Land of the Seven Rivers by Sanjeev Sanyal: Impressions

I've been a bad girl as far as reading goes, and worse still, about reviewing books. A mad phase at work leaves me with precious little mental energy at the end of the day and by TBR pile looks at me accusingly. However, I not only made time for Sanjeev Sanyal's 'Land of The Seven Rivers' , but also found it quite unputdownable. It is unputdownable not in the manner of thrillers but by way of presenting the reader with many 'Oh!' moments.

'Land of The Seven Rivers - A Brief History of India's Geography' is a delightfully informative read, and Sanyal even manages to pepper it with wit! I was very intrigued by the title; finally someone was promising to tell me something about India's history that had nothing to do with the same old Marathas and the same old Gandhis. Geography was also not a subject that interested me much in school. Who wants to read endlessly about kharif and raabi crops, right? But here was a title that claimed to be none of the two, yet both.

And Sanyal holds true his promise. With extensive research, a lot of which is based on his personal travels, Sanyal traces the origins and evolution of the subcontinent. The book is divided into eight chapters that chart the course of India, right from the pre-historic times down to the present-day. The first chapter, ‘Of Genetics and Tectonics’ deals with the formation of the natural geographical boundaries, using the continental drift theory and examines the latest notions about the nation’s gene pool. Citing modern research, Sanyal too finds the Aryan Invasion theory redundant and concludes that the Indian people are a truly eclectic mix from across the world, then as now.

The second chapter, ‘People of the Lost River’, deals with two of the most intriguing elements of India’s past – the Harappan Civilization and the River Saraswati. Sanyal does a quick recce of the vast body of research on the Harappan, or what is now called the Indus Valley Civilization. The author is in agreement with the modern researchers who propose that the Vedic and the Indus Valley Civilization were the same. Disproving the Aryan Invasion theory again, Sanyal points out that India’s earliest cities withered away due to the drying up of the great river Saraswati. The chapter also talks about the Bharata tribe, from whom India derives its name.

The third chapter, ‘The Age of the Lions’ discusses a period that roughly coincides with the Late Iron Age. It was the milieu of some of India’s most important personas including Gautama Buddha, Chanakya and Chadragupta Maurya. It was also the time of Alexander’s invasion, and the building of the first highways. Sanyal also discusses the introduction of the lion in the country, supporting it with scriptural and historical evidence, and the induction of the animal as a symbol of royal power.

‘The Age of Merchants’, the fourth chapter, talks especially about the ports of southern India that flourished during the Chola dynasty. It emphasises the importance of port towns in serving as the melting pot for cultures and commerce. Sanyal also points out how the once flourishing maritime trade in India diminished with the onset of caste restrictions on ‘crossing the waters’. Through the fifth chapter, ‘From Sindbad to Zheng He’, Sanyal continues to talk about traders that made their way into India and eventually set up communities here, slowly giving India its multicultural hue. There are many interesting tidbits about evolving maritime technology too in these sections.

In the sixth and seventh chapters, ‘The Mapping of India’ and ‘Trigonometry and Steam’, the author sheds light on the aspects of cartography, not just in India but the increasingly dominating European nations. Europe’s advancement in map-making, mathematics and technology paved their path to eventual world domination, while the Indian dynasties like the Muhgals and Marathas crumbled under the weight of the old world.  

By the time we get to the last chapter, ‘The Contours of Modern India’, the British have obviously established colonial rule in the nation. We read about Calcutta’s emergence and disintegration as the seat of power. We read about the making of Delhi all over again by the British, as by a long line of Indian rulers. The chapter also obviously speaks about the partition, the making of Bangladesh and the strained relationships we share with Pakistan and China.

The book is so full of amazing facts that I couldn’t help but write such a long review. It is a must read for anyone interested in India’s history, geography and even mythology! Sanyal’s authoritative voice and extensive research make it a great read and it may as well serve as a handbook for any student of ‘India’. I most certainly recommend it.

The Sea of Innocence by Kishwar Desai: Impressions

I don't usually read mysteries or thrillers because I do not find much in them to 'take home'. But an occasional read between heavy books serves as good refreshment, given that most mysteries are sharply written and are very pacy. If nothing, a Sidney Sheldon or a Robert Ludlum promise adrenaline-fulled entertainment. But not so a Kishwar Desai. In fact, not only is Desai not like those masters, she's downright BORING. I don't remember the last time it took me THIS long to finish a mystery.

From what I understand, The Sea of Innocence is the third of her Simran Singh series - a 40-something social worker who moonlights as a detective. Desai's first book, Witness the Night won the Costa First Novel Award, which was then followed by Origins of Love. I haven't read the first two, but after this book, I don't think I'll ever read anything by her again.

Inspired by the much publicised case of British tourist, Scarlett Keeling, who was raped and murdered on the beaches of Goa, The Sea of Innocence tries to depict the darker side of the sunny town. Goa's dark underbelly could have made a great setting for a crime thriller, but Desai fails to use it to her advantage. The book is painfully slow, even though she has thrown in all elements like drug-fuelled parties, beaches, holiday romances, ageing Hippies, politicians, power games and even rape tapes!

The feminists may come at me with pitchforks, but Desai 'talks too much'. As I trudged along its pages, I couldn't help comparing her with male authors, whose books seem to have so much more action. And don't even bring up Agatha Christie, okay? The book often sounds like a long rant about the single Simran's weight problems, her failed loves and mommy issues. There are lengthy monologue-y stretches and you want to shake her up and ask her to DO SOMETHING!

The plot is fairly simple; a young British girl goes missing from the beaches of Goa, and a year later, videos of her surface. The case is reopened unofficially, with Simran starting a covert investigation at her ex cop boyfriend's behest. Simran meets the missing girl's sister, Marian, who also implores her to help find her 16-year-old sibling, Lisa. Following trails and anonymous video clues, Simran discovers that the disappearance has to do with a drug cartel and that powerful men are involved.

Desai manages to keep the suspense till the end, but the plot is stretched so thin, that by the end of it, you don't really care. Most of it is predictable, but one must give her points for a scary twist in the end. The story, however, is wrapped up very shoddily, and the last few pages seem to have been written in a hurry.

The jacket of the book quotes the Telegraph praising the book as being 'Terrific'. My verdict is different by just three letters: Terrible.

Sex and the Citadel by Shireen El Feki: Impressions

With my aesthetic preferences, my world is often only made of pretty things like fashion, poetry, art, chocolate, literature and such. My mind conveniently filters out the grime that coats out daily lives. I stopped reading the newspaper for the lack of time, but I find myself happier for it. On social media, my eyes are unseeing of the steady stream of outrage on the state of this country. I bullishly swim upstream, spouting poetic lines when everyone else is talking about rape and murder and mayhem.

So It helps to pepper ones reading list with hard-hitting non-fiction books to bring one back to ground realities from time to time. I like my share of 'real life' in measured doses - in books like Sex and the Citadel by Shireen El Feki.

Feki, who is an award-winning journalist, a writer, broadcaster, an academic, the vice chair of UN's Global Commission on HIV and the Law and a TED Global Fellow. With extensive experience in the field of sexual health, Feki writes this commentary on the sociosexual life in the Arab world with great insight and authority. The book is not only an excellent social commentary on the contemporary Muslim world but also an eye opener on many subjects apart from the sexual. The author's Islamic background and her Western upbringing puts her at an great vantage point and makes her writing credible.

'Sex and the Citadel' is divided into many clear chapters pertaining to sexual issues. The first chapter gives the reader an overview of the the Arab society's stance on all matters sexual. It is surprising to learn that there was once a fairly liberal system in place where practices like homosexuality, and even prostitution were not just tolerated but considered normal. Feki cites several literary instances that have spoken explicitly on sex and its many possibilities. Following political upheavals in the late 1800s, the Arab world's stance on sexuality changed, thanks to the likes of Hassan Al Banna and Sayyid Qutb. These men blamed Egypt's decline to Western culture and turned to Sharia laws to revive the region's Islamist glory. And that was the beginning of the downward spiral.

One can't help but be reminded one of the India that once produced Kama Sutra and erotic temple art of Khajuraho and in time turned into a land of prudes due to religious and political influences.

The next chapter, titled 'Desperate Housewives' is one of the longest in the book deals with the plight of the average niqab'd or hijab'd Arab housewife, who has little or no say in the bedroom or outside it. The problems for the girl child begin early on with customs like female circumcision, and only multiply with practices like the very public test of virginity, limited access to legal aid or medical care with regards contraception, pregnancy or abortion. Feki interviews many 'regular' people through the course of this book to understand the nature of the sexual problems that plague the country. She also speaks to a few firebrand women who are slowly but surely challenging the norms and helping lend voice to the otherwise silent Arab woman.

The third chapter is titled 'Sex and the Single Arab' and boldly discusses the biggest of all hush hush subjects - premarital sex. Feki speaks of the lengths to which single women go to preserve their virginity and the sexual frustration of young men who do not have the resources to marry among other things. One interesting thing I learnt from this chapter was that in Islam, there are various kinds of marriage. Many single people in love opt for a relatively hassle-free form of marriage called Urfi so they may have sex with some form of religious sanction and thus a clear conscience. 'Proper' marriages are, of course, the kind that is solemnised before the court, a religious representative and the community.

'Facts of Life', the fourth chapter illuminates the reader on the sad state of sexual education (which is pretty much the case everywhere), the depiction of sex in film and the media, the general misconceptions and taboos surrounding sex and a handful of brave men ad women challenging this state of affairs with the help of new age media. Feki also discusses how access to the Internet has significantly changed attitudes about sex among youngsters, even if this attitudinal shift is not easy to see.

The fifth chapter is dedicated to the business of flesh, aptly titled 'Sex for Sale'. Though officially illegal, prostitution manages to thrive in dark discreet alleys in Egypt and its neighbouring nations. Like in most nations of the world, most women are pushed into prostitution for financial necessity. It reflects the sad plight of women in the Arab world who have little recourse to a 'normal' and respectable life due to limited education and job opportunities. Feki also throws in bits about activism in this area as she is wont to do in all chapters.

In 'Dare to be Different', the author brings to light a marginalised community in not just the Arab world, but everywhere - transgenders. The chapter talks about the struggle of these people in accessing surgical and hormonal treatments in the first place, and then acceptance.

'Come the Revolution' sums up the contents of the book beautifully, and if you do not have the patience to read the whole book (it can seem boring and lengthy at times), read at least this one. Feki acknowledges how the revolution at Tahrir Square changed the old world order in Egypt forever, and how it will hopefully bring positive changes in the Arab world. Egypt's second wave of mass protests are being held even as I write this review. As Feki's brave work predicts, Arab's social soil is ready to be sown with the seeds of change.

Karma by Cathy Ostlere: Impressions

There are good books, there are great books and then there are once-in-a-lifetime books. Cathy Ostlere's 'Karma', which is a novel in verse, falls in the third category for more reasons than one. It hit all the right spots even before I had read the award-winning book. It was as if Karma was meant for me. The title, the cover design, the concept and the style of the book - everything called out to me.

Written in a diary format, the story is told through  Maya and Sandeep's poetic entries. Maya is a Indian-origin Canadian teenager who straddles the two worlds of Indian values and her Canadian life on the one hand and her mother's Hindu beliefs and father's Sikh pride on the other. She also has bestfriend-boyfriend issues like any regular teenager and struggles to stay afloat in a sea of identity crises. But Maya's already fragile world crumbles when she loses her mother to depression and is taken to India by her father to be married off. Maya and her bapu land at the time of modern India's worst political crises - the assassination of  Indira Gandhi. Maya is separated from her father in Delhi's riotous atmosphere and she escapes to Jodhpur leaving behind her life and her voice.

Enter Sandeep. Child of the desert, an orphan adopted, maverick and Maya's unlikely hero. When Maya is rescued by Sandeep's sister, she is no more than a frightened creature, rendered mute by her grief. Sandeep's family take Maya in for a while and through his words, Sandeep must coax back Maya's spirit and words. Several adventures follow and the seeds of friendship and young love are sown. Sandeep helps reunite Maya with her father, but they must pay the price with separation.

You see how the plot is so thick with action and emotion. Now multiply it many times over with Ostlere's poignant poetry. The poet-novelist writes striking free verse, which is laden with powerful imagery. I am hard pressed to pick a favourite (every line in the book is, really), but I don't think I'll ever forget these lines from Sandeep's diary on page 422.

Sandeep's answer

I hear him arguing

We are made of love. Love! Do you hear me, old
man! We are made of the love that finds us. The
love we make. And even the love we are fated to
lose! 

Otslere strikes you down, lifts you up, makes you cry and moves you irrevocably with her poignant poetry. There may be only 15 words on a page, but you are never left wanting, so evocative are the images she paints. I highly recommend this book to anyone who is curious about poetry but thinks they do not have the patience for it.  Let not its 500 plus pages scare you. For once you've dipped your toes in its first few lines, you'll want to swim and drown in it and never come back again.

There was no one at the Bus Stop by Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay: Impressions

Thanks to prolific translator, Arunava Sinha, I am learning to be a Bengali all over again. Sinha has translated a number of books by some of the most famous names in contemporary Bengali literature. Thanks to him, 'probashi' (expat) Bengalis like me are getting to savour the wonderful literature Bengal has had to offer in the last few decades. I grew up hearing my mother wax eloquent about writers like Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay, Sunil Ganguly, Bani Basu, Sankar and others and they were always a world away... until now. Sinha's long list of translations include wildly popular novels, short stories, young adult fiction, and children's stories so far.  I also hear he's also translating some poetry. He has opened many wonderful doors to my mother tongue, one of which is this novella 'There was no one at the Bus Stop' by Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay.

In the middle of a fact-heavy sociological book that I'm dragging my feet, I needed to read something light. So I picked up the slimmest volume from my to-be-read pile of books on my flight to Goa. I didn't realise just how much weight the pages of a book can bear. Although I finished the book in less than two hours, 'Bus Stop' was anything but light.

Set in Kolkata the 70s, 'Bus Stop' is a simple enough story of an extra marital affair. However, it is the sea of emotions that the protagonists experience that drowns you with them. Debashish, a impudent man in his middle age is in love with Trina, a woman he knew as a girl. Freshly widowed, Debashish feels little or nothing about his late wife, but his young son, Robi has many of his heartstrings. Trina is ageing gracefully, with two adolescent children and a husband who cares more about his garden than his wife. A chance meeting brings them together and sows the seeds of desire in Debashish's heart. A melancholy Trina, squarely ignored by her family, gets drawn to him too.

The plot unfolds in a single day marked by two momentous decisions taken by the protagonists. Debashish is compelled to leave his son with his sister for a 'better' upbringing, while Trina, spurned by her family, leaves her home and goes to Debashish, hoping to reach some conclusion about her life. However, they are unable to savour their togetherness plagued by guilt and wrongdoing. It's a love that never will be.

 It is in portraying these evocative feelings that Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay's genius lies. The author's language is shorn of frills, yet amazingly lyrical in places. There are clever suggestions and plenty to read between the lines. There is none of the melodrama to express overwhelming emotions, nor explicitness to express intimacy that we see so much of in today's 'literature'. Understated, yet hard-hitting are adjectives that best describe the author's style. All I can say is that I flew through the book with lumps in my throat. Read it for Bangla literature. Read it for an insight on the beautiful and complex nature of human relationships.
   

Longing

There is a drop of longing everyday
that falls from the sky of your being
Small and sharp and brilliant
It catches the light and shines
defiantly, brightly,
searing the grey of every-dreary-day
shamelessly calling attention to itself.

There is a drop of longing everyday
that I must hide in a jar
in a cool-dark place (like forbidden candy)
There is a drop of longing everyday
that no one must see.

The jar in the cool-dark place
is almost full
It blinds my eyes each time I look
within.
A million little drops of brilliance
that have morphed into a sea of desire.
Viscous, iridescent, proud.

There is a drop of longing everyday
that I must furtively add to the jar
Fuel to fire
And close a hurried lid, afraid
my home will go down in flames.

There is a drop of longing everyday
that refuses to be quietened, diffused.
Small and sharp and brilliant.
Unchanged, since I felt it first,
A drop from the sky of your being
Right into my barren heart.
'Plop', it fell, I remember
Catching me, drenching me, unawares.
I stepped away from my body,
To stare at that brazen drop.
Catching light, so much light,
shamelessly calling attention to itself.
Scared, fascinated, I hid it in a jar
in a cool-dark place.

Since then, every day,
there falls a drop of longing
from the sky of your being
small and sharp and brilliant.
Diamonds from a heaven
where you are.

I'm running out of space,
I'm running out of time.
The jar won't hold much longer
There are cracks, and light shines through
even in that cool-dark place.

There is a drop of longing everyday
Bigger than the drop of yesterday
Drowning me, drowning all.

I will need you soon,
and your mouth and your hands,
to swallow this luminous sea
so the game can start over.

Nude 5

I started this Nude series a while ago, intending to do 10. Here's the fifth one of the series and I hope I get around to finishing all.

Celluloid Flesh

Euphoria

I haven't painted in a long time and few things seem to inspire me these days. But a colleague introduced me to this song a few days ago and it became more than a earworm. Sanam Puri's voice made my heart leap with pure ecstasy and I wanted to dance with joy - or paint it. I made this quick watercolor work in not more than an hour and was quite pleased with it. My long-standing fear of watercolour seems to have gone, at least some of it. I thought it came out quite okay. And you?

My Kind of Girl by Buddhadeva Bose: Impressions

Some books grab you by the throat, some lie next to you under shady trees on summer afternoons in companionable silences, and some, you must coax and cajole into a friendship. My Kind of Girl by Buddhadeva Bose started out being the third kind, but by the time I finished, it had become the second. My relationship with this book was one of old school romance - just what the book is about.

In the 'literary' age where more people know of E L James than say, Jane Austen, where consummation comes before courtship, My Kind of Girl is a 'difficult' book. It is a book that forces you to slow down, a book that will take you back in time to an inhibited world, where the only way of loving was longing.

My Kind of Girl, a translation of the Bengali 'Moner Moto Maye' is really a collection of four short 'love' stories held together by a looser, larger plot. Four stranded travellers - a doctor, a writer, a bureaucrat and a contractor - find themselves in the waiting room of a railway station and must spend a night together. They seek the warmth of each other's love stories to fend off the cold in their air and their hardened hearts.

Stories of young, and mostly unrequited love are narrated, transporting the reader to a time of innocence, a time purity, a time where a brush of the beloved's hand was enough to last one a lifetime. There is the thick-headed Makhanlal's story of  love for his neighbour that never comes to pass; Gagan Baran, the bureaucrat's story of Pakhi, who loved him as a 16-year-old and forever after; Dr. Abani's story of how he met his wife through a friend who broke her heart; and the writer's story of 'Mona Lisa', who he and his two best friends loved and lost together.

Every story is told with a tenderness we, as a people, as readers, have forgotten. To those who've grown on the fodder of Mills & Boons and Sidney Sheldons, Buddhadeva Bose's book will seem painfully primitive in the beginning. But one must give it time; one must open their hearts to the kind of love that is not about easy, sweaty sex and porn-perfect characters. One must slowly dance to the plaintive flute that a lovelorn heart plays. One must partake of the pain of longing, a pain that has no recourse or end. There are no happy endings, just twinges of sorrow to take back from these elegiac love stories. These are stories about 'Your kind of person', but one you can never have. Through its stories and its style, My Kind of Girl harks back to the romantic in you, the romantic you thought was gone forever.

Kudos to Arunava Sinha for translating not just the words but the delicate sentiments bound within the pages of this book. But this book is only for those who know how to take it slow.