My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk: Impressions

This last day of February, I risked getting late to work. I walked around the house frenetically, preparing my bath things, putting out my clothes, bumping into furniture, eyeing the clock, panicking, yet continuing to read the last few pages of Orhan Pamuk's multiple literary award-winning novel, 'My Name is Red'. It had to be finished today because I started reading this damned book in the beginning of January! When I say 'damned', I mean eloquent, I mean grandiose, I mean grandiloquent, and I mean all of those fancy adjectives. Even so, had I taken any longer than two months to finish it, I would have to shamefully walk around with a brown paper bag over my head.

It should not take two months to finish, but 'My Name is Red' is by no means an easy book. It is an exotic thriller, a study in language and a smallish history of Islamic art, all at the same time. Sometimes one loses patience, when Pamuk takes his time to weave into the plot minor stories from Islamic folklore and literature, but he is almost immediately forgiven for the wealth of knowledge and beauty flowing from his pen. These micro story clusters, usually in threes, are chewy, sweet, though not entirely indispensable. Pamuk uses these tales of shahs and pashas, artists and miniaturists, dervishes and lovers in the old school style of fables, richly texturing his plot. Every word, every turn of phrase has been artfully chosen by the writer so it resembles the coloured yet troubled world of artists.

The artists, heroes and villains of this book are all miniaturists belonging to the Ottoman Empire. Caught between their loyalties to olden Herat masters and new and lucrative Frankish techniques offering recognition and fame, these miniaturists live in times of intense turmoil. Working together, yet individually, on a secret book commissioned by the Sultan, they are pitted against each other. Jealousy, rivalry and suspicion lead to the murder of one of the miniaturists by another, and the drama begins to unfold.

The principal characters are the murdered miniaturist, Elegant Effendi; the royal workshop head, Master Osman; the co-ordinator of Sulatan's book, Enishte Effendi (who is also murdered along the way); his nephew, Black Effendi; his daughter, Shekure; Esther, the Jewish clothier and matchmaker; and three other master miniaturists, nicknamed Olive, Stork and Butterfly. It is known to the reader that one of this trio is the murderer, but Pamuk carefully conceals his identity till the end. 

The narrative is done through each of these characters, and there's a breathtaking change of perspective with every successive chapter. A narrative of this style is quite unlike anything I've ever read before. The chapters are simply titled 'I, (character name)', so the reader knows easily whose voice he is hearing. Pamuk slips effortlessly from the mantle of a murdered to an artist, to a woman to a man. There are these exquisite chapters where the author even assumes the voice of a colour, an illustration or a mythological character, thus making organic the world of paints, brushes, and passion. His lines can easily be likened to brushstrokes, not big and broad, but fine like a miniaturist's. After all, it took Pamuk nearly eight years to create this masterpiece.

Mother and child

One of the most enduring images in religion, nay humanity, is that of a mother and child. Whether the child is little Krishna or baby Jesus or any other, the bond between mother and child is always divine.


(Watercolour on paper, Feb 2012)

Equine ambitions

I did what every aspiring artist sooner or later does. I drew horses. On MS Paint again.

The boy next door

(Image: varbak.com)

There’s a child next door,

A little boy just like mine,

He laughs the way mine does,

Throws tantrums just the same.

His energy matches his,

And so do his little joys,

They perhaps even play,

With very similar toys.

My child, when he prattles,

Invites many an ‘Oh, so cute!’

But an open mouth brings no sound

From the child next door; he’s mute.

Mine fills hours with chatter,

Fills days with joyous cacophony

He whines, clings and says with touch,

Cries, so often, so desperately,

He must want to say so much!

I say a little prayer,

Spare a little thought.

Thank God for all the things

That could go wrong, but have not. 

Letters

(Made on MS Paint on a lazy Sunday afternoon in 2012)

Fever

(Image: paintingsilove.com)

I never forgot your smell,

or how soft your cheek was;

like tender coconut flesh.

How soft your cheek was,

when I dared to push my lips against it.

 I never forgot how

my back pressed against the wall.

Green, cold, flaky paint.

I remember trying to remember the moment

the hot flush of love against the cold of the wall.

The memory lives, grows, sears.  

It is a fever. You shudder, you sweat. 

You want to lie down, you need to sit up. 

Yes, a fever. A fire that's burning me up.

A fire that won't listen to reason. 

I will be your phoenix, you can be my arsonist.

Scarlet lips to burn you, flushed cheeks to burn you.

Here, inside of me, is a living arsenal.

A veritable, flammable woman;

you will keep alive with flames of longing.

That first spark has grown,

brighter now, bolder now. 

Your lips are under my thumb:

trembling pink flesh. Now wet with wanting, 

now parched in anticipation.

Fan my flames, for I need you, to make it through

this stark and lonely night.

Touch your tongue to mine, quench this longing.

Nay, stay away, lest all turn to ashes.

There is a desperation in this denial. A quiet hunger. 

A spasming want.

I will wait. I will make you want me.

(Co-written with Mahinn Ali Khan @mentalexotica)

A Songbird on my Shoulder by Saaz Aggarwal: Impressions

Every good thing in life has a price tag. My new job close to home, which is as close to a boon as any Mumbaikar can get, has a price tag too. No traveling time has translated to no reading time. And my love for reading is only slightly less than my hatred for traveling. No, I’m not really complaining, but I miss my books. I miss that frenetic reading I did on BEST buses during my six months at the Bandra job. I miss being the object of awe and admiration when I would post a new book review every other day on social networking sites. Now I am like anyone else; I struggle to finish a book and occasionally, stare wistfully at my blog, which begs for a new post.

I was, thus, learning to fit into my new mantle of assistant editorship of not one but two magazines and crawling through the pages of Orhan Pamuk’s much-venerated work, My Name is Red, when my old colleague and friend, Veda asked me to review her mom’s new book. I was more than honoured, because I’ve admired Saaz’s work before, and it was her book review blog that inspired me to start writing my own reviews. I said yes, albeit warily, because I wasn’t sure when I’d find the time to read it; much less, review it.

The book arrived a few days later, and out of the parcel came a happy-coloured cover with Saaz’s distinctive artwork on it. Titled, The Songbird on My Shoulder, the book had a slightly naughty subtitle: Confessions of an Unrepentant Madam. I was drawn in. The fun testimonials on the back cover by Saaz’s friends and family, the terse little introduction and the fact that it was a compilation, which did not need me to read in sequence, drew me further in. It was a welcome break from Pamuk’s need-to-ponder-upon prose.

Before I knew it, I had breezed through the book, even as the incessant wheels of domesticity and profession whirred. I wishfully flipped through the pages, taking in snippets from Saaz’s life, enjoying the randomness of it all. Here was a 30-something Saaz writing a poignant poem that betrayed her youth, and here was a 50-something Saaz reminiscing about a quaint little episode from her life, her perspectives firmly in place. Here I was laughing one moment at her toilet humour, and here I was weeping at her emotional journey into (step) motherhood. Here I was marveling at the depth of her 3-line poems, and here I was identifying strongly with her experiences as a woman, a writer, a wife and a mother.

Saaz is an easy writer to read, without her being flippant. She’s witty without being comical, deep without being pretentious and articulate without being verbose. The Songbird on my Shoulder is a compilation of articles and poetry she has written over the years, of things published and unpublished, of matters great and small. It is a pretty picture of a life lived full and well. Her life; but you will very easily see many scenes and shades from your life in it too.

Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul - A Book of Miracles: Impressions

With my self-proclaimed dislike of 'self-help' books, I've never gone within 10 feet of a Chicken Soup book. Honestly, I have been too snooty to even bother finding out what these books were about. But I was drawn to this book because I am a sucker for miracles, a sucker for the supernatural, a sucker for anything that promises to be greater than my ordinary existence. I chose to read and review this book because I haven't one rational bone in my body. What I have is belief by the bucket and tears in equal measure. Tears that are all too willing to spill at the slightest tug of heart, and boy did this book tug!

The book is full of small stories – personal accounts really – of faith, prayers, healing and of course, everyday miracles. I had a stray tear roll out of my eyes every other page as I read about people fighting for causes big and small, for people they held dear, and for lives that were precious. I read about many big battles that were won solely with the power of prayer, and many minor miracles that take place in our lives. The book has stories about people who mysteriously enter our lives like angels and tide us through the worst kind of troubles and strange coincidences that can only be explained as God’s benevolence. There are tales about spirits that guide us and Gods that protect us.

There are simple stories and there are some unbelievable ones. There is a story about someone deriving peace and pleasure from going to a bookstore or smelling a flower. And there is another extraordinary story, called ‘Chachaji’, which has stuck with me. This one is about this guy who would have been killed in an accident, but for the timely intervention and help of his uncle (or Chachaji). His uncle is the one who takes him to the hospital and directs people to inform the guy’s parents. It is revealed later that the uncle had died the previous year!

Another story (I think it was called ‘The wind carried me’) that had me sniffling was one about a child who has a miraculous escape even after falling from the terrace of three-storey building. There are several such stories about children being ill or in distress and their parents clinging to their last threads of faith and making miracles happen with the power of their faith. It put me in the shoes of those parents and made me thank God for the protection He has always given to my child.

But while these tiny tales are heartwarming, they sometimes make you cringe with their style of writing. Some are so naïve, you wonder which direction the editor was looking when the story found its way within the pages of this book. Let’s face it, the Chicken Soups of the world are not read for their literary merit. But if some suffering soul finds some hope and warmth in these words, I see no harm in serving them a bowlful of Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul – A Book of Miracles.     

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L'attente

She keeps open her doors, and her flowers fresh

Gerberas that he may like, roses that may delight.

Their scent is all she has, for his perfume is long gone

from her hair, her sheets, her memory,

from her days and those long, sweet nights.

She has never shut her windows, for fear of a missed sight,

She keeps them open and her heart; some day he might...

She has never shut either, those teary eyes,

that read over the letters of promise (or perhaps lies?)

Rain on the garden path, washed clean of his tread,

A flood of despair inside, a sob muffled in bed,

A hundred moons have waxed and waned,

she tells herself, he is only late

Hoping against all hope, she lies in wait,

keeping open her doors, and her flowers fresh...


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This poem was penned exclusively for Puneet Vijay's wonderful composition, which he calls 'The Ballad of Lonesome Eyes'. I, on the other hand choose to call it L'attente, which means 'The wait' in French. See Puneet's wonderful pictures on http://bit.ly/s8lfuz

The Pregnant King by Devdutta Pattanaik: Impressions

He wept for his father, the pregnant king, for the imperfection of the human condition, and our stubborn refusal to make room for all those in between.


This last line of the book, The Pregnant King by Devdutt Pattanaik, succinctly sums up its message. And what a powerful message! The book is less about the 'aberrations in nature' and more about society disowning them. Whether in Dwapara Yuga or the Kali, human beings have remained the same in their non-acceptance of the non-normal. Through the story of many major and minor (as we call it these days) LGBT mythological characters, Pattanaik reminds us of the humanity we often forget to show to humans who are a little different. In his first work of fiction, he writes with the same signature elegance, that make all his books so readable. His merit is in presenting the universal aspects of ancient stories that make them relevant to the modern reader.

Pattanaik mentions right in the beginning of the book how he has neither adhered to chronology nor to geographical boundaries. He has pulled out many popular characters from across mythology, uniting them in this work of fiction to demonstrate the agony of persons whose minds and bodies are divided on the aspect of sexuality. So apart from the story of Yuvanashva - man and mother, there are stories about Shikhandi - woman and prince of Panchal, Ila - man and wife, Somvat- boy and wife, and even Arjuna - warrior and eunuch among others. Not just human characters, the author tells us stories of gods and demons also plagued by mixed sexualities. There is, for instance, Sthunakarna - a yaksha and yakshini and Ileshwara - god and goddess.When he needed to introduce similar queer characters into the story, who could not in any way be connected to the plot, the author made clever use of bards, who tell stories about them.

Coming back to the prime character of Yuvanashva, Pattanaik etches a well-defined character of the king who became a mother. Unable to bear a child for many years, the king seeks desperate measures. A magical potion churned by two Sidhhas promise him children, but not quite in the way he imagines. Instead of his wives, the king accidentally drinks it and begets a child. Though the truth of the child is kept a secret from the subjects and even the child himself, it manifests itself in the king's maternal feelings. Then comes a moment of truth, which threatens to destroy all order. When the truth is rejected, as it is done to this day, Yuvanashva leaves the world in search of a truth that transcends all human definitions.

The book tackles the questions of gender roles and discrimination very well. It explores the many relationships that define our lives. Parent-child, husband-wife, friendship, veneration and rejection. It draws richly from the many lessons in our ancient scriptures and presents a posy of wisdom. Though the plot was a little slow to start up, once it did there was no going back. Read it because it will impregnate you will some very worthy thoughts.