The Valmiki Syndrome by Ashok Banker: Impressions

I have to begin with my admission of having a hate-love (more hate than love) relationship with this author. Despite my ordeal with his Ramayana series, which is also something I’m currently reading, I chose to read The Valmiki Syndrome. Why? Partly, because I was ensnared by the title, and partly, because Random House asked me to review it. And at the end of the book, my perception of the author remains the same. However, the book wasn’t as bad as some other ‘preachy’ ones I’ve read; mostly because it uses mini stories to prove the point. Ashok Banker extols the value, and demonstrates the ancient technique of, katha (storytelling) as a way of gaining insight, knowledge and subsequently, wisdom in this book.

The book talks about The Valmiki Syndrome – the common human conundrum of trying to find the work-life balance. I’m not sure if a concept like this existed, or has been conjured up by the author. I think it is the latter. While using Sage Valmiki’s story as an example was okay, calling the whole problem of work-life balance ‘The Valmiki Syndrome’ was stretching it. The book could easily have been called something like ‘The Work-Life Question’, ‘The Urban Dilemma’ or something else that sounds self-help-ey. But Banker’s love of Ramayana and a clever marketing ploy may have prompted this title. There is a resurgence of interest in Indian mythology in the current generation, and like it tricked me to pick up the book, it will many others.

As I’ve mentioned above, the book has three mini stories about three very different lives. There is an extremely ambitious Suhasini; there is Sara, who rebels to find success in a field not approved of by her family; and there is the dreaded dacoit Ratnakaran, who kills and steals to make a living. The consequences of their chosen paths are very different – Suhasini, on a career overdrive, loses her husband and children; Sara succeeds on her path despite the initial estrangement from her family and goes on to get the best of both worlds; and Ratnakaran realizes, with the help of Rishi Narada, that his family does not really support his means, and goes on to mend his ways by treading the spiritual path.

Through the stories, the author tries to encourage the reader to ask oneself three fundamental questions about identity and life. Who am I? Who do I wish to be? How do I become that person? Once a person mulls upon and is able to answer these questions, he is able to find his life path. He is able to prioritise, act upon, and change his life situation for the better. These are pertinent philosophical questions and I liked the book for them. The author is able to demonstrate simply and easily their importance. The packaging of this ancient wisdom is clever.

My only misgiving, as with all of Banker’s books, is his style of writing. I find it boring, especially in parts where it is Banker speaking. As long as he has his story voice on, where the characters talk, he is tolerable. But when his own opinions come across, he begins to sound ‘bleh’. It’s like ‘I’m not preaching, but do this…’, ‘I’m not being a guru, but do that…’. Yeah, okay, Mister Banker, you’re not trying to preach, but you are. Don’t.

Demons of Chitrakut – Book three of The Ramayana by Ashok Banker: Impressions

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

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

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

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

Supanakha’s character is also given more exposure, and her feelings for Rama, more sympathy. Disguised as a doe, Supanakha’s character follows Rama around all through the three books and one cannot help but feel bad when the showdown happens.

But as the plot thickens, Rama’s dharma-esque behaviours become more frequent, and his character becomes increasingly unreal. But then that’s Rama, and this is the Ramayana – the chronicles of the ideal man.Yawn.


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This is part two of the seven-part series review of The Ramayana by Ashok Banker. Also read the reviews of Part 1: Prince of Ayodhya and Part 2: Siege of Mithila

Siege of Mithila – Book two of The Ramayana by Ashok Banker: Impressions

As long as this book lasted, I was reminded of one trashy pseudo-mythological serial I used to watch with great enthusiasm as a child. Remember ‘Chandrakanta’? Yes, that exact same one with the exaggerated characters with exaggerated eyebrows. My mother groaned and groaned about how utterly tasteless it was, and I agreed and continued to watch. Weekend after weekend, I watched. There was no way I could tear myself away from the display of magic, shape-shifting characters, super drama, and that ultimate hook of ‘What happens next?’

The ‘Siege of Mithila’, like ‘Chandrakanta’, seemed to be excessive at all times. Banker seems to have gone on an overdrive with the second part, in words and their content, making it the second fattest book of the series with 522 pages. There’s so much happening on every page, it’s almost vulgar. Even the writing is so adjective-ridden, that one sentence feels like a mouth so stuffed you cannot chew or swallow. Sample this: Around noon, they had left behind the rolling grassy plains where wild horses, elephant and rhino roamed freely and entire clans of lumbering hippopotami rolled cumbrously in mud pools, and the path had begun undulating constantly, seemingly unable to stay flat any longer, while thickets of wildbrush, sage, bamboo and bizarre profusions of multi-hued wildflowers bounded on either side. My editor hands have wanted to slash in half almost every sentence in this book. There might be readers who appreciate this style of writing and call it giving attention to detail, but I find it onerous. Why, even the first mention of the ‘Siege’ part of the ‘Siege of Mithila’ happens after 300 pages!

Another disproportionate element are the many, oh so many episodes involving sorcery and magic. Because I’ve not read any other version of The Ramayana, I don’t know if they’re part of the original or fanciful creations of the author. While I love and encourage different interpretations of old tales, I’ve found too many things in this book gaudy. Women turning into snakes, people running through magical corridors, men going underwater for missions… you get my drift. Perhaps I’ve read too many ‘realistic’ versions of epics like ‘Yuganta’ and have lost the taste for such work.

But did I stop reading? No. Could I stop reading? No. Why? Because Banker knows how to hold his reader’s attention. And even though I point fingers at the lack of refinement, I must give hand him merit as a writer. It’s like commercial cinema – flashy, given to hyperboles, silly even, but entertaining. Very, very entertaining. Banker makes for a very successful thriller writer, and never lets his pace flag. So long winded as it may seem, you willingly accompany the entourage of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra, the princes Rama and Lakshman, their senapati Bejoo, and an incognito Sita & her bodyguard into the woods and under the oceans, fighting beasts, dacoits and demons and into Mithila for an impending Asura invasion. Parallely thrown in is action from the demon-worshiping Manthara and Dasaratha’s queens in the Ayodhyan palace. Oh, and not to forget a swayamvara and the grand culmination in, guess what, a sorcerous episode.

Am I going to read book three? Yes; because I sure as hell want to know ‘What happens next?’

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This is part two of the seven-part series review of The Ramayana by Ashok Banker. Read the review of Book one of The Ramayana - Prince of Ayodhya here.