The standalone novels

Some novels are never meant to have sequels. These I call the stand alone novels. 

Very recently I finished reading "Go set A Watchman" by Harper Lee. Like millions of readers I had waited eagerly to read the sequel to "To Kill a Mocking bird" written years ago. But I have to confess Harper's Lee's sequel fails to evoke the same emotions her first  novel does. Scout Finch returns home from New York to a vastly changed home town; worse, her much idolized father seems to have feet of clay. The Atticus Finch she has looked up to her entire life disappoints her. "Watchman" deals with the same theme of racial prejudice, of white against black but for some reason it fails to have the same impact as "Mockingbird. "The tone of narrative is shriller, strident and at times it borders on didactic. It could be that the narrative of an innocent nine year is vastly different from that of an adult. The love angle between an adult Scout and Hank is touched upon in passing as is the death of Scout's brother Jem. Jem, a central character in the first book, dies in this one. But his death is glossed over. I found that to be a deficiency. Jem and Scout seemed inseparable but in this sequel Jem appears only in a flashback cameo. After the emotional impact of "Mocking bird" "Watchman" is oddly flat. Perhaps racial prejudice has more impact when seen through the eyes of a nine year old. Much of the humor that leavens the narrative in the first book is absent in the second. The vision is darker, the didactism pronounced though humor does make its appearance in brief flashes. All in all a sequel which fails to stir the heart as the first did. "Mocking bird" is ludicrously simple yet unbelievably profound. As truth always is.  However the sequel does not achieve the greatness of the first. 

Another sequel which should not have been written is the sequel to Gone With the Wind. It is a great book. Those who call it a love story are doing it an injustice. It is so much more. A picture of a world gone by, a way of life, an epic portrayal of the Southern culture. There are layers within layers. Even if Margaret Mitchell had attempted the sequel herself I doubt that she could have lived up to the breadth and scope of the first. Sometimes a creation becomes greater than the creator. And to attempt to match the matchless is a futile attempt. But I've to applaud the courage of one who dared to do so. Just as the attempt to write a Poirot novel after Christie's death. Poirot is one of the greatest creations in detective fiction and no matter how one tries to resurrect him after Christie's death I don't think the effect is the same. Which brings me to the question of ghosting novels. Is it really possible? Can ghost writers achieve the same effect long after the author has abandoned the post- either due to death or lack of inspiration? What about this idea of co-writing novels? I find extremely difficult to comprehend it. But I can see for myself it is successful. Lars Kepler is a husband and wife team writing together. I've read their work. I must say it does seem to work for them. But I'm old fashioned. I still think writing is a hugely private affair. And it has very little to do with talk shows, tours and publicity. In fact I think the best thing about it is the anonymity it affords. But in today's world of internet it's next to impossible. And anonymity probably won't spell success. 

What do you think? Is it a private thing? Or nothing so sacrosanct? Do you think a creation can surpass the creator? I think it does. And has. In a few standalone novels. 

Of questions and answers -part two

Right. So here I am again. To answer the second part of the question put to me: "Are you a working woman Ma'am? Surely you're not a housewife?" While the words used aren't exactly the same the import of the words is. On my asking why she thought so she replied: "Because you seem so confident." It was on the tip of my tongue to tell the young girl that she didn't know the first thing about housewives. They are confident. Super confident. Most of the time I get the heebie- jeebies seeing exactly how confident they are and how splendidly they manage their lives and homes. I've worked for exactly six years as a professional and for the rest I've been a homemaker. But somehow I've never been able to include myself in that category. Instead I've stayed on the sidelines watching admiringly and slightly wistfully the assurance with which the breed we call homemakers or housewives live their lives. Among them and foremost among them is my mother. With mother's day around the corner it's the perfect time to tell my mother what a wonderful person she has been. The rock of our family. Everything I am- the good not the bad- is because of her. My real education has come from her and not from the books I've read or schools I've attended. The reason I've taken so long to write the second part of questions and answers is that I've 

been busy on U tube doing some research for this blog. I've watched umpteen videos posted by homemakers who've turned homemaking into a skilled art. From folding clothes to cleaning tips to making room fresheners, candles, hypertufa pots, to organizing the fridge, files, kitchen, cupboards- you name it, they've done it all. To a person like me whose idea of cleaning the house is once a year or on the rare occasions we have a visitor and too by picking everything up and cramming it into the cupboard with the warning to my family to open cupboards at their own peril, it was a revelation how efficient these women are. I've haven't subscribed to any of their videos or given a thumbs up but here I'd like to mention a few- At home with Nikki, Alejandra organization tips, Do it on a dime, Do it gurl, the sorry girls, house & home, and tons of gardening videos. I've tried a few tips, messed up many, made room fresheners( believe me they work!) and at the end of it stayed awed by these women and the amount of labor and love they invest in their homes. Some of them do it professionally-( House & home videos) but most are housewives. I've learnt a lot from them. But I still cannot classify myself as a housewife. The reason is I've been a penniless writer for the last 7 years before which I was a teacher. The lessons I've learnt as a homemaker are not all pleasant. It is and remains the worst and most thankless job ever. Zero appreciation- everything that goes wrong from leaking taps to absentee maids - is your fault and NO HOLIDAYS ever. Yes. If you're on the brink of being a dreamy eyed newbie housewife you should rapidly get used to the idea of no holidays because your life is anyway one big holiday, isn't it? Because you are AT HOME. Hubby has the excuse of work pressure, and the classic excuse: I've been working the whole day while you've been chilling. Yup! Housewives live in a chill out zone. Perpetually. But in reality their existence sucks. Having seen both sides I cannot deny that financial independence is a must for all women. Without that you are reduced as a human being and your self esteem suffers when you must accept handouts from your spouse. But that is just my view. I'm sure umpteen women disagree. 

 The second refrain you get to hear most frequently is: No-one is coming so why are you making this effort? And that is another of my observations. How often we live our lives for others, to show others. How many of us say hey! I'm doing this for myself because I like it. Most housewives don't live for themselves because they don't have a clear demarcated space that says Me. When you are working it's different. Then your space is demarcated, as is your social identity. You are not taken for granted. So to all the housewives out there I say: you are marvelous! The greatest! And on mother's day I say: Thanks ma. For giving a beautiful clean home to come back to and making me the person I am today. From telling me stories, to listening to my grouses, to scolding me and criticizing my mistakes, to giving me pieces of yourself you have made my life. If you hadn't been a housewife I wouldn't have been me. So here's to all of you great women from me- a big salute! 

Of questions and answers- part one

Recently a young girl visiting my flat to ask me for donations for SOS village and Helpage etc. asked me a question that sent me off on a tangent of thought which has been pickling in my mind for weeks. The question was simple enough: Where are you from? The answer ought to be simple enough. Only it wasn't. Because I didn't know. I thought long and hard after she left about it. The reason for my ambiguity was that I was an army officer's daughter and I had lived all over India at different times of my life. By birth I was Bengali but I had only lived in Kolkata for a couple of years. I had settled down In U.P. having spent my adult years in Delhi cantonment. We had lived in Assam, Jabalpur, Chennai, Jhansi before that. So to be completely honest I didn't know where I was from. I did not feel any special affinity to Kolkata as such, my few visits there over the years being more a form of duty than anything else. I did not belong there. No umbilical connection there. The only connection I felt was to army. To those green lush cantonments,  to order and discipline, to organization in its myriad forms. Apart from that where was I from? Would you think me an absolute douche bag if I said- India? Come to think of it I've never been unduly patriotic. Not the flags and banners kind. But I do have something to say about the recent trend( or has it always been so) of making little pockets where you lay claim to your piece of territory. Telangana. Kashmir. Everyone wants a piece for himself. Independence from independence. And the fighting. My god. Everyone wants to live free. Irony isn't it in a democracy? We are free. So why are we clamoring for our little pockets and hidey holes? Search me. I racked my brains and couldn't come up with an answer. If you do let me know. It's your country man. Why do you need a pocket to crawl into? Demarcate territories? Put up fences and barriers? Large signs saying: This is mine. Keep out. Why are we so threatened? 

I may speak Bengali eat Bengali food but may feel at home just about anywhere. Why do I have to limit myself to a region or state? So I gave her the only answer I could. "Everywhere." I said. "I'm from everywhere." It's how I feel. What about you? What do you feel? What do you think? A pocket to crawl into or the whole damn country? Where are you from? India or Assam, Chennai, Kolkata, Mumbai, Punjab? Hey only you have the answer to that question. 

The art of saying NO

One would think these were the easiest and the simplest words in English vocabulary- YES and NO. Ah! But the amount of complexity these two words carry is incredible. They have the ability to build empires, strike down nations, create history. Rifle through the pages of history and you'll easily see the important role these words played in each and every decision that was monumental. "Yes' opened doors to nuclear weapons, to the world war, to terrorism as we know it today in its frightening and myriad forms. Just as No played its role too. Today I'm exploring essentially the role this two letter word plays. 

It's amazing just how easy it is to say Yes, to knuckle down to pressure in any form, in any guise, to give in, to surrender your will. And just as hard to say No, to take a stand, to refuse to give in, to continue to oppose when your entire being screams out to simply give in and say Yes. It's hard for a teenager in a peer group to stand up and say No to drugs and alcohol; to face ridicule in the many ways only teenagers know how to mete out to the deviants from the group code and do the right thing. 

Most of our lives we try to circumvent using this word too often. Because let's face it - it carries lots of negative baggage. It is a negative word. It might mean hurting someone by your refusal. It might mean asserting yourself at the cost of someone else's ego. And more often than not it invites displeasure. Saying no to your superiors is especially hard. Saying no to a friend or a near and dear one is worse. But sometimes it's all that's standing between you and self- annihilation. Sorry to be melodramatic but sometimes saying no might just be your ticket to freedom, to self expression, to space. To breathe. Be yourself. If only it could be done without hurting or displeasing! And therein lies the art. The ability to say No without denting the ego of the recipient of that refusal. To smile and make others smile while you demarcate boundaries. Yes. It's an art that few possess. Are you among those few? Then I must say you've mastered one of the most difficult tasks known to mankind- the art of saying NO when required.  

house and home

House. Home. I've always used both these words interchangeably. But once I got to thinking about it I realized what a vast difference lies between these two supposedly interchangeable words: House. Home. 

My dictionary tells me the house is a "structure serving as an abode of human beings." Okay. So what then is the definition of home? Is it the same? The answer comes to me instantly. No. I don't need a dictionary to understand the difference between the two. For "home" carries with it all the resonance of emotion attachment. 

A house is just that- an architectural edifice. It becomes a ''home" when we begin to associate emotions with it. A home is a sanctuary, a refuge. The place where you belong, which belongs to you. The transition from making a house into a home is a psychological one. It is the one place which you can step into and leave the world outside. Where so much of your identity resides. And a house is just a structure, a building till you make it a home. When you step into your home you expect to leave your cares behind, to drop that shield you wear through the day; to close the door on the outside world. 

Since time immemorial both humans and animals alike have craved a nesting place, a lair, a den, a place to call their own. It is this nesting instinct that makes us turn houses into homes, to fill inanimate structures with ourselves, to bring to it the peculiar essence we call personality. And it is precisely when houses become imbued with our personalities that they become our homes.  Our hidey- holes. 

So the next time you say house, think. Is it your house or your home? A structure you inhabit or a place you belong? A concrete shell or an extension of your self? Your sanctuary your refuge or a four walled structure you occupy? For therein lies the world of difference. And that is the difference you bring to bricks and mortar.  

The windup- bird chronicle and beyond

Hi! Writing after a long gap. Writing about what little I know, what has largely figured in my life so far-books. So far I've been reading quite a few different authors and when I mean different I mean hugely different. I've breezed through Steig Larsson ( all three books) read almost all the novels of Nicholas Sparks (barring a few) and just finished reading Murakami a few hours ago. So you have a fair idea when I say different. Romance, thriller and what? I find Murakami defies classification. His work is not quite allegory, not quite symbolic, has a mystery at the heart of it, a plethora of strange characters peopling its world of alternate reality. Out of these three, two are translations.

Steig Larsson (or Reg Keeland) gives us three nail biting, edge of the seat novels which hold the reader enthralled. A heroine who is radical, unconventional, a rebel defying all norms. Lisbeth Salander inhabits a murky world of deceit, violence and abuse; wrongly condemned to an asylum, she is subjected to the worst kind of mental torture which later takes on a physical form in her loathsome guardian who rapes her. I cannot deny that I was completely and utterly revolted by the world she moves in, yet utterly gripped by the racy plot in the first novel as it hurtles towards its surprising climax. ( If you haven't read it I won't spoil your suspense). The plot is not the first of its kind; Larsson's heroine is. He seems to want to give her a freedom normally enjoyed by men- namely sleeping around with impunity, being possessed of a photographic memory(Eidetic is the word I think), existing between ambiguous sexual territories ( bisexual). In other words, it is probably his way of liberating women.(?) But while reading the text I found myself wondering how authentic a translation can really be. Had the translator achieved exactly what the author had intended or is a translation a mere approximation of the author's works? If Larsson had written in English would he have chosen those very words, that terminology to express himself or would it have been different? The characters and plot remain his without doubt but the words? I wondered if I wasn't enjoying Reg Keeland more than Larsson. The same thought kept running through my mind while reading Murakami. Of the three Murakami took me the longest time to get through. It was difficult to orient myself to his writing, not his style mind you, which is pretty lucid and modern ( again might be due to the translator Jay Rubin). But the novel itself is very strange; its message not clear( if there is one at all), and to my understanding slightly obscure. Evil, as Murakami, defines it, is not a quality, an abstract; neither is the self. Both possess bodies, are physical manifestations. The dream world/ alternate reality collides and merges with this world. The rapidity with which Okada the protagonist shuttles between these two worlds is bewildering at first, then dizzying as he descends into the bottom of a well to think and connect with his alternate self. He gives us a procession of women characters- Malta Kano, Creta Kano, Kumiko, May Kasahara, Nutmeg,the woman with the sexy telephone voice and each character is decidedly peculiar. Each woman aids Okada in solving the mystery of his wife Kumiko who supposedly leaves him for another man. Even Kumiko herself. Evil is manifested in the person of Noboru Wataya, Kumiko's brother, and his much hated brother-in-law. To be absolutely honest it was much too vague and convoluted for me. It lacked what I always call a center. The novel has a rather episodic quality where there are stories within stories( Honda, Lieutenant Mamiya, Cinnamon, Nutmeg. Malta Kano, Creta Kano, Kumiko, Okada, May Kasahara) and the effort to maintain such a vast canvas shows. The connections between these stories are lost though the author takes great pains to tell us and show us those connections. Murakami's characters are incredibly detailed, lively and well etched but he fails to integrate them skillfully into the central theme- which is the windup bird singing its song and winding the spring of the world- a song which leads anyone who hears it to ruin. And significantly it is the name Okada chooses to introduce himself to May Kasahara. Somewhere I feel Murakami stops short of clarity. His portrayal of the other reality, the shadow world, the demon self if you like, lacks potency precisely because he clothes it in flesh by actually giving it a slippery slimy form. Evil tangible scores less than evil intangible. Evil which cannot be seen but felt is more frightening than what you can witness and feel and touch. But that is just my opinion. Murakami disagrees with me. He makes it physical. That is why I cannot read his novel as allegory only. 

Having said this much I can laud both Murakami and Sparks for portrayals of men who are comfortable doing feminine tasks and do not feel emasculated by them. Okada looks after the house, cooks, does laundry after chucking up his job; Sparks' men are old fashionably honorable, strong and comfortable in the female domain- the kitchen. Kudos to both for that! If you do decide to read any of these writers you have to take different attitudes towards each. What that is, you decide. Just as you decide how much a translation can achieve in terms of authenticity. Or will it be an approximation only? 

the killing

I rarely write about serials. At least I haven’t for quite some months. But the other weekend I was idly watching season 4 of the serial The Killing on Star World premiere and I decided I would mention this in my next blog. Catching up to a story, any story in Season 4 involves a lot of guesswork and I gathered from what I saw that both detectives have committed the murder of a corrupt partner. Running parallel to this back story is the new case they have been handed - an entire family massacred with the son, the lone survivor a suspect though wounded. The story, as stories go, is nothing great but what struck me is the treatment. Absolutely astonishing photography and extremely realistic performances! And the actress( Mereille Enos playing Sarah Linden) is marvelous. Her guilt, her conflicting emotions- betrayal, anger, hurt- above all her complete lack of make- up – camera picking up her frown lines, her cracked lips, her scanty brows, her pulled back hair. Kudos to her. To be a woman and not afraid to show up your physical flaws is a big thing in any race, culture and country. Everywhere women hide behind masks afraid to be what nature meant them to be. In real life don’t we have red eyes, cracked lips and bad skin when we are emotionally miserable? When we cannot and do not want to summon the energy to get on our war paint? When we become tired of seeing ourselves through the eyes of the others and grow comfortable in our skin? Then why in our serials and movies are we so afraid to show our flaws?

Why in our Hindi serials do our heroines look perfectly made up even when sick, asleep or grieving? It’s good to be glamorous if the role demands it but when it does not is it necessary to be picture perfect? What is wrong with acknowledging our flaws? Better still of accepting them. If romance demands picture perfect faces and hair and clothes then trash it and create something new. Where you can say like Congreve in the Way of the World: “Nay I love her for her flaws”. (Hope it’s not misquoted. Been a while. But you get the picture right?) 

Let fiction mimic life sometimes. Escape is good. But so is reality. And sometimes we can get real. Even if it’s just fiction!