Daniel : Henning Mankell

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Phew. I think I can breathe now. And breathe with awe at the exquisite masterpiece that Henning Mankell has presented us with in Daniel. This was again a chance pick at my local library. I hadn't heard of Mankell before (sigh, the world of literature and its vastness!), but the blurb on the cover praised him as 'Sweden's greatest living mystery writer.' That wasn't what attracted me to the book though. It was this:

The year is 1878, and Hans Bengler, an amateur entomologist, leaves his native Sweden for the Kalahari Desert. A failure at most everything, he believes that the discovery of a previously unknown insect will establish him for life. During his explorations, however, he collects a different kind of find: a young boy whose parents have been murdered. The boy, a member of the San people, knows his name is Molo, but Bengler calls him Daniel. Against all advice, he takes Daniel/Molo to Sweden, telling himself he will better the boy’s life. In reality, he views the boy as another item in his collection, and his willful dislocation of Daniel coupled with his refusal to truly see him as a fellow human will result in tragedy.

The novel begins in Bengler's voice but soon shifts to Daniel. It's a jarring shift. I don't mean that in a bad way, but in the kind of jarring that a complacent reader needs to open their eyes to the book, and listen. Ha, listen, you ask? Yes. Daniel is a book that needs to be heard - not just read. Mankell is known for his Kurt Wallander mysteries apparently, but he also has been one of the loudest voices against colonization. It's a voice that also deserves to be heard, and how eloquently he expresses it through Daniel!

Bengler is a lost soul - soon to be cast away into the rotting carcasses of human beings who make mistakes and then run away from it. He fills you with despise, yet Mankell makes him appear human. But it's Daniel's increasingly vivid thought processes that made me shudder. To shudder at the pain that his uprooted soul went through. To agonize over the gaps in culture that we humans create, and then widen. The problem is Daniel is black. In white Norway. Most of them have never seen this 'black devil' before. There is the pastor, also called Daniel, whose dream is to 'civilize' the host of black devils on the dark African continent. There is Edvin and Alma who take care of Daniel when Bengler goes away - neither of them can understand Daniel's silence, although Alma understands that the boy is dying of longing - longing for his homeland. Mankell's raises several questions : what is to be human? To live? To show courage? To convey understanding? To listen? None of them are answered by the people who surround Daniel. Eventually, the lad becomes a larger-than-life figure, his soul weighed down by the darkness of others.

There are no endings to a novel of this kind. It's a hazy, cloudy day in Bangalore, but I am still with Daniel, trying to reach the Kalahari Desert, running barefoot or skipping, trying to walk on water, thinking of Be and Kiko, and an antelope carved on a rock that gleams red.

Verdict: A masterpiece of literature that should be one of the books that you must read in your lifetime.


Rating: 6/5

Strawberry Fields: Marina Lewycka

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I am finding it a little difficult to get back into the blogging rhythm after my Chinese adventures. They were so rich with life and brimming with excitement. It feels like I have been running an exhilarating marathon and the cooling down is taking more time than usual. In Marina Lewycka’s “Strawberry Fields” a group of Ukranian migrants look forward to a similarly colorful life when they come to England to be strawberry pickers. And colorful their life is. After they are forced to run away from the farm that they were working in, the group travels across England seeking work. This is the story of these workers, their dreams and shattered illusions.

What impressed me about the book was its dark humor and keen observations about the life of migrants. Many of them come with high hopes and expectations and while some are fulfilled, several are dashed to doom. This is illustrated by the fate of the Chinese girls. With the promise of a new job gleaming in their eyes, they trust Vitaly, the man with the “mobilfon” and therefore power and influence, to go across the seas to a new life. But the abrupt end to their story in the book denotes the sad end to their hopes, which is all too clear to the reader.

On the other hand, are Irina and Andriy who stick through all that life throws their way and end up with a better foothold.

“Maybe he and Irina could stay in Sheffield and find jobs for themselves, and maybe he would even go to college and train to be an engineer. He would buy a mobilfon, not for doing business, but to talk to his friends, and at weekends they would come to a bar like this, and drink and laugh.”

But despite imagining a very normal future like this, Andriy is aware that he “could never be one of them.” He knows that he or Irina can never fully integrate into the English society because “they live in a different world.”

It is such tender musings, the result of wising up after many adventures that lends a quiet grace to Strawberry Fields. Also known by its alternative title of “Two Caravans,” perhaps the book could have been a bit more fast paced. Still, though not as wildly popular as Lewycka's previous book, A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, I would say it’s a nice read and offers not a shallow perspective on immigrant life.

Verdict: Humourous and entertaining

Rating: 3.5/5

Girl in Translation : Jean Kwok

Image Credit: Daily Mail

I had been waiting a while to read Jean Kwok's highly acclaimed debut novel, Girl in Translation. Waiting, as it does with a lot of other things in life, removes the gloss and renders the anticipated into just another disappointed expectation.

Girl in Translation is one of those letdowns. I have a fascination with Asian and Commonwealth Literature. I actively seek out books take the "immigrant experience" from the unseeing eyes of the soul and cast it into the knowing eyes of the reader. And I have an enduring and abiding love for anything Chinese. ;-). Perhaps in 20 years time, I can get to the stage where I can read a novel in Chinese. That would be the day!

But before dreams intervene, the present beckons in its all its naked presence. Kim is 11 when she and her Mom escape Hong Kong to eke out a poverty-existence in America. Arching behind this escape is the great American Dream - can Kim really overcome insurmountable odds and reach the epitome of financial success in a land that promises all and sometimes delivers? Her Mom works in a Chinese sweatshop under the watchful eyes of Kim's Aunt - a typical overdrawn stereotypical "evil" character who is jealous of any of Kim's success and ties them under the weight of debt to a roach-infested unheated apartment in New York. Kim is the narrator and the one who you know holds the passport to financial freedom. Working hard, helping her Mom in the 'finishing' section of the sweatshop, she aces all the tests, gathering scholarships despite her lack of English. As she grows older, romantic interests start to appear - and it's here that the novel starts to falter, in my opinion. The casting of characters becomes even more stereotypical - the most popular boy in school, of course, has to fall for Kim, while her own heart beats only for Matt. And who is Matt? The most handsome and nicest boy in the sweatshop, of course! Complications ensue, and the ending of the novel appears a bit rushed and contrived.

And that is the pity, really because the author's real life is anything but contrived. The book is based on Kwok's own experience and any writer who can draw from the milk of human despair and rise above it deserves to be appreciated. Jean Kwok spent 10 years working on this novel, and wrote this book for her Mom who worked in a sweatshop, just like Kim's. Yet somehow, this novel failed to speak to me. But don't let that discourage you - perhaps you might find more interest and empathy in it than I did. I am perhaps too harsh a reviewer, sometimes! :-)

Crossing to Safety : Wallace Stegner

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There are some books that speak magic. It doesn't take long to discover this magic. You read the first line, the first paragraph and right away you know that it's the beginning of something special. Perhaps a bit like a relationship or a friendship too? You meet someone for the first time, and it blossoms into something beautiful, and you know instinctively that it's going to be beautiful. Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner has the same beauty written on every page.

I confess I had no idea who Stegner was when I walked into the library, and chanced upon this book. I am not sure what drew me to the book - perhaps these lines:

Called a “magnificently crafted story . . . brimming with wisdom” by Howard Frank Mosher in The Washington Post Book World, Crossing to Safety has, since its publication in 1987, established itself as one of the greatest and most cherished American novels of the twentieth century. Tracing the lives, loves, and aspirations of two couples who move between Vermont and Wisconsin, it is a work of quiet majesty, deep compassion, and powerful insight into the alchemy of friendship and marriage.

Those who know me know that I have a deep respect for friendship - far too often, it's a relationship that lies neglected; like a bundle of soiled laundry, we turn to it when we need to air our selves. Rarely is it shouted from the rooftops, rarer still do we touch a candle to friendship amidst all the home fires we burn. And here is this book, promising a beautiful voyage into friendship. What can I not like in this? Stegner has to be one of the most poetic writers of prose I have read - and a deep, abiding, melancholic yet compassionate wisdom that resonates through the book. Meet Charity and Sid - she of the fire and he of the ice. Meet Larry Morgan and Sally - he the writer, and she the patient, enduring wife with nerves of steel that belie a quiet exterior. What bond ties these four together? Friendship. If you ask me what happens in this book, I can only say, nothing. There is nothing that can or does happen in Crossing to Safety that is not a mere reflection of life. The small little big things in life. The thirst to love. The need to be loved. The joyous calls of companionship. Of family. Of love. Of laughter. Of living. This and more. Stegner himself answers this question through his question:

"How do you make a book that anyone will read out of lives as quiet as these? Where are the things that novelists seize upon and readers expect? Where is the high life, the conspicuous waste, the violence, the kinky sex, the death wish? Where are the suburban infidelities, the promiscuities, the convulsive divorces, the alcohol, the drugs, the lost weekends? Where are the hatreds, the political ambitions, the lust for power? Where are speed, noise, ugliness, everything that makes us who we are and makes us recognize ourselves in fiction?" 

Indeed there are none. Dominating the novel is Charity Lang - she is the vivid light that moves through both Sid and Sally. She, the one who is 'always right.' The one who masterminds her husband's life. The one who plans each day to the last moment. And the one whose sheer presence shines through the book. Not always in a positive way - there are darker tones, the kind that lies buried in all our hearts, and which we hide for fear that it would befriend the darkness in others hearts. It's the friendship between her and Sally that is the strongest, as observed by Morgan himself. A friendship that he observes people with lesser minds would cast Freudian-slurs on.

"We have been invited into their lives, from which we will never be evicted, or evict ourselves," Morgan observes. And it's true. Through a World War, through Sally's polio-stricken life, through the demands of writing and teaching - the Langs and Morgans don't evict themselves. There are tensions, between the Langs, between the Morgans and between the two couples too. And beyond and above and all around, nature, which is almost the fifth character in this book. Stegner's love of nature is well-known, and his description is lush, each word dripping with apple and nectar and strawberries...ah, this book was beautiful. I cannot write more in my pitiful prose - do yourself a favor, read Stegner instead.

Verdict: Pick it up, please. This is literature at its breathtaking best. (And readable best too, dare I add?)


Rating: 6/5

Amulya Malladi: The Mango Season

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Here I am, back from a wonderful and refreshing break in China! I am glad to be back to reading and the blogworld and one of the first things I did on my return was to join a library. And I can’t tell you how good it feels! It’s been ages since I have been inside a library. Instead, all these years I chose to buy books to add to my precious collection or just borrow from friends. The reason being there were no libraries near my house. The one I have joined now is not exactly near, but it’s not far to put me off either.

The very first book I chose to borrow was Amulya Malladi’s “The Mango Season.” At first glance it looks like chick lit but the issues that Malladi tackles within puts the book far beyond that genre. But first, a brief description.

Priya Rao left India for higher studies in the US and chose to stay back. In the meantime, she met Nick, began dating him, living with him and even got engaged. But all without her parents’ knowledge. Now, Priya is coming to India for a two week vacation and also to break the big news to her highly traditional and orthodox family. How is Priya going to manage holding on to her love while not losing the love of her family?

This is the fine line that Priya walks through the novel. Malladi brings out all the frustrations in such a situation. Priya’s family is waiting to get her married to a “nice Indian boy” and even play with her grandchildren. With such high expectations, Priya finds that life has become claustrophobic. She constantly reminisces about happy moments that she had with her family in the past, like stealing out to pluck pomegranates with her grandfather.

Malladi deftly juxtaposes these happy memories with Priya’s present, filled with terrifying thoughts of her family disowning her. Though Priya’s confusion and constant nervousness is at times a bit annoying to the reader, it is also quite real. I personally know families that live in a similar milieu – very traditional and orthodox and where the girls have to be married latest by the age of 23. To that end, I must say Malladi has done a wonderful job of sketching the harassed mother who does not understand why Priya turns down a handsome “boy” who is earning well, the patient father, quiet in his ways but worried nevertheless or Priya’s aunt who, unmarried at 30 is considered a burden on the family. Priya’s family’s concept of a marriage is based on education and wealth while for Priya, love and understanding means a lot more. This is the case with many in today’s India as well and some of the thoughts voiced by Priya’s mother could very well be told by people I know!

Malladi also portrays the intricate world of family politics, particularly in a joint family. There is competition, jealousy, care and love all bundled together.

So for many reasons in my opinion, The Mango Season cannot be relegated to chick lit but rises above that. I thoroughly enjoyed reading the book. It’s not without its faults though. As I said, at times you feel like telling Priya to just forget it and get it over with. And the interspersing of recipes in a book is by now a very familiar method of storytelling, which was not really needed here. Many readers found fault with this particular dialogue that Priya says, “I gave him a look reserved for the retarded.” I agree with their discomfort. It is indeed a sensitive statement and perhaps should not have been worded that way. Also, the little twist in the end was uncalled for and I think Priya should have been completely honest with her folks.

Yet, the book must be read for a good insight into the workings of a traditional Indian family. And even today India has plenty of those.

Verdict: A fast paced read that gives an interesting look into India

Rating: 3.5/5

A Pale View of Hills : Kazuo Ishiguro

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Becoming the member of a library has proved to be very satisfactory. I have now the opportunity to pick up books that I would not have bought otherwise, thinking that I may never get around to reading it. I should know. I have so many books on my shelf that I just know I am never going to read. It's a waste of money, my Mom fumes. But there it is. Some books talk to you. Some don't.

Kazuo Ishiguro's debut novel A Pale View of Hills was one such book I borrowed from Just Books, a chain of libraries that has sprouted in many cities in India. The concept is a bit more high-tech than the old libraries I used to frequent back when childhood was not just a memory. For just around $3 you can take out as many books as you want, only 1 at a time, but unlimited through the month. And then there is this little machine. You place your card on what I can only describe as a reading kiosk - you then place the book next to it, and the touchscreen lights up in recognition. You are then on your way to either returning or issuing the book. What I especially like is that you can order a book from any of Just Books' other libraries in the city. I have ordered Girl in Translation, and am waiting now for it arrive. Anyway, all this reminds me of the old government-run library that I used to go to - musty, moldy and piled high with books. I had 5 membership cards then, carefully accumulated through what means I now forget. And my friends and I used to literally fight over the latest additions to the Famous Five collection. "Uncle uncle," we used to pester the librarian, "please keep this book for me na, please Uncle." The "Uncle" would oblige, hiding away a few books for us to devour the next time we visited. Ah, those were good times. It's strange the things that memory stores - sometimes I think the mind is a library of its own - it has its own way of cataloging the memories that swirl through it every day. Some stay. Some are lost somewhere in its labyrinths. You need a good card to retrieve them. I call that card experience. All these memories in our lives...just how do we remember them all? Do we need to?

Ishiguro's A Pale View of Hills is a fascinating read into the way that memories shape our past. I honestly believe that that it's not the past that shapes our memories, but really memories that play havoc with it. Etsuko, the narrator here, finds memory not a keeper, because for her the past is not to be remembered. Floating through the novel is an atmosphere of doom. Set in Nagasaki, just after the bombing, there is an undercurrent, a dark stream of unsaid thoughts and actions. Ishiguro displays all the talent that makes him one of the world's best writers by swiftly juggling between Etsuko's present, her conversation with her daughter Niki, and her remembrances of the friendship she shared with Sachiko. There are two stories here - Etsuko's past - the time when she was pregnant and the strange relationship that developed with Sachiko, and her daughter Mariko. There is also the story of Etsuko's current loss - her first daughter's Keiko's suicide. The sole narrator here, it should be said, is Etsuko's memory. There are gaps in the story as a consequence. Willful gaps from a skilled writer. A memory is as accurate as the person wishes it to be. Etsuko herself acknowledges this.

“It is possible that my memory of these events will have grown hazy with time, that things did not happen in quite the way they come back to me today”

Who does the reader trust then? If you come to this book, looking for a structured logical "view," then you won't find it. There are too many unanswered questions that left me a bit puzzled. But then, I realized later that is part of Ishiguro's art. The puzzlement betrayed my lack of understanding as a reader, not his lack of awareness as a writer. I was wondering what was Mariko's role? Tortured by the memory of the war, she appears as a strange, wilful child. Did she exist, you question in the end. Or was she just an extension of Etsuko's memory? A way of assuaging her guilt when it comes to Keiko's suicide? It's not just a personal narrative - Nagasaki was where Ishiguro was born, and it is evident that the social development of a deeply scarred Japan troubles him. Is looking ahead and forgetting the past the only way? Is that the reason the memories here seem so faded, so pale? Questions, questions and many more questions. This is not Ishiguro's best work, but it makes you think. And at just under 200 pages, there is a lot in it to think about.


Verdict: The first from a master writer, deserves to be read just for that alone.


Rating: 3.5/5

The Red Carpet : Lavanya Sankaran

Image Credit: Goodreads

After a very long hiatus, I am back. It was an eventful, hectic and ultimately unforgettable 5+ months in China. All those months I was away from the blogging world, Blogspot blocked by the Great Firewall of China. And indeed all those months, I was away from the world of books. It's strange how this happens - I have been to China 4 times now - 3 of those times have been extended stays. And somehow, I never felt the lack of a book. It's almost like life is too full to wrap myself around a book, sacrilegious as that sounds! Not lack of time, as many bemoan to explain their lack of reading, but just a lack of need. I didn't feel the need to read a book.

But now, back in India, and the hunger is back. The only difference is that each time I turn the pages of a book, I guiltily glance at the stack of Chinese textbooks that sit on my bed. Shouldn't I really be studying those? Despite these guilty imps at the back of my mind, I finished Lavanya Sankaran's captivating debut collection of short stories, The Red Carpet.

Set in Bangalore, my hometown, Sankaran does a wonderful job of weaving the innate chaos and beauty (what little is left ) of this city. Her pace never flags, and each one of the stories invite you into a little world all of its own, and when you reach the end, you are left wishing...why is it a short story only! Couldn't there be more, please? I especially liked the fact that Sankaran does not make poverty into an exotic marketing product here. In fact, apart from one story about Raju, the chauffeur who develops a strange bond with his memsahib, most of the stories deal with the Bangalore I am familiar with - from the old crotchety senior citizens, waiting life out while their children "settle" in America to the hip yuppie set, the entrepreneurs, to the rich young set, hosting lavish parties - poverty is really not in the framework of this book. And I am glad. Sankaran presents a Bangalore that is all too real - just as real as poverty is - in the affluence, in the hype, in the bluster, there is everything about this city that is to be loved and reviled. Through it all, there is a rich vein of humor, but at the same time at least two of the stories are darker - one of my favorites was about a woman who is fascinated by the suicide of a model in Delhi, haunted as she is by memories of her own father's suicide. Another is a tale of childhood - and hidden in it is the perversity of a maid. I read them all, and loved them all.

It was interesting to read later that Lavanya Sankaran's book was in a bidding war with as many as 6 publishers vying for it. I can understand why. She is currently supposed to be working on her novel. I, for one, can't wait to see if the undoubted talent in these short stories will emerge fuller in a novel.

Verdict: Brilliant debut.


Rating : 3.5/5