubermensch who performs extraordinary feats. His travails are those of the common man in the India of the 70s. He is occupied with the health and wellbeing of his children, with the balancing of household accounts and all that we often overlook when thinking of the average Indian. The characters are developed with detail by giving them family histories, secret lives and peculiar habits.

The events in the book follow the journey of Gustad, his friends and his family through struggles of myriad kinds. Gustad’s own journey covers the corruption of the then government. He gets sucked into the inevitable and the endless while trying to be a good friend and setting examples for his children. Readers will relate to the situation Gustad finds himself in, now more than ever, because of the current demonetisation situation in India, and its effect on the average middle class person. The story shows the helplessness of the commoner. It is sure to strike a chord in the hearts of many.

Contemporary Indian writers should take note of the works of Rohinton Mistry before parading their stories riddled with heartbreaks and pseudo-feminism.

Book Review on ‘The Bone Season’ by Samantha Shannon

The world of fantasy fiction got blessed with a new series in mid 2013. Bloomsbury, the erstwhile publishers of JKR’s Harry Potter series, recognized yet another author with a flair for fiction and published the first of the series of seven a few years back. The Bone Season was recommended to me by a dear friend and avid reader; book recommendations from her have never gone wrong.

From the moment I started reading this book, I was sucked right in. The theme is clairvoyance, the setting a postmodern world where the “voyants” live in hiding lest the “rulers” of their society imprison them and the year of the story setting off is 2059. Clairvoyance is clearly classified into seven orders at the very outset so the reader gets a fair enough understanding of the way clairvoyance works. The fantasy is well woven into the more realistic world. The author has put a good deal of thought into the scientific and political field of the period; both fields are addressed in bits and pieces throughout the story, keeping the reader engrossed.

The protagonist is Paige Mahoney, a young adult fashioned after the generic protags of most fantasy fictions these days. She is plain yet outstanding, she has a complicated love life and is quite possibly special (as in the chosen one) in the grand scheme of things that the readers/fans haven’t entirely figured out yet. Clairvoyance is considered a disease in the world of our protag. The voyants live under cover much like the mutants of Marvel. The non-voyants go through life more or less unaware of them. The protag’s father happens to be a biochemist who is pretty high up in the government that’s trying to find a “cure” for clairvoyance while keeping the public shielded from the truth. And all the while the father is completely in the dark about his daughter’s covert life.

The story takes a turn for the better when Paige is whisked away to a secret city hidden from the outside world and then is selected to be trained to fight some flesh eating spirit aliens. The entire socio-political structure undergoes a paradigm-shift as Paige enters the life in the hidden city.

Parallels can be drawn between several famous characters from several different series such as Snape from HP, Haymitch from The Hunger Games and quite unfortunately a certain cold blooded being that the world now detests with characters in the novel. The similarities are subtle yet evident to fans. The book, being the first in the series, is setting down the groundwork for what promises to be a very thrilling series. Readers are eager to devour the works as they make their way out of the press. The series has put Bloomsbury once again on the watch. As several popular fantasy tales are coming to a close (most importantly GoT), the readers of fantasy fiction will have something to look forward to, putting much pressure on the young author Shannon. The writing and the emotions of the characters are very in step with the world today, which will make readers feel a kinship towards the protag. A major revelation by one of the characters at the very end will rather please a certain colourful community (IYKWIM).

Musings on Ravens

28th January, 2016

There are different ways in which people prefer to deal with sadness. Some pour their hearts out to their best friends and have a good, long cry. Some lock themselves up in their bathrooms and smoke through the tears. Still others deal with it by focusing on a different kind of pain, more potent and most often brought on by their own hands.

Years of experience with myself has taught my old soul that I deal with sadness best by writing my thoughts down. It brings order to my mind. With every sentence I can feel the uneasiness dissipate and my chest stops quivering from the outpour.

They say music soothes people. It does. Provided you find the right kind of music. To soothe my frenzied thoughts I often play myself a little song. No, I take that back. It’s no little song. It’s a masterpiece of music. The Raven that Refused to Sing by Steven Wilson. The song had been recommended to me by a friend some three years ago. The album art is that of the moon with an expression of fear mingled with sadness depicted in the style of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. That and the eeriness of the song caught my fancy all that time ago.

About six months ago, Deep said to me that he felt that the song could be about me and Liz; me being the sad old man and Liz the sister he lost way too soon. I hadn’t thought about it that way until he had suggested it; I re-watched the video and cried my eyes out.

It’s one of those songs that rises and falls, with valleys and peaks of emotions. And best of all it has a story: the story of a man dealing with depression, fighting it with the memory of his dear departed sister. The Raven represents a ray of hope to the old man. He looks to the Raven for help, hoping it would call across to his sister when the darkness comes to claim him. But the Raven doesn’t co-operate.

Now, to my Potterhead eyes, the sight of the darkness creeping in on the old man like that seemed to oddly resemble the cold chill that Dementors bring. Those damp ole creatures that suck out the happiness from inside you. They make you feel as if the sun will never shine on you again, that all the positivity in the world is gone. Poof. In other words, Depression personified.

I watched the video over and over, listened to the song on loop, drowned myself in it for a time. Soon it became my go to song whenever I felt low. It became a solace to me.

Meanwhile a poem by Edgar Allan Poe had pushed its way out from the depths of my memory in time for Halloween 2015. The poem is one of Poe’s best works, in my opinion. It is called The Raven. I’ve read it with all the devotion of a true fan of the genre that Poe established and defines. The Raven comes rapping at his window one night, perches on his chamber door on being let in and keeps cawing “Nevermore” as it chills Poe’s heart with fear. The Raven tortures the poor scared soul.

In my dreams I often see a raven. It visits me while I’m walking along the memory of an old place or meeting people lost in the past. The raven makes me feel ill at ease. It brings dark forebodings to my sleeping mind; like there is some danger or sorrow awaiting me when I wake up. Whenever I wake up from one of these dreams, it is inevitably a bad day.

Speaking of dreams, Lord Shaper aka Morpheus aka Dream King aka Sandman comes to my mind. In one Sandman issue, towards the end, a lot of Ravens gather in the Dreaming. Matthew, the raven who serves Morpheus, finds himself pulled to the heart of the Dreaming where more of his kind had begun to manifest. He doesn’t want to be there but he has to because by his nature, he must go where his calling truly is. To understand what this means one must know that ravens are scavengers. Wherever there is death and decomposition, thence ravens arrive sooner or later. Matthew had to go to the heart of the Dreaming because it was dying, along with all of its occupants.

When I had read this issue in late November, further fear had gripped me. Why were there ravens in my subconscious? What was dying/dead? 

Review on The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie

The Literature section of the library of an engineering college tends to go unvisited by generations (read batches) of students. It is in one such ignored, dust laden shelf that I found a copy of Salman Rushdie’s The Enchantress of Florence. The last Rushdie work that I had read was Shalimar the Clown, back in 2011. So I was eager to delve into this book that promised enchantment.

The story revolves around an enigmatic ancestor of Emperor Akbar, how and why she got lost in the ages of history and the long awaited reclamation. Akbar’s court is described with all the grandeur that historians attribute to that most glorious period of Indian history. The musings of the emperor himself cast a regal penumbra about the character. There are several advantages of using a historical figure as a character in a story For one, the character is already well drawn out. Popularity of the character among readers builds on the familiarity to develop story that is warmly welcomed. Of course, there are disadvantages too. One must be careful not to temper with the attributes too much, lest the essence of the character is lost.

The characters were represented beautifully. Jodha Bai’s tale is second to none but The Enchantress herself. The parallels drawn between Florence and Fatehpur Sikri and their respective inhabitants, make the two cities twins in many respects. The traveller from Florence who claims to be a distant relative of the Emperor carries with himself the tale of the forgotten princess. The strange, mystical traveller is a multi-talented weaver of magic who quickly becomes one of the emperors favourites, one that even the Precious Nine begin to detest. One of the central themes of the book is magic, enchantments that work across the tides of time. The author reinforces the power of “words” in the following quote:

“.....witchcraft requires no potions, familiar spirits or magic wands. Language upon a silvered tongue affords enchantment enough.”

Towards the end of the book, the cold knife of reason slices away much of the magic from the climax. As an emperor, Akbar must decide the best, most reasonable way to explain away the claims of the traveller. Although in his heart of hearts he wanted to believe the traveller, he has a greater responsibility to uphold towards his kingdom, people and heritage.

The book gave me a little bit of magic to disappear into during the first, most difficult week of my move to Durgapur. It was a welcoming gesture from the library that now provides me with delights every time I visit its rich collection.

Book Review on The Gene: An Intimate History by Siddhartha Mukherjee

The first question that the layman would ask before reading this book is: “Will I be able to understand what he’s talking about?” The answer to that question can only be found out once you decide to give it a read. The gene is a word that is heard frequently enough, yet there are so many levels of misconception surrounding its very concept. Most students of science fail to define it precisely. The time is ripe for the general population to be made aware of what the gene is and why it is important; because we are living in an age when the gene is revolutionizing every sector of life, from domestic to industrial. Never before has it been more important for us to understand the scope of the field that is based on the discovery, manipulation and regulation of the gene. The stage is set for biotechnology to take over, and unless the layman understands the science behind the technology, we will only be cultivating a fear of the unknown.

Dr. Siddhartha Mukherjee is a cancer biologist whose debut novel The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer brought him to the attention of scientific literature readers. The genre is dominated by Isaac Asimov, Carl Sagan, Richard Dawkins and other scientists of acclaim. One often wonders if a scientist has the flair to write literature that would be comprehensible to readers of non-scientific background. And Mukherjee achieves excellence in getting his point across. With meticulous dedication, he has compiled a history of the search and discovery of the gene, from the early Greek theologian beliefs to the modern day application and future implications of the same. He combines scientific information with literary grace, in a truly rare style. The cherry on the cake is his family’s back story which brings the intimacy that the reader needs to connect with this discussion on the gene. Readers realize that we have all encountered this enigma in our bloodlines one way or another, and that helps us develop a better understanding of the author’s work.

Perhaps my review of this book is somewhat biased, because I have a better understanding of the field than the average reader. But I have had many a difficult moments in getting my peers to understand what my area of interest is all about. To top it off, there is an apprehension among the masses when they hear the word genetically modified, like it is a taboo to consider buying genetically engineered food because it is “unnatural”. Without even realizing it, we have been reaping the benefits of biotechnology for centuries. Some of the most common examples that introductory biotechnology courses cite to beginners is about the fermentation of Baker’s yeast to make bread, alcohol fermentation and, of course, the use of the Lactose converting bacteria to make curd.

With beautiful storytelling skills, the author tells us the story of the discovery of the gene as the hereditary unit of life. Simultaneously, he tells us the story of his family being blighted by hereditary illnesses of the mind. Once he has brought us up to date on where the gene stands today in terms of social understanding, he takes us on a journey to the future where the scope of genetic engineering can lead us. Another important part of history that he artfully addresses is the experimentation by Nazi scientists on humans during the period of the Second World War, horrific events that led to the establishment of the Nuremberg code. The era of inhumane human experimentation had smeared the entire field of genetics for decades. And even now, experiments/ studies on humans and animals are considered dangerous and unethical. There are many social, ethical and legal conundrums surrounding the genetic manipulation of not only humans, but plants and animals also.

This is an essential book to read and one that I would suggest to my peers so that they have a better, a clearer understanding of what it means when they say, “It’s in my genes.” Heredity and its implications are very often misinterpreted by even the most literate individuals. It isn’t unusual to find well-read people considering hereditary illnesses in a child the explicit fault of either or both of the parents. In most cases, people blame the mother for not eating well enough (for example) for having given birth to a child with some form of rare genetic defect such as an extra chromosome. This is because people do not understand the complex mechanism that goes into the making of a living being. And it’s very easy to slander what one doesn’t understand. Another important reason to read about the gene is to begin understanding cancer, for cancer is a result of genes malfunctioning, one way or another; albeit the triggers may vary.

Readers will enjoy this book because of Mukherjee’s style of writing, his references to contemporary and classic cultural influences and his well timed sense of humour. One certainly hopes the author continues writing, because the genre of scientific literature could use authors such as Mukherjee to keep the flame burning and illuminate the masses.