Chanakya's Chant - Book Review

Historical fiction is not really a genre that I prefer. But when the hefty 450-page paperback came into my hands, I started reading the first few pages, assuming that this book would leave soon. I read the Prologue and was hooked. It took a while to go through the entire book but each day I would eagerly return to the pages, so see how the bilayered narrative developed.

Chanakya's Chant is a story about the legendary Chanakya who begins life as Vishnugupta, son of learned Chanak of the ancient kingdom of Magadha. But Chanakya's Chant is also a Sanskrit verse that is described multiple times in the modern day story that parallels the original tale. Pandit Gangasagar Mishra, a modern day Chanakya uses the powerful chant to further the political career of his protege in the sleazy world of Indian politics. The two stories are told side by side and mark the steady progression of the potential rulers, Chandragupta Maurya as leader of a united Bharat in 340 BC under Chanakya's tutelage and of Chandini Gupta, aspiring to be India's Prime Minister under the training of Mishraji.

It is an extremely well-researched book with very tight narration that keeps you glued to the pages as you learn the smart and underhanded ways in which kings are mere puppets in the hands of the kingmakers. With the uncanny ability to process reams of seemingly unrelated information, predict the behaviors of the other sides, and ruthless precision, these Chanakya's steadily advance their proteges towards the desired goal. While the historical Chanakya leaves his long hair untied until he fulfills his prophecy of avenging his father's death, the motivation of Gangasagar Mishra is not quite clear.

The author, Ashwin Sanghi, has divulged many secrets commonly known to modern-day politicians and some historical secrets like the use of the many medicinal plants available in India which can be used to harm or heal. Preying on the vices and weakness of men, even men as powerful as the great Alexander, Chanakya and his counterpart Mishra, bring about the fall of emperors and ministers, all mere pawns in the race to secure the highest position of power. One striking aspect that stands out is the fact that the art of politics is truly the Arthashastra, the science of wealth, not governance.

A must read for history buffs but highly recommended for those looking for a thrilling read as well.

Sight Vs Vision

I am at an age where I have to admit that sometimes reading fine print becomes difficult. For a voracious book worm like me, the ultimate punishment is to keep me away from my beloved books. I still read a lot more than most people in my circle but it is definitely less than what I am used to reading. Some days are better than others and so I carry on, refusing to get the reading glasses that would instantly alleviate my discomfort. It is pure vanity that makes me do this. It is possible that there will be a day when I have to capitulate but I would like to delay it as long as I can. So I have started doing some eye exercises that are supposed to strengthen the eye muscles and reverse the aging process. Doing this makes me feel a little bit in control, knowing fully that nature marches in only one direction - forward.

But growing older has its rewards. Perhaps with failing eyesight, there is compensation in the form of vision. We often use the words interchangeably, equating the action of a sense organ to the ability to look deeper, further into an unknown future, seeing it happen before others can. Is it age that makes this possible? Or experience? Or self-knowledge which then translates into wisdom? Vision is not the power to predict the future but sensing of what is ahead in the maze of life without having a map. It is an internal compass that guides but does not give a recipe. Vision is what builds value in the long term regardless of losses that may happen in the interim. Vision does not necessarily come with age, some are blessed at a young age. I am not sure how finely honed my visionary skills are at this time but I think it is better for me to acknowledge my yearning for acquiring vision even as I lament the loss in eyesight. As Helen Keller famously said "It is a terrible thing to see but have no vision."

One Amazing Thing - Book review

Nine people are trapped in the basement of a building in an unnamed American city. This group of strangers are bound together for an unspecified period of time due to the earthquake that traps them in an unlikely place - the Indian consulate office. With this interesting premise, Chitra Banerjee brings together people of various races, religion, age and economic backgrounds to rally around their shared fate of being forced to stay together while they await rescue or death. The strange situation of spending time in a dark gloomy about-to-collapse building, makes the usually reticent strangers divulge their secret stories to a willing audience that amicably suspends judgement as it listens intently to each of them in turn.

Chitra Banerjee has woven together a reasonably plausible plot to explain the reasons for the stereotypical characters to want to visit India in spite of their apparent lack of connection to the country or their reluctance to do so, as the case may be. So we have Cameron, the African American ex-military man, a well-heeled Caucasian couple, the Pritchetts, a Chinese grandmother (Jiang) with a surly teenager granddaughter Lily, Tariq an angry Muslim boy, Uma a young single woman, and the two Indians from India - the consulate employees Malathi and Mangalam, taking turns to spill their stories into a room where a leaking water source starts flooding the floor, parts of the ceiling collapse and their hopes of rescue decline with each tale that is told.

I have read many of Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni's books and I am impressed with her writing style. The prose is poetic and her metaphors are unique, underlining the beauty of each observation. But her strength has been in writing for a predominantly American audience and her stories border on a magic realism underpinning to narratives that superficially appear to be about contemporary issues. This hybrid genre unique to Indian writers writing about India from their location based in Western societies has spawned many authors and Banerjee is at the forefront among them. While she has been prolific in creating diverse narratives, this book is different from her usual formula. With the key ingredient of "exotic" India missing from the stories within the larger story, the book is at best a half-baked attempt to link what might have been better presented as a collection of short stories instead of a homogenous novel.

The individual characters don't seem like real people and the disjointed tales serve no larger purpose of moving the story forward. Perhaps the biggest disappointment is the ending which really is neither an ending nor a reasonable denouement for a novel. Although an attempt to explain the title is made in the last few pages, it fails to register. The book is not in the same realm as any of Banerjee's previous writings and appears to a half-hearted and shoddy attempt at publishing within a deadline.

Late bloomers

It was Wimbledon finals this weekend with surprise victories with ever younger and newer talent taking the spotlight. In the arenas of sports and entertainment, it seems like the winners are getting younger each year. Fortune seems to bless only the early birds, the child prodigies, the tender saplings that are nurtured by ambitious parents and blessed by lady luck soon after birth. This seems consistent with the public interest in fresh news stories and fresh faces to look at, novelty is the first priority for an audience that has attention spans shorter than that of toddlers.

But what about arenas where age and experience blend to create masterpieces that depict the depth of the creator's talent. Performing arts require years of practice. So do the visual arts like painting and sculpture. Great literature demands the writer to dive into the world and ferret out pearls of wisdom and then fashion them by his/her talent and fluency of language into classic works. A young writer may have voice that is unique to his age and generation and certainly carry contemporary lingo with ease, but does the work have the ripeness of a rich life behind it? If publishers seek a young and marketable author to produce bestsellers, where would the writers who have toiled for decades on honing their craft and polishing their storytelling skills go?

This weekend's The Hindu's literary supplement carried an article about four senior women writers (above 70 years of age) whose initial works have been recently published by Leadstart Publishers. The women featured were Gouri Dash, Dhiruben Patel, Ambika Sirkar and Meera Sashital. What is common to these women is their ongoing interest in reading, a trait they cultivated during the years they handled traditional responsibilities. What is unique to these women from a generation where their roles were gender-bound, is their assertion that writing is as natural as breathing, it is what makes them feel young, it is their companion as they face the challenges of their age. They write for one reason - it makes them happy.

Seeing their words in print has taken them a lifetime. But they persist, they persevere, they still read and of course, they write. Their motivation is not public adulation, accolades and prizes, but a desire to share their gift through the medium of the written word. And one day, the audience shows up.

It is reassuring to see that there is a place in this world for late bloomers as well.

Mistress - Book Review

The prologue of the book begins with "The face. Yes, let's begin with the face that determines the heart's passage. It is with the face we decode thoughts into a language without sounds. Does that perplex you? How can there be a language without sounds, you ask. Don't dent it. I see the question in your eyes."

I put the book away after the first page. Not because the prose was difficult or the story hard to follow. But because it required effort from me. As I approached the book once more, with greater commitment, I understood why. The central character is Koman, an elderly Kathakali dancer, an artist wedded to his art. He is Uncle to Radha, his niece who lives at the adjacent resort, Near-the-Nila, with her husband Shyam. The novel unfolds with the arrival of Chris Stewart, a foreigner ostensibly interested in capturing the story of Koman's life, to understand the man and the veshakaran (actor).

Split into three parts, Anita Nair tells a spellbinding tale of the exciting life of Sethu, Koman's father, who returns to India after running away from home as a teenager to Colombo. He makes a life with the kind Doctor Samuel who rescues him and Sethu (as Seth) becomes a devoted assistant. Fate takes Sethu to Arabipatnam, a mirage-like place populated exclusively by Arab descendants where he meets Saadiya. Koman, the son born to them is left in the care of a caring Christian woman until Sethu takes him in and gives him a home along with his other two sons born of Devayani.

Why does Koman begin the story with that of his parents? This is explained through the medium of Kathakali that becomes Koman's life in his teens. Kathakali requires the performer to interpret, says Koman; and to do that, he has to imagine and interpret not just his life but the lives of all others who have been a part of his life.

So the reader gets to meet all the characters that shape Koman's life, his brothers Mani and Babu (Radha's father), Aashan (his Kathakali guru), Dr. Samuel, Lalitha, Angela and Maya. Just as the book is in three parts, the narrative is from three points of view, Uncle, Radha and Shyam. And each part of the book begins with an introduction to the nine emotions, Sringaram, Haasyam, Karunam, Raudram, Veeram, Bhayaanakam, Beebhalsam, Adbhutam and Shaantam.

Superficially the story is about the undeniable attraction between Radha and Chris as Uncle mutely witnesses the ecstasy and inevitable pain that follows. But what is the book really about? Is it about "Art being a demanding mistress" or the fleeting nature of love that devours mere mortals in a tidal wave but soon passes? Is it about an artist's devotion to art, like Aashan's, that leaves him with no reason to continue living when he retires? Is it about the social conscience that seeks to legitimize man-woman relationships? It is a difficult question to answer.

All I can say is that Mistress is an exquisite book. With her genius for showing us the truth in everything we see, Anita Nair has created a performance with words that is as breathtaking as a Kathakali dance. I don't know what I should praise and what to leave out. The exquisite descriptions of the facial acrobatics required to create emotions in Kathakali, the soul stirring feelings that new love creates, the passive ways in which relationships continue to wither, the exciting story-telling (specially the part about Arabipatnam and each of the performances with the mythological context) or the detailed etching of each character?

I made slow progress through the 400 or so pages of this book and only at the end I realized why. Uncle tells a friend, "Classical art requires an effort from the audience. You don't become a connoisseur overnight. You need to imbibe it. You need to educate yourself, and it takes time to reach a level where you can understand the artist's imitation." It took time for me to savor this epic, time to get into the rhythm of the storytelling and time to get into the skin of the character.

Through this book I learnt the difference between an artist and a performer. I questioned "What is now?" I touched the ephemeral nature of art and the divine pursuit of it.

For all you readers, I leave you with one warning. Mistress is a demanding journey.

Keep the Change - Book Review

The protagonist B. Damayanthi leaves behind a boring life with parents in Chennai and jumps into the cauldron of corporate life in Mumbai in this debut novel by Nirupama Subramanian. An only child of doting parents who are desperately trying to "settle" their only daughter into matrimony don't agree with the plans of apparently demure Damayanthi who harbors a wicked side, one that is revealed in her letters to her friend Victoria. Through this regular correspondence with Victoria we get a glimpse into the naughty workings of Damayanthi's mind as she pulls off a major coup by landing a job with First Global in Mumbai.

In what seems like a fairytale transition, the sheltered Damayanthi finds her feet in the world of corporate banking set amidst the landscape of the cosmopolitan urban jungle that is Mumbai. We meet characters such as the lovable Jimmy Daruwalla, her colleague and comrade-in-arms at First Global, CG - a management consultant hired for the special project that Damayanthi and Jimmy are relegated to and the too good to be true Rahul that Damayanthi falls for. Damayanthi's female accomplices are a sympathetic friend Sumi who periodically gives her gyan while obsessing about her soon to be fiance, while the "other woman" Sonya Sood, the hot roommate becomes a thorn who continually assaults Damayanthi's self-esteem with her suave and sophisticated ways.

The author skilfully portrays Mumbai through the eyes of a newcomer and deftly sketches the characters and plot with an easy touch of humor. There are laugh out lines in many places, particularly while describing the weird ways of doing business that seems to be the specialty of large corporations. The protagonist is a lovable character full of spunk and self-doubt, a mix of traditional values trying to find its place in a new world of fast lives and loose morals. There is not much in the way of a story, the plot is simple, moves forward steadily through the chapters and ends on a predictable note.

A simple, funny travel read.

Monsoon memories

I was in Mumbai last week. The sky reflected a profusion of dull moisture-laden clouds in the puddles that lined the streets outside Mumbai airport's terminal 2. The vigorous wind blew my hair across my face as I struggled to find my name on the sign board of the hotel that was offering me a complimentary airport pickup. The sky continued to be same monochrome grayness of freshly poured concrete, interspersed only by the frequent showers, drenching passersby who hurried to dry shelters. The view from my window was depressing, the under-construction metro flyer coming up within touching distance of this fancy hotel did not do much to improve the ambiance. I wondered if the foreign business travelers would continue to patronize this hotel once metro trains roared outside their windows.

But monsoons in Mumbai have always been a time of pleasure and pain. The rains signaled the end of summer holidays that stretched endlessly and the beginning of a new school year. The skies poured liquid relief on the residents hassled by a long, unrelentingly humid summer. New books, uniforms, plastic shoes and click raincoats. Catching up with friends, braving the lashing rain that made the spanking new book covers into soggy messes and ensured everyone had a bad hair day. I remember reaching college completely drenched and leaving the umbrella in the back of the classroom to dry. With 100% atmospheric humidity, neither the clothes nor umbrellas would dry and another deluge would be waiting to accompany us on the bus ride home. Home would be a warm and welcome place where you could strip off the dripping clothes and unload the unsuspecting creatures that had hitched a ride with you - earthworms, small frogs and gods other creatures that visited us annually.

My brothers and I would sit around enjoying hot food or steaming cups of tea, exchanging war stories on our day and how we scored a victory (or usually lost to) over the rain gods. As much as I remember the monsoons, it has been a constant witness to the millions who make this maximum city their own. Learning to live with and in spite of the incessant rains, is a rite of passage that has shaped all of us who consider this place home, even when we do not live there.

I am not sure if I can become a resident of Mumbai once more. In its crazy growth the city seems to have forgotten me. Or is it me who has been banished for leaving the comfortable folds of a big city, I who once knew the bus routes and train stations on the western and central railway lines? Even as I see new flyovers, connecting roads, buildings of glass and steel that were not around when I was a little girl, Mumbai still feels like home. And I still wonder at the feelings that come up when I witness something as awe-inspiring as the monsoon in Mumbai.