2 States – A review

Chetan Bhagat strikes a chord with the readers at the cover page itself, with Punjab and Tamil Nadu, extending hands to each other. The struck chord is re-struck, played magnanimously, melodiously and all in tune as is evident several times in the book. And in a brave sycophantic effort, he dedicates the book to his in-laws ! – a self-proclaimed first. The novel has all elements characteristic of Chetan Bhagat – youthful modern characters, mildly abusive conversations, a messed-up relationship and a twist in the end. It says the story of Krish and Ananya, a madly-in-love IIMA couple, who being from different states go through the perplexing meandering process of convincing each-other’s parents. The always-in-trouble Hari from IITD comes of age in IIMA, sincerity and calm brimming not only from the character, but the book as well, as it begins with a not-so-whirlwind romance between the-hottest-girl-in-the-batch and our central protagonist. The courtship with parents is endearing and central to the plot – in fact that is the plot itself. The distinctive characteristics of states are well-etched out and integral to the story. Although, I felt the narrative did lack a compelling characterization, especially of Krish’s father. A pinch more of believability would have added the zing – atleast for me – to the novel.

I loved it none-the-less and read it in one go, from page 1 to page 269 without a break !

- Now onto “Anne Frank – the diary of a young girl”

Avi Speaks

1. It unfurls ..
“I have a last name. My identity is complete. Have you ever felt hollow on the inside. Lonely because you don’t share the name the connection with the people you share a roof with. I felt that all my life. Each of those days is livid in front of my eyes. I don’t know why my folks never gave me a last name. I feel they never gave it a thought, I feel they never gave me a thought.”

I paused for a second. The silence was growing on my mind and I felt submerged in it.

“Avi Sharma. Ecstasy ! I can’t hold it in myself. It feels like exploding, I try to control it by counting the revolutions of the celing fan. Against a white background, the black blades of an eternal rotation.
One .. two .. three.
His face is clear, I can see it across the scarlet night lamp’s glow briefly interspersed by the fan blades. He is smiling at me, happy that I am content. The room is a lovely white, the rose petals on the bed complement the rose on my cheeks, in the parting of my hair and the blood red on the bed sheet. A conjugal bed, a calm night, a silent mind and a loving husband bedside. Life is turning for good.
Four.. five.. six.
Sleep is rare when the heart leaps, the thud across my chest is so loud I fear it will awaken Aru. Try to calm down.
Seven.. eight.. nine.
I look at the wall clock. I always loved doing that. Awake till mid-night, just to look at the date change. It can give you a feeling of both desperation – to catch the day you just wiled away – and a sense of achievement at the same time for having survived it. It is this mixed exasperation and delight that draws me to it and I stare at the clock every single night as both hands overlap as if a communion of the beloved – long awaited unfulfilled desire coming true, just for a minute though. And yet, that second of closeness, proximity and passion is a defining moment that justifies the day, gives it an existence, a present a past. And this consummation conceives the future, the next day – thereby completing the cycle of time – the cycle of life.
Ten.. eleven.. twelve.
A slight shadow across the window attracts my attention. The tulsi plant outside our window is shivering in the windy delhi night. Our window, our tulsi, our night. The transformation from I to we, my to our, is beautiful and completing.
Thirteen.. fourteen.. fifteen.
They say orgasm is the best gift a man can give a woman, I feel it’s the identity, a self-belief and the whole life falls into perspective. As the hands separate in the clock, Aru falls into a deep slumber. I grope around for my pack of cigs. They say smoking feels great after sex. It is not there. Let me look at his side of the bed. Got it. As I light one up, the dark of the night weighs on my heart like an unfinished story and an unfinished story it is, my life. Its our first night together after marriage.
Sixteen.. Seventeen.. Eighteen.
Marriage .. it feels strange to think about Aru and marriage in one thought. Puff … I like the haze it leaves in front of my eyes. And as my mind clears .. my eyes haze out slowly, into a trance, a tranquil sleepy haze, that starts in the mind and takes me back, back to the day I first saw him.”

All eyes were transfixed on me. I anticipated the adoration in their eyes. The voice continued.

“It was not love at first sight. In fact, I did not even know about love at the time of that sight.”

I thought – corny one liner. I don’t even know about it now. He smiled with the gaze.

“I like to think of love as a potent sentiment that can arise from stagnant emotions for a need of dynamism, growth – a selfish engrossing need to identify oneself with another being. It can start from concern, sympathy or even hate. And it grows on your persona ever so slowly, like a creeper that needs the supporting stem when it begins, but afterwards the existence of the support is defined by the creeper itself, as the plant capers over and engulfs the very personality of the support and transforms it into a plant itself.”

There was an appreciative murmur in the crowd. Bah! Humbug, the pseudo-intellectual in me .. ! I will get to it in due time. Let the storyteller stay behind the story for the time being.

“Anyways, I felt like it was a dream or is my mind conjuring up lovelorn pictures of a first encounter, I don’t know and I will never find out. Nor do I intend to try. I am happy with the ironies, the contradictions of my love story.”

My mind was racing ahead of my voice. The thoughts and the story were becoming one.

“Sometimes, I feel as if, we – as a race – are dreaming a collective dream and this whole world is an apparition in all of our minds. It started with befooling others and then the lie became so convincing and it cast a spell, a web around us. Aru was such an apparition only, beautiful, disturbed yet calm and unwillingly I was drawn to him the moment I saw him. But, again I like to believe that it was not love at first sight. Love at first sight has a sense of desperation attached to it. It signifies that I was looking for love in the first place and found it in him and accepted it undeniably, unquestioningly as the final truth, as the meaning of my existence or the existence of my meaning or both. So, the story as I tell it is not love at first sight. The story really is not in my hand. I keep putting thoughts ahead of facts –feelings ahead of incidents – self ahead of the story. I really am a selfish author. (Sheepish Grin).”

The hall burst into a deafening round of applause. I suddenly felt very conscious of a perspiring throat. As I looked around for a glass of water, I could sense the nervous twitching beginning once again. It happened always – amidst the applause, the guilt surfaced yet again. I looked for the calming face, it was there, as always. He handed the glass of water to me. I gulped it down in one go, my gaze transfixed on him, all the time. He wore the customary white chemiz with black trousers. I could not remember a time when he had seen him wearing anything else. It was as if he was born with it and the clothes just grew with him. I smiled at the thought. It was reviving. The crowd was still applauding the excerpt. It had been years in the making, these claps, these appreciations, the looks and now, as it materialized in front of me, I could not hold back the tears, howsoever hard I tried.

“Great reading Ma’am. You were exquisite.” The familiar honey tongued Gullak.
“Were you expecting something less …” I replied.

He fumbled for words as always. There was an unusual wily air about him today, more self-assured than he normally seemed. And yet, he groped around for words. I always wonder why such a good manager as he was he was lost for words – maybe he just thought too fast and was unable to match his tongue. His name is not Gullak, but for the matter of the story, we ll let it be. I am Arusha Virmani, I am just returning from the first reading of my debut novel.
“No Ma’am, umm not at at all” Gullak fumbled once again.
“Call the driver. I want to go home.” Home. A wondrous word indeed. There is such closeness, a sort of intimacy in the pronunciation itself.

2. And then furled
The slow brooding tobacco-breath more than the knock on my desk woke me up from my slumber. I looked around for a cover.
Something, anything.
Nothing.
Sigh !
It is impossible to escape the wrath of a Machine Drawing professor – intent on putting you through the grind of having to draw a grinder from all sides – especially when found sleeping in a class on tolerences.
It brought a quirky smile of my face yet again or so I thought.

“Such behavior will not be tolerated in my class.” – He screamed at the top of voice.
“But it is a class of tolerences, is it not?” – I almost half blurted the stupid thought. I am quite self contained though and will always be proud to have held it in.
“I am sorry sir.” – is what I finally said.
“Sorry. huh! The audacity to sleep and then you don’t even respect me enough to stand up while responding.” – And he proceeded to strike out all my attendences from the register none-the-less.
I could almost hear the slushing sound of all the got-up-at-7:50-puffy-eyed efforts going down the drain.
Gush, gullup, gullup, phissh!

I am not Arusha Virmani, but for sure I want to be – despite needing a sex change. I have been dreamy always – I never could figure out why I dreamt of myself as a lady though – but never have the dreams struck me so hard where it hurts most. As I tried to get up in a panic-struck moment of insanity, my innards squashed against the table. I half-hoped the resulting expression would melt the prof.’s heart. Anyhow, that is my story as it starts. A devoted engineering student at your service.

3. Who the hell is this Arusha Virmani ?
“You were just so laid back in your ironies, just too self-un-involved. Always going round-about about and about .. again and again .. It was I who made life a challenge for you. I gave you direction, a way forward, I brought you face to face with reality, with truth ….” She cribbed twirling the strand of hair on her finger absentmindedly. I sort of loved that about her. She could be serious about everything in a playful way. And whenever I tried that, I got stuck up being .. stupid .. to put it mildly.

“Truth is just a sequence of random ideas, coincidences life throws at you, especially you, that you try to put together and see a bigger picture. The truth is that there is no truth. It’s all perception, your or mine, and mine says fuck the bigger picture ! I bask in the glory of my insignificance, I don’t matter and so I don’t care.” I blabbered wondering if this was the last line before she got up, and left. It hurt me though – that I was more concerned about the 18 rupees I would have to shell out for her Maggi in case she did that – than my love life going down the drain.

“And the bullcrap begins again. You really don’t give a shit to life, do you?”

“Life, aah! How strange it sounds coming from you, you just suck the juice out of it, churn it about and .. “

“Cut the crap, Roh.., there really is no worth talking to you. You don’t care about those who care, you don’t ..” – It was the ambition, I was sure..

“All I can say is, here we are celebrating the uselessness of a man, barely a man, in your supposed bigger picture. But to see the picture, you have to step out of the frame. That is what I am doing, when no one sees you, you see everything. I am just cleaning the lens, and for that the glasses have to be removed. I can go on and on with the metaphors as thats all I want to do … you need not bother.”

“I need not bother! All you ever do bothers me, bothers all of us. You are dumb, not suited for the world, our world.”
“Or maybe, the world is not suited for me. All I am trying to do is find out.”
“And what good would that do?”
“Why do you breathe?”
“What the fuck .. you are just …”
“No, no please answer. Why do you breathe?”
” Because you ass, if I don’t I will die”
“And if I don’t find out, I will die.”
“I guess that would be better, atleast for you.”
“Well, what can I say? I will find out.”

“Waiter, Bill please.” And I heaved a sigh of relief and in a gentlemanly way, pretended to put my share of the “treat” – a coffee and 2 smokes – but she won even that .. The 50 rupee note glistening on the table.

And that was our last conversation or so I thought. I thought it on all our dates these days. As the days of placement and suit wearing and interviews and GDs and tests and decision making began, our thoughts and our gestures had drifted apart. I was walking through the gallery by blue lagoon a puff in hand, a whistle on the lips
- Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya,
har fikr ko dhuein main udata chala gaya …
That day was crystal clear in my eyes, I wondered if I was imagining it or was it happening all over – the smoke making me hazy – 31st Decemeber ..

4. This day that year
The watch just kept ticking. A desperate stare at it again. I looked at the glass door pretending to be in deep thought.

A female silhouette – alright, a white jacket – she loves white, the light .. come into the light.!!

She returns the utter What-You-Staring-At look. Someone else. How many times, How many. I look at the watch once again. The lines from our chat running through my mind. It was __ PM. ______’s. 31st .

2006.!! Godammit yes. !! So, what was it. The waiter comes around again.
W : Anything else for you, sir.
I : No, I am waiting for someone.
Oh No, it’s the thoughts again. As if he is playing mind games with me. Yes, the crooked smile. Why doesn’t he ask. Why the hell.
The red appareled monster walks away returning the hostile stare.

A birthday party at the table in front. Oh, how mushy she seems – The girl in red top and black denims. Is she going to look like her ? or Her friend in black pullover? The one with the grey bag? Oh, how I hate it ? and them. So happy .Go celebrate at your home. I still manage the unfelt smile as the birthday girl looks at me. The nod – ‘Happy Birthday, unknown girl’. She nods too – ‘Buzz off, bugger’.

And that is when I realize how different how different .. just leave it. When will she come? And goodness, it’s been just five minutes I’ve been here. And that fat woman has eaten 3 pastries. Yes, the fat lady with the cute kid. And goodness gracious me, how blue are those pastries. As if all the blues that I can feel have been baked and served cold. Cold-hearted. Will she be fat? Is there a she?

I just avoid the cuddling-cute-couple with utter disdain, again. A total ab-use of time. I mean, what are you talking about. What on earth, that you haven’t looked up in .. in .. in the five minutes that I have been here. Me and the Red-Clothed waiter, I bet the same thought runs through his head too. And he threw a smile at me. I just ducked away. The hostile look is back.
I prepare for the speech and the look, that would save me the embarrassment – what would I say ? should I even go back home? Do I have enough money to make a living in Bombay? Aunt shelly would keep me till eternity? – staring past the window into the horizon. Have I been stood-up? Is this … is this oh, just leave it.

She smiled and said Hi. I could just muster the wave, the wave of the hand that blew the blues away. The fat lady, the birthday troupe, the waiter, the couple .. all smiling. The world is wonderful.

—-

Disclaimer – The names are fictitious. Do not look them up in google. Also, if you bear one of these, do not sue me, please. Any resembelance to living or dead people or animals is coincidental and unintentional.

Sujoy speaks

I can’t recall how many times I have had this feeling. It’s almost like deja vu.
Heights have a drastic effects on the psyche of all. Some relate it to power, glory. Some relate it to a sense of betterness, superiority. To me, height has always been .. a medium, a preposterous deceitful lure. I have been to all suicide points .. its like being home .. imagining what it would be like .. this feeling of freefall .. and a void at the end of it .. It attracts me to it. It is a fatal attraction, constant and unnerving at times. All I think of when in elevators is how it would feel, when I am up there. That is what makes it a wound. A wound on the top of your mouth, which would heal itself, if you stop tounging it, but you can’t. And it grows, grows on your reluctance and yet inability to give in.
I have talked to my shrink about it. At first, she used to think it is acrophilia of some sorts, thats what made me an interesting case. She used to take interest in me. I was a one-off case. But, it all unfurled slowly to her.
She says its a sign of clinical depression, she says I like heights because I imagine them to be ambitions, and mine have not been fulfilled, thats why this glory with heights and suicide. She pretends she knows it all and maybe she does it.
But if any of my ambitions have drowned .. I dont know of it. If I ever fostered an ambition, I don’t know of it. All i know is … this puff will be my last .. I will finally embrace the ecstacy of freefall

… it was a lovely show .. my life … but the best part to me is the climax…

-Sujoy

21

21 is one of the few non-fictional books that I have read of our times that is fun to read, exciting, breath-taking, original, pacy yet some-how true and happened to the least expected protagonist, MIT students.
Consider this, you are a nerd, you find a way to make money, filthy lots of it, that suits your geeky self, is perfectly -almost perfectly- legal and involves Mathematics. MIT is the black-drop of the story, where Kevin befriends suspicious rich kids and becomes one of them in a journey that seems so real, it could have happened in front of your eyes. In the vast-lands of Vegas, under the tress of Black-jack grow stacks of bills, if you are keen enough to see, intelligent enough to learn and most importantly, frezzing cool in high adrenaline crunch situations. And these kids are the reapers, but they find out they are not solitary, and thus begins the competition, a race for more.
All in all, It is a worthy read if you a know of a bit of cards, a bit of maths and dream to make it big !

Now on to “Half of a yellow sun”.

The calcutta chromosome

To know it, is to change it.” – Sounds like heisenberg’s principle for knowledge, pretty much inline with the “ignorance is bliss” motto that I follow. It is around this thought that the Calcutta Chromosome revolves.

“

Amitav ghosh weaves a web of history, mysticism, adventure and thrill around Ronald Ross’ research on Malaria and the alternate science. The book is un-put-downable and vivid. Some of the scenes still haunt me, the railway platform one in particular. It is written in such profound manner, I could hear the sounds almost too close for comfort. The plot meanders through Newyork and Calcutta across the horizons of time, its tightly composed and well-brought out. The second half in particular in too involving and convoluted. The story and the presentation is a masterpiece, science and mysticism in a race, though towards the ending, mysticism takes over and the ending seems too abrupt for all the interest the novel succeeds in generating. The book left me a bit confused, unsatisfied and wanting more.

Amitav leaves a lot to the reader’s imagination that feels good in a way … all in all, a great book !

… Now on to “21″

Shallow laughter.

“You were just so laid back in your ironies, just too self-un-involved. Always going round-about about and about .. again and again .. It was I who made life a challenge for you. I gave you direction, a way forward, I brought you face to face with reality, with truth ….”
“Truth is just a sequence of random ideas, coincidences life throws at you, especially you, that you try to put together and see a bigger picture. The truth is that there is no truth. It’s all perception, your or mine, and mine says fuck the bigger picture ! I bask in the glory of my insignificance, I don’t matter and so I don’t care.”
“And the bullcrap begins again. You really don’t give a shit to life, do you?”
“Life, aah! How strange it sounds coming from you, you just suck the juice out of it, churn it about and .. “
“Cut the crap, Roh.., there really is no worth talking to you. You don’t care about those who care, you don’t ..”
“All I can say is, here we are celebrating the uselessness of a man, barely a man, in your supposed bigger picture. But to see the picture, you have to step out of the frame. That is what I am doing, when no one sees you, you see everything. I am just cleaning the lens, and for that the glasses have to be removed. I can go on and on with the metaphors as thats all I want to do … you need not bother.”
“I need not bother! All you ever do bothers me, bothers all of us. You are dumb, not suited for the world, our world.”
“Or maybe, the world is not suited for me. All I am trying to do is find out.”
“And what good would that do?”
“Why do you breathe?”
“What the fuck .. you are just …”
“No, no please answer. Why do you breathe?”
” Because you ass, if I don’t I will die”
“And if I don’t find out, I will die.”
“I guess that would be better, atleast for you.”
“Well, what can I say? I will find out.”

“Waiter, Bill please.”

Shallow laughter resumes and still no one cares.

Sacred Games – Vikram Chandra.

Sartaj walked stiffly to the window. Beyond the fizzing yellow lamps in the compound of the neighbouring building, there was the darkness of the sea, and far ahead, a sprinkling of bright blue and orange that was Bandra. With a good pair of binoculars, you could even see Nariman Point, not so far across the sea but at least an hour away on empty night-time roads, and very far from Zone 13. Sartaj felt a sudden ache in his chest. It was as if two blunt stones were grinding against each other, creating not fire but a dull, steady grow, a persistent and unquiet desire. It rose into his throat and his decision was made.

Twelve minutes of fast driving took him through the underpass and on to the highway. The open stretches of road and the wheel slipping easily through his fingers were exhilarating, and he laughed at the speed. But in Tardeo the traffic was backed up between the brightly-lit shops, and Sartaj was suddenly angry at himself, and wanted to turn around and go back.

- an excerpt

Vikram Chandra creates magic on a mediocre and cliched plot with a brilliant eclectic mix of nifty writing and superb characterization. Sacred Games spans the length and breadth of Mumbai, interspersed with the life of Sartaj Singh, a police inspector and Ganesh Gaitonde, the quintessential gangster. It is a fast paced thriller that grows on conversation and incident. The characters are well-etched and grow with the pages under the book-mark. Its a 900-page epic with an all-encompassing storyline. All in all,
“Isme action hai, drama hai, suspense hai, bole to Superhit !”

The Kite Runner

Picture this – I am on CMH road, Bangalore for “a bank job” rushing through to the office, hurriedly when my eyes fall upon The Kite Runner. Now, normally I don’t trust my instincts abouts books having failed on more than respectable times, but the cover picture is so simple, a boy looking from behind a wall that I give in. Standing in the queue itself, I start browsing through it.

The Kite Runner is the narrator’s tale of life and times in Afghanistan. It is the story of a young boy, Amir in happy and turbulent times. It is a story of guilt and remorse and yet somehow, Hosseini keeps it upbeat and lovable. The bond between Amir and Hassan, his hazara, is quite humane and touching. I particularly liked the understated complex nature of their relationship of master and servant and their friendship inspite of that. The characters of Ali and Baba are etched to perfection. Picturisation of life in pre-soviet Afghanistan seems fictional in our times, and yet has a personal touch to it. The twists in the tail are melodramatic and a little too swift for my taste and yet I loved the way the story unfolds, how the kite runner Hassan is tormented and yet at peace with his life, the kindred of baba towards Hassan and Ali, Amir’s life as a writer and his final plunge to free himself of guilt. Hoseinni is a master story teller and has his way with words.

A movie by the same name has also been made and I am awaiting eagerly for it.

The ground beneath her feet

And it read,

All my life, I worshiped her.

Her golden voice, her beauty’s beat.

How she made me feel, how she made me real,

And the ground beneath her feet.

And now I can’t be sure of anything,

black is white, and cold is heat.

For what I worshiped stole my love away,

it was the ground beneath her feet.

She was my ground, my favorite sound,

my country road, my city street,

my sky above, my only love,

and the ground beneath my feet.

Go lightly down your darkened way,

go lightly underground,

I ll be there another day

I won’t rest until you are found

Let me love you true, Let me rescue you

Let me lead you to where two roads meet.

O come back above, where there’s only love,

And the ground beneath your feet.

He closed the book down, a tear in his eye. It was not the ending, but for him, it was

THE END

All he could do was smile.

It felt like a thorn in his neck. It had been hours since he had had water. He looked with contempt at her on the other end of the room. He had been rendered helpless by the continous struggle with his life .. Unable to move a limb – paralysis-struck , he just sat there with a look of apprehension on his sad face. Sometimes, he had suicidal tendencies .. but he couldn’t even commit suicide himself. Amused at the irony of his thoughts, he just let the depression wisp away ..

And like a fresh breeze of air, she turned towards him. For months now, she had been his only human contact, his nurse. It felt nice to see that someone cared for you while you couldn’t. But she wasn’t actually caring. It was just a moribund exercise she went on with to support her family. She wasn’t beautiful either. And she always cribbed about how tough life had been to her. All he could do was smile …

She brought his glass of water. Staring at the ceiling .. he saw her with the corner of his eye .. he felt relieved

And the reflections from the glass fell on his-self – on his life ..

It was niether a glass hall full nor a glass half empty, It was just a very big glass .. !

And he realised that had been the story of life .. just a very big glass

…

The media greeted him .. and she turned towards him with a glass of water .. all he could do was smile.

Today, his book ‘A very big glass’ was being nominated for the booker prize ..