We by Yevgeny Zamyatin

We by Yevgeny Zamyatin
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The inspiration for Orwell’s 1984, Ayn Rand’s Anthem, Huxley’s Brave New World, this is a mind-boggling book in its prescience – a totalitarian state with a ‘benevolent’ but tyrannical ruler (aptly named Benefactor) suffering from delusions of grandeur, with the proposed launch of a space ship to colonize the rest of the Universe. People wear a common dull unisex uniform (yunis) and are dehumanized to the extent of being called Numbers with an alpha-numeric appellation – consonants for males and vowels for females – the protagonist is D-503 and his illicit love interest I-330. Even the sex is controlled – the recipients are allotted matching pink-slips and the day and time of their copulation decided in advance by the powers that be

…isn’t it absurd that a government could let sexual life proceed without the slightest control? Who, when, however much you wanted . . . Completely unscientific, like animals. And blindly, like animals, they produced young. Isn’t it funny – to know horticulture, poultry keeping, fish farming and not be able to reach the last rung of this logical ladder: child production. Not to come up with something like our Maternal and Paternal Norms.

The biggest threat perceived by dictators is free will and independent thinking on the part of the populace. This has to be curbed to keep the despot in power

‘Have you heard about this new operation they’re supposed to have developed – the one where they cut out the imagination?’ The remotest hint that he might have an imagination was quite insulting to him.

Anything with the faintest suggestion of autonomy is anathema to OneState (the precursor of NewSpeak!). Here is a ‘doctor’

‘You’re in bad shape. It looks like you’re developing a soul.’ A soul? A strange, ancient, long-forgotten word. We sometimes used expressions like ‘soul-mate,’ ‘body and soul,’ ‘soul destroying,’ and so on, but soul . . .

This extract from the mouthpiece of OneState

But you are not to blame. You are sick. The name of your illness is: IMAGINATION… The latest discovery of State Science: The imagination is centred in a wretched little brain node in the region of the pons Varolii. Expose this node to three doses of X rays – and you are cured of imagination.

Once the ‘cure’ is instituted, the results are an army of zombies, lobotomized robots, reminding the reader of McMurhpy (Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest) after his dose electro-convulsive therapy.

…a slow heavy column of about fifty men. Or rather, not ‘men’ – that isn’t the word. Those weren’t feet but some kind of heavy, forged wheels, drawn by some invisible drive mechanism. Not men but some kind of tractors in human form.
You’ll be cured there – they’ll stuff you tight with good rich happiness and when you’re full, you’ll dream peaceful organized dreams, snoring in time with everyone – can’t you hear that great symphony of snores?

There are some lovely lyrical passages, especially rhapsodizing about the beauty of mathematics

If they will not understand that we are bringing them a mathematically infallible happiness, we shall be obliged to force them to be happy...
Why is the dance beautiful? Answer: because it is nonfree movement, because all the fundamental significance of the dance lies precisely in its aesthetic subjugation, its ideal nonfreedom…
And mathematics and death never make a mistake…
I feel myself. But it’s only the eye with a lash in int, the swollen finger, the infected tooth that feels itself, is conscious of its own individual being. The healthy eye or finger or tooth doesn’t seem to exist. So it’s clear, isn’t it? Self-consciousness is just a disease…
Because that’s exactly what death is – the fullest possible dissolving of myself into the universe. Hence, if we let L stand for love and D for death, then L=f(D), i.e., love and death. . .

Epic! The baap of 1984.

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(रेत समाधी) Tomb of Sand by Geetanjali Shree

Tomb of Sand by Geetanjali Shree
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The slow meandering initial pace of the narrative accelerates into a breathless rollicking plot in this difficult to categorize book. The book begins with vignettes from the humdrum life and domestic bickerings of an upper-middle class bureaucrat from the fatuously called “cow-belt.” These are interspersed with Joycean word-play and stream of consciousness - like the musings of Molly Bloom - and Rushdiesque magic realism. There is a brilliant expose of double standards

…An I am always the giver, and you are always the taker…When you are quiet, you are polite; but when I’m quiet, I’m wily…If you did it, it’s good etiquette; if I do, it’s fawning flattery…If you say it’s candid; if I do it’s just rude…If I ask, it’s obscene curiosity; when you do it’s sympathy…If I do it , it’s for my own convenience; it you do, you are most beneficent…If I do it, I am being stingy; if you do it, you are being thrifty…If I’m quiet, I’m acting proud; if you’re quiet, you feel bashful…I’m extremely secretive, but you’re just reserved…And my fashions are faux, whereas yours are cutting edge…And if I got it, I was grabbed it, but if your got it, it was your right…And if I said it, I was deluded, but if you said it, you were just right…And when I get angry, I’m humourless, but when you do, it’s self-respect…And when I went and did it, it was my duty, but when you did, it was big of you…And, oh, yes, if I don’t get it, I’m a moron, but if you don’t, you’re innocent… And, oh, yes, if I did it, I’m self-serving; if you did, you’re self-effacing…If I’m dark, I’m Mr Eggplant Head, whereas when you do you, black is beautiful…If I’m fat, I’m Tubby Tubkins, if you’re fat you’re pleasingly plump…If I’m thin, I’m dry as a stick, if you’re skinny, you’re svelte and shapely…And if I turn on the AC, I’m decadent, but if you do, you sufferer from delicate health…When I drink, I’m a drunk, when you drink, doctor’s orders…If I speak in English, I’m giving myself airs, if you do, you’re educated…If I’m polite it’s pretentious, if you are, it’s pedigree…

It goes on in this biting vein over four pages. There is gender-twisting ambiguous individual, a militant turned peacenik crow, sentient doors (that remind one of the sassy doors and elevators of Douglas Adams), a conclave at the interface of Wagah of a panoply of Hind/Urdu authors from pre-Independence times, protagonists without names and an exposition on Sarees for the edification of crows

Kota Doria, Patola, Nairkunj, Gadwal, Kalamkari, Kanjivaram, Bangari, Ashavali, Zardozi, Bandhej, Tanchoi, Pochampally Ikkat, Ajarakh, Jaamdaani, Chanderi, Madhubani, Maheshwari, Mooga, Kosaa, Baalucheri, Dhakai, Tasar, Lugda, Paithani…

There is no glossary and attempt to translate many Hindi terms, so non-native Hindi speakers may find the contexts of some allusions puzzling. All in all – a wicked, whacking good read!

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