Death by Water by Kenzaburo Oé – A book review

Kogito Choko is a renowned Japanese author (like Kenzaburo Oé) and most of his books have been turned into plays by Masao Anai, a theatre virtuoso.  Choko has been longing to write a novel about his long dead father but not before accessing a red leather trunk which his father had carried along to his mysterious and controversial death by drowning. He has a recurrent dream from witnessing the scene when his father ventured in the middle of a storm on a small boat to his death. Kogito’s imaginary doppelganger Kogii who no-one else can see was on the boat too. This shadowy Kogii, who had been his only real playmate during his growing up years departs mysteriously too.  Kogito feels trapped in the blurring lines between reality and dreams.

The novel’s main theme revolves around these lines from T.S.Eliot’s poem ‘The Wasteland: IV – Death by Water’ which feature in the novel repeatedly.

‘A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.’

Kogito doesn’t get access to this elusive trunk for about three decades or more until his mother dies and when he does lay his hands on it, to his dismay, he finds that most of the materials he had supposed could give him more details of his father have been destroyed by his mother.

Masao Anai and his theatre cadre, for his next play, are heavily depending on Kogito Choko writing the much awaited ‘Drowning Novel’ which is supposed to be an apt summation for Choko’s earlier novels and characters. However, to everyone’s dismay, Choko abandons the idea after the disappointing revelation of the contents of the red leather trunk. And then the story hops from one hackneyed subject to another such as the troubled relationship with his brain-damaged grown-up composer son Akari (Oé has a developmentally disabled son named Hikari who’s a composer too), the Occupation war, the end of an emperor’s era, the plight of farmers in the countryside, references to the spirit world, and finally meandering to other serious social issues like rape and abortion.  

There are many ways to kill a person. You can spend a bullet and shoot him in different parts of his body, strangle him, stab him a few times, even choke him under water. And then you can also use a harmless looking weapon and batter someone to death, beat him to a pulp and keep doing so even after the soul has left him. Kenzaburo Oé seems to strongly approve of the latter.

Imagine this:

Me telling you – I bought khaki coloured shorts today.

My brother telling you – Do you know he bought khaki coloured shorts today.

My mother telling my father – He bought khaki coloured shorts today. They look good.

My father telling me – You bought khaki coloured shorts today from that shop.

Neil Armstrong telling Edwin Aldrin – That man bought khaki shorts today. Amazing, isn’t it.

WHO telling the world, an earthworm informing a centipede, a spider whispering to a fly – SOMEONE BOUGHT KHAKI SHORTS TODAY.

Did you not wince every time you heard about my khaki shorts after the first mention? I did too – badly, every time I heard about the red leather trunk and the ‘drowning novel’, then at the hackneyed mention of an experimental yet irritating (I really thought so) ‘tossing the dogs’ concept of drama, and then reading/listening to ten different people telling each other how badly Choko had behaved with his son Akari, and then about Meisuke’s mother and the insurrection! Oh, and did I forget to mention witnessing Choko’s father on the night of the storm aboard a small boat with the red leather trunk and his doppelganger Kogii. It’s like Jackie Chan teaching ‘The Karate Kid’ each move a zillion times so it is ingrained in the brain and is sort of automated when it is to be executed in real life. Oé treats each theme in a similar fashion; particularly the drowning of his father is a tiring leitmotif in the novel. The author should have known that it is a story we are reading and not an art we’re trying to master; the reader must have the freedom to remember or forget, and not be battered by hackneyed descriptions of the same subject.

I don’t normally quit a book midway, but there were times I almost shouted out ‘One more mention of the red leather trunk and I’m going to take a devilish pleasure in painting each page red; one more time someone describes the scene of his father’s death and I’m going to tear out each page and sink it into the bucket.’ Death by words, by banality!

Nonetheless, a few things from the novel stood out strongly for me and I realize they are to do with culture. Firstly, I felt the Japanese culture’s acceptance of death is sublime. In a way, it seems they ready themselves for it, which to me is an extremely brave thing. Throughout the book, different characters including his wife, sister and daughter talk openly and elaborately about Kogito’s death in his presence and he listens calmly, a death that isn’t known when it’ll come. All throughout the book, family members and other characters blame Kogito Choko for not preparing or readying Akari, his son for Akari’s death when it comes. They are quite comfortable, rather happy having morbid discussions. In contrast, in the Indian culture, from where I belong, people don’t like talking about it; they generally fear death and inadvertently fight for life till the last gasp. I’m sure in both and most cultures, life is valued as much. And the acceptance of suicides is also daunting. Yes, there’s not much you can do but accept it eventually but the peaceful acceptance and the glorification of it made me uncomfortable.

The other prominent feature I experienced was the act of being straightforward; it’s exaggerated to a new dimension. Even if one has committed a stupid act, one wouldn’t be comfortable or stolidly be a mute audience when reminded repeatedly of the unpleasant behavior. In most cultures, it would come across as rude. Tolerance and patience probably derive their meanings from the phlegmatic characters of this book and this richness is definitely a lesson to be learnt if one can and is willing to.

Kogito Choko in one of the chapters, when talking to Unaiko, the new theatre virtuoso, says why he doesn’t write fantasy – probably because he’s not capable to do so; so he relies on imagination which has some basis in reality. Kenzaburo Oé takes a lot from his real life and refers freely to his previous novels.

T.S. Eliot’s lines are echoed in the few lines written by Kogito’s mother and completed by Kogito:

“You didn’t get Kogii ready to go up into the forest
And like the river current, you won’t return home
In Tokyo during the dry season
I’m remembering everything backward
From old age to earliest childhood.”

And all characters from then on find comfort in repeating these lines and stating the same meaning to each other like a chant. Probably, through repetition, they keep things alive in their minds and maybe strive to find new and different meanings.

It would have been a much nicer story had the author been harshly concise with it.

My rating: 4/10

Image copyrights

Kenzaburo Oe - © https://groveatlantic.com/author/kenzaburo-oe/

Book cover - © https://www.amazon.in/Death-Water-Kenzaburo-Oe/dp/0857895486

Tomorrow by Graham Swift – A book review

Tomorrow is going to be a big day for Paula and her family, especially for her husband and her teenager twins. A revelation is going to be made; it could have a devastating consequence or pass off as an acceptance, not altering the togetherness they share.

Paula lies awake the night before the revelation, reminiscing about her entire life, the choices she made, the choices they made as a couple, the memories of the arrival and growing up of their children. She is mentally readying herself for the questions that are likely to surface tomorrow. A secret is going to be revealed.

Reading the initial pages, I felt happy about the book and the writing. I liked the suspense Graham Swift had created for the reader; I liked the way each chapter ended in an exclamatory manner. I like ramblings, the way writers like Swift and many others are able to articulate the mental agony and jubilation that goes on inside the heads of a few. However, when Paula’s adventures and musings had just started to amuse me, I felt she just kept rambling about the same things again and again. Her hackneyed musings felt like a senile old person’s ranting, which she isn’t; which I’d hoped Swift wasn’t. Probably, that was Swift’s precise motive to give it a natural touch but honestly, after a certain point, Paula’s memories came across to me as mere fillers and there wasn’t much to hold on to.

Often I ended up saying ‘You’ve mentioned that before.’ ‘Get on with it lady.’ ‘What’s the big thing about it?’

Definitely not the worst of books but surely not the best of Swift either. I laughed when I read a few reviews after completing the book; some even mentioned they have a new ‘Quit’ shelf after they read this one. Well, I wouldn’t dismiss it as that; a good attempt I’d say. Nonetheless, I couldn’t sustain my interest for Paula’ ramblings for long; I ended up not feeling much or strongly for her. And what I also felt missing was the father’s point of view, just like he’s missing on the front cover of the book and is seen alone on the back cover although the picture is one of togetherness.

MY RATING: 5/10

Image copyrights

Book cover - 

©https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/277532.Tomorrow

Graham Swift © https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/may/18/here-we-are-review-breathtaking-storytelling-from-graham-swift

Warlight by Michael Ondaatje – A book review

The human mind is the most creative tool for deception.

It seeks peace; it creates wars.

And you can’t escape it. Some comment, some fight, some flee. A few have names; a headline, a picture, a medal hanging on the wall or tucked beneath neatly folded clothes. Others are silhouettes, the ghosts of war, not to be identified. They are the breeze and the wind, only their actions cause a rustle marking their existence.

‘Warlight’ sees Nathaniel pursue the identity of his parents, particularly his mother as they lie and abandon them in the hands of curious caretakers. Michael Ondaatje’s story places each foot on two taught ropes; one - a secret loyalty to one’s country in wartime, and the other - a presence for one’s family. The distance only widens and the characters make a choice.

But the choice they make, inevitably and apparently isn’t only for them. They risk and give in to being misunderstood and even hated by the ones they belong to. Forgoing all expectations of a normal life, as they carry on their clandestine operations, the line between right and wrong is blurred in the attempt to follow orders. Few children will understand and respect the almost impenetrable fortress built around them for their safety, if their parents themselves are not in it with them; often a convincing look or nod or the warmth of a hand held in assurance is safety enough for a child. Or just being there.  

The outcome is a failed distorted childhood, robbing Nathaniel and his sister of the ability to trust, to value as they live around personalities that walk in and out of their lives, characters that are flesh and blood yet about whom they know very little and have little inclination to find about. When everything seems to be a farce, one tends to give up trying to understand not just the bigger picture but the presence and absence of the distinctive roles others tend to play in their small lives. Living in the moment then becomes the truth and aimlessly is the direction it takes.

I wonder if it was also Ondaatje’s scheme to subtly question the depth of loyalty against individualism or was it just me. Is it the strong craving in a few for adventure, an endeavor to find purpose in chaos, a fetish for self-flagellation in reclusion,  that weighs more and disguises itself in the name of patriotism. Will they ever be able to cope with what is termed the la la land of a normal life when they get one? And does it make any difference at all if the end justifies the means? There are no ends really, only justifications and they don’t really mean anything; they are forgiven or forgotten, and in most cases not.

I simply loved the second part of the book where Rose (for those who aren’t aware a Viola exists), Nathaniel’s mother expresses herself and lets us in on her journey, thoughts and feelings. Poetry, sheer poetry in the lines of Ondaatje depicting a sacrificial tenderness and intimacy between Rose and her distanced lover, The Gatherer - Marsh Felon who has selfishly chosen her for living a dual life.

Is the memory of that one kiss, that particular touch, the yearning for more, the reassuring warmth of that one night enough to live a lifetime? It is, for some. Memories. Acceptance.

Michael Ondaatje ushers us effortlessly in a dimmed warlight to discover secrecy, pain, longing, strength and devotion and you feel more than see in the dark labyrinths of his words. How much can one stoically accept and endure?

Nathaniel: “What did you do that was so terrible?” 

Rose: “My sins are various.”

My rating – 8/10

Image courtesy:

Book cover - ©https://readingproject.neocities.org/BookReviews/Warlight_MichaelOndaatje.html

Michael Ondaatje - © https://manoflabook.com/wp/fun-facts-friday-michael-ondaatje/

Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy – A book review

I want to read the book all over again. And again. And again. But somehow I know more likely than not, I never will.

Oh what a tragic story; so beautifully told.

Tess, O dear Tess, only if I had found you, discovered you before anyone else did! If only I could be the one your beautiful eyes sought, only if I could be the breeze you enjoyed the intimacy of, only if I was the reason not for your misery but for your miserable loving heart, only if I could live up to the purity of your soul… only if … only if.

This is probably the only story that had me empathizing with the female character fully. I’ve read many, attempted my best to understand the emotions and acts, probably even understood some, but the acceptance of them, I guess has been beyond my intellect. I’ve never really liked the word ‘empathy’ though; it sounds so farcical. I can only imagine but not actually feel Tess’s pain and agony even if I want to; how can I? No-one could have lived Tess’s life, her sacrifices in love but her. So strong in character yet so weak and vulnerable in love.

Tess’s devastating path is paved all the way, very cunningly, by Fate.  Manipulated by Alec d’Urberville, a player, her life changes for the worse as she unwillingly graduates to be a woman from an innocent teenager, without chancing upon and enjoying the imperfection of ladyship. But then, I hold her imbecile and selfish parents more responsible than Alec for her plight; one cannot send Hansel and Gretel out into the forest without the fear of being eaten up, no matter how optimistic and needy they be. Poverty, shame and self-respect guide her on to the path of a dairy in another town and as a dairymaid. Fate brings her to encounter Angel Clare, a rebel with a cause, a man of meaning and virtues, of character and strength, knowledge and passion, a gentleman; a vessel of innocence commensurate with that that of Tess’s.

And they fall in love, naturally like the wind and clouds, like the night and stars. Try as much as she can, Tess fails to reveal her past to Angel and when she does, on the night of their union; the revelation is as much a disaster as Fate. Angel, clouded by his morals and the stringent path of his thoughts and righteousness, can’t place her as the one he fell in love with. He abandons her – a punishment as severe to him as to her. What transpires later is more tragic and as Fate, yet again leaves its marks cutting through the flesh, pricking the soul; one wonders if pain is innate in some; inseparable, necessary, like the torso, the brain, the heart and other organs one is born with. What time heals, time brings back again and it’s futile to ask or reason out the mockery.

Allow me a little exaggeration as I have shouted out a number of times reading those paragraphs of mental turmoil, separation and despair, pleading with Angel to reconsider, not abandon her, not despise her, trying to convince him that Tess is pure, as pure as his thoughts. But Angel Clare isn’t Chaucer’s Troilus, another soul so full of love, so pure in love, an apt match. But who really knows, perhaps Troilus would’ve reacted just as Angel did; alas we are guarded, controlled and manipulated by the fortuities of providence.

We fall in love. We do. Fall.

Tess fell. Angel fell. And the rise is never devoid of sacrifice. And in Tess’s case, murder!

There’s innocence in the story, an innocence to be cherished in its plainness. Not just the characters, but the description of the countryside, the scenery, the expanses of the fields, the rivers and pathways, the horse-carts transport you to an era devoid of technology (how much I’ve hated to use this word here), to a life of minimalism and free of the cacophony of hurriedness.

Throughout the story, I visualized a known face to Tess’s, I morphed it to hers. I sought comfort snuggling myself in the elfin cave on her face shaped with every smile. I took her hand and walked the countryside. But I had to remind myself that it’s a story; Tess isn’t a face, a body. I wonder if a Tess ever existed. Does she? Do you Tess? I hope you do.

 I have put Thomas Hardy on a pedestal; this book has been my introduction to him and I only want to get acquainted more. The writing is so clean, devoid of pompousness, with so much respect to the characters and the reader. There’s something about the classics; there’s something about Charles Dickens, D.H.Lawrence, Thomas Hardy; there’s honesty and innocence.

My rating – 10/10

Images copyrights:

Book cover - © https://oldbookdepot.in/product/tess-of-the-durbervilles-wordworth-classics-2-2/

Thomas Hardy - © https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/thomas-hardy

Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra – A book review

 

947 pages in small print. 947 pages about the rise and fall of a ruthless gangster and the lives revolving around him.

Perceptions matter and perceptions differ. So I’ll speak for myself and the multitude like me in Mumbai who have if not directly encountered gangsters, politicians and the film industry, have definitely not been free of or able to escape their tangle of power, ruthlessness and glamour. How can one, if it’s in one’s face every day; when one has news reporters enthusiastically bleeding their ears and eyes with accounts of the unsafe world one lives in, ruled by these handful despots yielding power.

Ganesh Gaitonde is one such despot and the story is about him and his addiction to power. How I wish every such horrendous creature was nipped in the bud, eliminated, annihilated when they committed their first monstrosity. But this isn’t our world though like imbeciles we believe so; we are only acting our parts in someone else’s play. And like you and me, every Ganesh Gaitonde is a part of this play whether we prefer him or not.

There’s a tree called Manchineel found in the mangroves of South Florida, the Caribbean, Central America and northern South America. Resembling a small green crabapple about 1 to 2 inches wide, its sweet-smelling fruits can cause hours of agony – and potentially death – with a single bite. (source: Why Manchineel Might Be Earth's Most Dangerous Tree (treehugger.com)) Nevertheless, it exists, grows. Nature nurtures it with the needed sunlight, water and conditions to survive, just like for any other tree but unlike others, it dubiously produces poison and that’s what it has to offer. Our gangster is nurtured by the police, politicians and the crowd that seeks refuge and money and willingly enslave themselves to this gory power and in return he spits venom.

The story takes you through the meandering filthy lanes of the underworld. If you have watched enough gangster movies and witnessed contrivance and connivance of these manipulative soulless hyenas of control and dominance over the years, Vikram Chandra’s story then becomes just a rendering of facts beaded together by instances of treachery, immorality, fanaticism and more gruesome tales of betrayal; a colourful script for another movie reeking of inhumanity. The indubitable power of money securing ammunition, control, flesh, friendship, religion litters across the pages. There’s a tacit agreement to these acts, in fact an attempt to justify as well. This reminds me of probably one of the most popular dialogues of yesteryear films, ‘Koi apni maa ke pet se bura paida nahi hota, ye duniya use bura banati hai’ (no-one is born a bad person in the mother’s womb; the world turns them into a bad person). And I go ‘Yes, yes, I can only imagine what a world it'd be had every oppressed person thought this way and turned out to be like this.’

So the mentioned men of law whether it be our hero Sartaj Singh, or Katekar, Parulkar or Kamble, work hard but also take bribes, take pride in their infidelity, use their influence to bend and break the law, team up with gangsters, kill for them, kill them, are shamelessly epitomes of lawlessness but are supposedly justified; we are to feel sorry for them. Women like Jojo, Zoya or Kamala Pandey and many others who not reluctantly but willingly contrive for their dreams of a better life, sell themselves for fun, popularity and power are meant to be justified; we are supposed to feel for them as well. A self obsessed megalomaniac like Ganesh Gaitonde who kills at will, offers his own men who trust and idolize him as bait, ravages women just because he can, feeds on virgins for strength, manipulates and contrives to the lowest possible levels is glorified. But there’s always an eagle lurking for a snake. So, there’s a guru that Mr.Gaitonde believes in, trusts and this guru has a plan for mankind and the plan isn’t particularly conducive to your or my safety, happiness and well-being. I guess we need less gurus and more heroes like Batman to save the world; who have no jurisdiction but are truly good.

Have you read ‘Inferno’ by Dan Brown? Just asking.

Have you read ‘Shantaram’ by Gregory David Roberts? Just asking again.

I wouldn’t say I disliked the book but too much of prose (minus any poetry) probably got to me. Just another gangster movie story I'd say heavily influenced by Bollywood.

Just like the Glocks and AK47s mentioned, the bulk of the book could kill one if it were to fall from a shelf above. 947 pages done with. And what do I feel now? Well, I’m only happy to move on to reading another book; I’d rather go for Dickens or Iris Murdoch this time.

My rating: 5 out of 10

Images copyright

Book cover - ©Buy Sacred Games Book Online at Low Prices in India | Sacred Games Reviews & Ratings - Amazon.in

Author - ©Jabberwock: A conversation with Vikram Chandra (jaiarjun.blogspot.com)

In a free state by V.S. Naipaul – A book review

‘When the student is ready the teacher will appear.’ - Lao Tzu

This is only part of the quote and it’s got great depth. However, in this case, the teacher did appear but I realize I wasn’t really ready when I attempted to read this book for the first time. This time around I seem to have a better understanding of its brilliance and feel educated.

The theme is displacement and it makes its presence in the primary characters in the stories. Mr. Naipaul is an eloquent genius who I think doesn’t believe in packaging; the reader sees the characters as they are because they are precisely as they have been written about. This is prose of immense depth.

These are sketches of people away from their homes in different countries, inadvertently, compellingly, adamantly or consciously trying to adjust and blend in the labyrinths of a new life.

The needless harassment of the tramp aboard the ship in the ‘Tramp at Piraeus’ shows how uncomfortable unconventionality can make us; how ruthlessly it can anger us, how easily we can yield power where it is possible not where it’s necessary. The discovery of himself and his existence in a foreign land, Washington in ‘One out of many’, tells the wonderful story of a house-help from India, Santosh. Dumbfounded by the newness of everything, sleeping in a closet, his world is as enclosed and confined as the closet or his master’s room. You give a child a colourful beautiful toy and then take it away – the child is confused, lost; the crying and tears only come later. In this new country and city, Santosh discovers a toy he never had – his identity, his face, himself; he realizes he’s not just a servant, but a person, an individual. But it’s lost – this toy, this identity, soon after its discovery and what remains is just another brick in the wall, a compulsion for compromise. Like an institutionalized slave, struggling for freedom, he doesn’t know what to do with it when it has been achieved; he’s lost.

‘Tell me who to kill’ is about hatred. A disorientated and resentful youngster from a village, envious of his uncle’s social façade of a status and embarrassed by his own family’s sends his brother abroad to study and follows in tow to check-up on him. But once he’s there, he cannot leave; he’s caught in the mad rush of earning money and giving his brother a better life. A sense of pride is crushed with the indignation he feels towards everyone; a crime is committed and a life is wasted. Who’s to blame?

‘In a free state’ is the longer story and I liked it immensely. A drive through the landscapes of Africa by two office bearing foreigners, whites in a time of political chaos doesn’t remain just a journey on the road; it’s a journey into the conflicting thoughts of these individuals about this country they are in now and its people. A fracas in their heads is out in dialogue when difficult questions are asked and answered by the two about their purpose and perceptions in this foreign land. The conversations pinch you in the right places as they question the basic thoughts of human nature, of seeing things and people in a new state. You realize there’s a huge difference between what one says, what one believes and what one has made himself/herself to believe in and these conflicting thoughts are convoluted over time and undulating between them every now and then, one finally acts in a totally mismatched way. Should one act like Romans when in Rome? But it depends on who that ‘one’ is, probably the dependency is also on the colour of one’s skin, his or her social status, the privileges that one enjoys over others. The conversations and thoughts show how easily one can be judgmental when one is privileged. This is a contrast to the other stories as here the outsider seems to have an upper hand, condescending on the bearing and conduct of the locals. What gives them this right to intrude? Who has invited them to do so – to feel and act superior?

I remember a long time ago a good friend of mine and I were having a discussion about nihilism among other things. Deep into the conversation, I felt and shared with her that these are thoughts of the privileged and she agreed; a poverty ridden society or even a strictly basic one and its people have no time to think about these anthropological jargons. There are people who are ashamed to speak the local language in their own country but are happy to learn a foreign language to impress; there are narcissists who take pride in telling everyone around them how to behave, eat, talk, and dress among other things. The natives didn’t invite these foreigners; they are intruders in a way even if they hold a post in their society. And these intruders are happy to see naked savages perform a cultural dance and entertain them but the delight is limited to that; beyond that the inhabitants turn into ugly, disgusting aboriginals who are to be looked down upon, who need to be taught culture, who need to be despised because that’s what they are worthy of; lions in a zoo or circus are safer to look at, or when they are tranquilized - one can even stroke it’s mane but they’re oh so dangerous in the wild. It’s like visiting someone’s house uninvited and trying to play God.

It took Satan and an apple from the forbidden tree to make Eve and then Adam be aware and embarrassed of their nakedness; it takes an outsider to make the natives feel so – to be embarrassed, to feel wanting, to feel the darkness of their colour, to appear stunted in their esteem, to fall in a hole that wasn’t there. Condescension is an art and who better than the privileged to act it out; it takes great mental skills to make people content with their lives show what’s missing in their lives and then offer help, and then intrude on their privacy and lives, and then to yield authority, and then to transform or wipe them out.

Naipaul’s characters and their thoughts are those of the individuals in a foreign land and these individuals make people and these people constitute a society or culture. These stories are essential.

‘People are generally good till you cease to be the person they want you to be.’ – from an Omeleto video I watched recently.

My rating: 5/5

Images from:

Book cover - https://www.amazon.in/Free-State-V-S-Naipaul/dp/0330487051

V. S. Naipaul - https://www.looptt.com/content/remembering-vs-naipaul-5-things-know-about-author

A Winter’s Night and other stories by Munshi Premchand – A book review

T

There’s short yet useful information provided at the end of the book about the author’s life and an introduction by one of India’s greatest poets Gulzar. Stories from Premchand have been part of textbooks; he was known as the ‘Upanyas Samrat’ – the emperor of novels though mostly in North India. It was surprising and a revelation to read that his early education was in a Madrasa, under a maulvi and his initial stories were written in Urdu.

This book is a collection of short stories and it is from a bygone era, an era from which India has evolved. More specifically it is from the villages of India, it is from a time India was engulfed by the caste system, the British rule, and hence poverty. It transports you to the villages in India, with wells accessible only to the elite, women drawing water from it, people in their traditional clothing, cattle working in the fields, lands and mortgages; no tractors, no high rises, no smart phones, no televisions – yes, a world still existed then. Though the settings have changed and life and India have moved on, the characters and their plight is believable. The forms have changed - the forms of oppression, the forms of sacrifice, the forms of love and belonging; replace a zamindar with one of today’s politicians, replace the moneylender with the big loan sharks of today and you have a new revised version of these stories.

The brilliance of these stories lies in their simple narrative. A story writer needs to be a good observer and Munshi Premchand was brilliant. In each story, he captures the innate capacity of individuals and the brazen thoughtless acceptance of a divided society at large. The lives in these stories are clearly divided between the oppressor and the oppressed. Stories like ‘The salt inspector’, ‘Kaki’, ‘A quarter and one ser of wheat’ and ‘The price of milk’ clearly portray this divide. Readers will relate with the laziness and shamelessness of drunkards in ‘The Shroud’ even today.

I believe these stories are pieces of history that children of today must be made to read if they are to know where their grandfathers and their grandfathers came from; they are as important as stories of Shivaji and of mutinies and of independence; they are stories of behavior, stories to ponder upon.

This is real history; unbiased, secular.  

Image courtesy:

Munshi Premchand - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Premchand

Book cover - https://www.amazon.in/Winters-Night-Other-Stories-Premchand/dp/0143330381