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.