There was no one at the Bus Stop by Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay

Thanks to prolific translator, Arunava Sinha, I am learning to be a Bengali all over again. Sinha has translated a number of books by some of the most famous names in contemporary Bengali literature. Thanks to him, 'probashi' (expat) Bengalis like me are getting to savour the wonderful literature Bengal has had to offer in the last few decades. I grew up hearing my mother wax eloquent about writers like Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay, Sunil Ganguly, Bani Basu, Sankar and others and they were always a world away... until now. Sinha's long list of translations include wildly popular novels, short stories, young adult fiction, and children's stories so far.  I also hear he's also translating some poetry. He has opened many wonderful doors to my mother tongue, one of which is this novella 'There was no one at the Bus Stop' by Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay.

In the middle of a fact-heavy sociological book that I'm dragging my feet, I needed to read something light. So I picked up the slimmest volume from my to-be-read pile of books on my flight to Goa. I didn't realise just how much weight the pages of a book can bear. Although I finished the book in less than two hours, 'Bus Stop' was anything but light.

Set in Kolkata the 70s, 'Bus Stop' is a simple enough story of an extra marital affair. However, it is the sea of emotions that the protagonists experience that drowns you with them. Debashish, a impudent man in his middle age is in love with Trina, a woman he knew as a girl. Freshly widowed, Debashish feels little or nothing about his late wife, but his young son, Robi has many of his heartstrings. Trina is ageing gracefully, with two adolescent children and a husband who cares more about his garden than his wife. A chance meeting brings them together and sows the seeds of desire in Debashish's heart. A melancholy Trina, squarely ignored by her family, gets drawn to him too.

The plot unfolds in a single day marked by two momentous decisions taken by the protagonists. Debashish is compelled to leave his son with his sister for a 'better' upbringing, while Trina, spurned by her family, leaves her home and goes to Debashish, hoping to reach some conclusion about her life. However, they are unable to savour their togetherness plagued by guilt and wrongdoing. It's a love that never will be.

 It is in portraying these evocative feelings that Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay's genius lies. The author's language is shorn of frills, yet amazingly lyrical in places. There are clever suggestions and plenty to read between the lines. There is none of the melodrama to express overwhelming emotions, nor explicitness to express intimacy that we see so much of in today's 'literature'. Understated, yet hard-hitting are adjectives that best describe the author's style. All I can say is that I flew through the book with lumps in my throat. Read it for Bangla literature. Read it for an insight on the beautiful and complex nature of human relationships.

ISBN: 978-0-142-06773-3
Author: Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay
Genre: Fiction
Binding: Paperback
Publisher: Penguin India
Pages: 121
Rating: 3.5/5

The Great Indian Novel, by Shashi Tharoor

The author:
Shashi Tharoor is the Indian Minister of State for Human Resource Development, Member of Parliament (MP) from Thiruvananthapuram of Kerala, an author and a columnist. Until 2007, he was a career official at the United Nations, rising to Under-Secretary General for Communications and Public Information, but resigned after losing to Ban Ki-moon in the 2007 election for the Secretary-General.

My thoughts on the book:
In a time when the Indian publishing scene is welcoming the third book of Amish’s The Shiva Trilogy, we can’t help but look back at novel ideas for writing. It was by pure chance that I chanced upon this book written by Shashi Tharoor back in 1989 and I wondered if this may have inspired Amish in some way. Tharoor takes characters from the Mahabharata and puts a real world spin on it. Like the sage Ved Vyas becomes VV ji and Lord Ganesha, the scribe of the original Mahabharata, becomes Ganapati, a South Indian boy sent by VV ji’s friend Brahm. The book, like the original Mahabharata, also has eighteen “books” titled in allusion to other literary works, and flows similarly to the great epic.

What I like in this book is the effort to bring Mahabharata as a chapter in recent Indian history. Mr. Tharoor puts his thoughts directly, as is evident from the opening line of the book. The language is pure, the comparisons are apt and the humor quite refreshing.

However, the book does feel slow and painful to read in parts, because of the context itself. And that makes the humor feel repetitive. It’s a little more tougher to digest if one has little or no knowledge of the historical events that are being discussed.

Overall, I feel this to be an interesting read. However, it would appeal more to the reader who enjoys satire and also is really interested in politics.

---

My rating: 7/10:

Book details: :
Title: The Great Indian Novel
Author: Shashi Tharoor
ISBN: 9780140120493
Genre: Satire
Publishers: Penguin India
Price: INR. 450 (without discounts)

---

Reviewed by Leo
Also shared with:

• First Reads at b00k r3vi3ws
• Indian Quills Review Challenge at The Tales Pensieve 
• Debut Indian Writers Month at The Tales Pensieve

A River Sutra

Author: Gita Mehta
Binding: Paperback
ISBN-13: 9780140233056
Publisher: Penguin India
Number of pages: 282
Price: 299
Copy Source: Own
Rating: 4/5


The good/bad invention/addiction that is Twitter is perhaps the single most influential sphere of my adult life. I've made and parted with friends here, built some real and imaginary relationships, had some genuine camaraderie unnecessary fights; I've generally allowed it to dictate big chunks of my emotional life. For me, Twitter is as real as virtual life can get. Of the most dear people I've met here is @scrollsnink or Reema. I've never met her in real life, but I can claim to love her as I would a sister. It is she who gifted me 'A River Sutra' by Gita Mehta, and I owe her big time for this one.

When Reema sent me this book, I was unimpressed with the aesthetics of the cover. It seemed mystifying, but not enough for me to pick it up immediately. After months, when all my 'review' books were finally done with, I sat down with 'A River Sutra', and it wouldn't be exaggeration to say that I drowned immediately. I realised within a few pages what The Illustrated Weekly of India meant when it said 'A River Sutra is a seminal book' (as quoted on the cover).

Page after page I wondered why the Amishs and Chetan Bhagats of the world have gotten popular and why a book like 'A River Sutra' hasn't enjoyed its deserving share of accolades. The book is a collection of stories - the monk's, the teacher's, the executive's, the courtesan's, the musician's, and the minstrel's - interlinked by the retired government official's, who acts as the sutradhar. The stories are all based along the banks of the Narmada, bringing alive its many myths and legends, coloured through the lenses of human emotion and experience. Each story is poignant, absorbing and with a magical quality to it. They are all tales of human transformation from the physical to the metaphysical, just like deliverance through the sacredness of the river Narmada.

Mehta's genius shines through in every story - both as a short story writer and a novelist. The vivid, human and completely believable protagonist of every story illustrates the writer's masterful character sketching, and one is led on rapid journeys one after the other. Whether it is the executive's bored life in the city followed by a mysterious encounter with a tribal woman, or the courtesan's tryst with a notorious bandit, each tale not
just involves the reader, but inundates him, washes him away like the swollen waters of the Narmada. Mehta writes lyrical prose and often quotes the most beautiful couplets from famous works, ranging from Rumi to Shankaracharya. She writes with the kind of simplicity only possible for geniuses, yet never compromising on her artistry. The musician's story, in particular, pierced my heart with an intensity I've not encountered in literature often. Her knowledge of the Narmada myths, Indian culture and music come through without ever sounding pedantic.

Gita Mehta has easily become one of my favourite Indian English authors, and I can place her among the ranks of Anita Desai. I would recommend this book to anyone interested in contemporary Indian fiction in all its beauty.

   

Demons of Chitrakut – Book three of The Ramayana

Author: Ashok K. Banker
Pages: 615
Binding: Paperback
ISBN: 0143033352
Publisher: Penguin
Copy: Own
Rating: 2.5/5


I’m only just past the third book of Banker’s 7-part Ramayana series, and I am already huffing and puffing. At 615 pages, Demons of Chitrakut is the longest and perhaps the tiresome-est book of the series. My resolve to read all seven books weakens, and I find it hard to review each book as a separate entity. What seemed like fascinating detailing in the beginning, now seems like an exercise in chewing gum that’s long lost its flavor. But I trudge along…

So, the Demons of Chitrakut is an account of the time between the Rama-Sita wedding to their exile in the forest of Panchavati. Pretty much the whole story takes place within the Suryavansha palace in Ayodhya and by the time one gets to the forest of Chitrakut and meets any demons, the book is nearly over. So what take Rama, Sita and Lakshman so long to justify the title of the book? Drama, and a lot of it, in true Banker style.

We have Queen Kaikeyi, under the influence of Manthara and her evil spells, seducing the near-dead King Dasarath, extracting her two boons, and then regaining her sanity only to repent her actions. We have an outraged Dasarath divorcing Kaikeyi, getting his heart broken at the realization that he has banished Rama, and crowned Bharat the crown-prince, and finally dying. We have, of course Rama leaving dutifully, Sita and Lakshman in tow. We have Queen Kausalya being noble, etc. and becoming regent to the throne and we have Manthara jumping off a tower and dying because that’s how it must end for the bad guy, right? Cut to Lanka, and we have what looks like a brain dead Ravana and civil war in the nation. Finally, there is the Rama-Sita-Lakshman trio meeting sages, tribal folk, demons, Supanakha and more demons.

But, as with all things, the book has some good things as it has bad. While Banker’s long-drawn details seem unnecessary for the most part, they do well to etch each character deeply into the reader’s mind. Always-the-underdog Lakshman, for example, gets a very definitive voice and character.  Another notable thing in this book is Banker’s interpretation of the idea of Lakshman Rekha. Unlike the usual grain-of-rice or arrow-on-soil boundary that the Lakhman Rekha is thought to be, Banker translates it as a grassy path that Lakshman builds with his own hands – a kind of natural border around the hut. It makes more sense if later in the plot, Sita is instructed to stay within the ‘borders’ of the hut rather than inside some symbolic boundary.

Supanakha’s character is also given more exposure, and her feelings for Rama, more sympathy. Disguised as a doe, Supanakha’s character follows Rama around all through the three books and one cannot help but feel bad when the showdown happens. But as the plot thickens, Rama’s dharma-esque behaviours become more frequent, and his character becomes increasingly unreal. But then that’s Rama, and this is the Ramayana – the chronicles of the ideal man. Yawn.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Also read the reviews of Part 1 and Part 2.